#because her little adventure that first night was clearly something Henry set her up to
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Self-Promo Sunday: “Into the Unknown With You”
Another one shot from my assorted collection “Of Swans and Swords and Hopeful Hearts” - this one playing with some of the ideas I would rather have seen in 6x10 and 6x11, it certainly diverges from canon at that point...
Summary: As Emma searches for a way back home from the Wish Realm, help comes from a surprisingly welcome source...
{One more Author’s Note: The “awfully big adventure” bit is a tiny nod to J.M. Barrie’s Peter Pan.}
Can also be found on AO3 or ff.net
“Into the Unknown with You”
by: @snowbellewells
‘No, no, no!’ Emma’s mind reeled horrifically as she stared at the spot where only moments ago the portal had been whirling, her way home to her son and her pirate wide open. She wanted to scream; it couldn’t just be gone, and yet, a second too much hesitation, and the chance was lost. She looked to Regina anxiously, her fists clenched so tightly she felt the impressions her nails cut into her palms. It was all she could do not to rail at Regina, this whole twisted world, and her own bad luck.
‘What now?!?’ she wanted to demand, wanted to shake her former nemesis turned tentative friend, but one glimpse at the other woman’s stunned, disbelieving face staring across the shoreline at her presumed dead True Love, and Emma knew it would be a lost cause. Having stood beside a grave in grateful stupefaction at her own love’s miraculous return to life not so long ago, Emma couldn’t find the heart to remind Regina just yet that she had spent the last day preaching that none of their surroundings or those they encountered in the Wish Realm were real, and hurry her along. She too found herself blinking dazedly at this other – very convincing – version of Robin Hood for a few moments.
Even if her heart was still crying out for her home and her family, for Henry’s soft hair tickling her nose when she placed a kiss to the top of his head, and Killian’s arms enfolding her, she didn’t know where to go in this topsy-turvy version of the homeland she had never actually lived in, and so she had to wait – more impatiently by the minute – until one of these two, either queen or thief, snapped out of their spell and led the way…
As it turned out, Robin Hood was not the sort of outlaw who would truly do harm to two ladies passing through his territory. He wouldn’t have even made to steal their jewels and furs once the same trance that had overcome Regina seemed to strike him mute as well, but Regina offered him a pouch of coins that had been strapped to her waist and a ruby ring, pressing it into his calloused palm with a quirked smile and the assurance that “she insisted, she was much more partial to his cause than he knew”.
Emma wanted to snort at the ridiculous understatement those words were, and she only barely managed to hold back a roll of her eyes, which she sensed the thief saw but let slide with a conspiratorial wink.
Before she could make an argument for trying to catch up to Gold – or Rumplestiltskin here, she supposed – or ask where they were going to find another bean, it was evening, they were entering a forest in the gathering dark, and soon they had been welcomed to sit around a roaring fire with Robin’s motley crew, and even been offered the ale and venison passed around the circle as if they were part of the merry band.
“Now,” the archer began, seated beside Regina, his boy nodding drowsily on his lap. He looked around her to meet Emma’s gaze head on. “You must be thinking that I owe you an apology. Clearly you were about to leave this place, and because of me, you missed your ride.”
She tried to shrug it off nonchalantly, not wanting to get them kicked out in the cold, or to lay blame on him for something he couldn’t have known, but instead, to her own mortification, she felt hot tears stinging in the corners of her eyes. Though her sight grew glassy, Emma refused to let them fall. “So,” she tried for flippant, even if it fell horribly flat, “does that mean you know where we could get a replacement bean and want to help us get it?”
“Actually, Princess Emma,” Robin winked, a knowing sort of mischief in his eye, “I just might.”
~~~OuaT~~~~~CS~~~~~OuaT~~~
The following morning dawned misty and cool, but fair, and Robin greeted Emma at the simmering coals of the previous night’s campfire with a welcoming grin, Regina at his side on the stump they used for a seat, looking as soft and at ease as Emma had ever seen her, her head resting on his strong shoulder seemingly still half asleep. She and Regina had talked at length the night before, and at long last Emma had accepted that Henry’s adoptive mother wasn’t returning with her yet. “I know he isn’t the same Robin, that this whole place is built on a whim, but I’m not losing him again,” she had whispered vehemently. “There has to be another way to get back…one that he could take as well…if he wanted to…” The emotion welling in Regina’s dark eyes had been raw enough that Emma finally consented to go on without further fighting to change her mind, only giving a nod in affirmation when Regina had asked, “You’ll explain to Henry? Tell him I mean to return as soon as we both can?”
“Ready, your Highness?” the sandy-haired outlaw asked, breaking into Emma’s recent memories once more and looking down at her from where he now stood at the ready. “We should make the harbor by noon, if we set out now.”
“The harbor?” Emma asked breathlessly, dazed for a moment by what this could mean. Her heartbeat kicked up in both anticipation and dread. Surely he wasn’t here too…was he?
“Yes,” Robin answered her spoken question with an amiable nod as he kissed the back of Regina’s hand in farewell and turned to head off with Emma on his heels. “I happen to know a pirate with whom I sometimes trade my less than lawfully acquired goods. He might have just the sort of thing you need to return home…”
~~~OuaT~~~~~CS~~~~~OuaT~~~
The sound of gulls crying and wheeling overhead and the creak and groan of the wooden docks as they reached the edge of the shore town and neared the sparkling blue harbor was enough to take Emma’s breath away. Robin took a step forward to lead her down the docks, already offering to make introductions, but Emma stopped him with a gentle hand on his arm.
There before them, as recognizable as always, was the Jolly Roger, bobbing proudly at anchor. Though most might be intimidated by the sight, Emma drew in the first full breath she’d had since remembering herself in this strange realm – as if she had gotten her first real glimpse of home at last. He might still be the vengeful Captain Hook in this reality, but somehow she wasn’t afraid. He would never truly hurt her – and she only wanted to be at his side again without further delay.
Reassuring Robin that she could take it from there, Emma bid him goodbye. Though he looked uncertain, the archer took her at her word and left her with his best wishes. If she clutched his hand a moment longer and a bit tighter than would be normal and bid him be safe a little too fervently – well, she didn’t have to explain herself to anyone here…
At her first step onto the gangplank, a shudder of recognition ran through her, as if the vessel itself was welcoming her back aboard, shivers skittering along her spine. At first glance, the ship seemed deserted, her crew perhaps gathering supplies or unwinding at the nearest tavern, but the air around her wavered, charged suddenly, letting her know she was not alone. Emma felt even before she heard heavy footfalls on the planks or that deep, commanding voice at her back, asking who went there, that she had not gone undetected by the ship’s captain.
Turning, her eyes found him, hungrily drinking in the details; altered, but still without doubt the man she loved. The dark hair was windblown and unruly, practically begging for her fingers to delve into its soft abundance and brush the fringe back off his forehead. Though the strands might be shaggier and generously shot through with grey, it made him no less attractive to her starving eyes. In fact, she only wanted to stare at him all the more, to catalogue every difference, trace the deeper crow’s feet around his eyes and the added lines on his forehead. Those fathomless blue eyes were lined so liberally with the kohl she hadn’t seen him use for some time in their modern Storybrooke life that she almost wanted to chuckle at the effect until she registered the way the blue of his gaze also looked paler – as if washed out by too many tears shed alone and without comfort, or dulled by pain held back because he couldn’t afford to let it show.
Brandishing his moniker, and that dastardly, flirtatious mask he had long since let drop around her, to full effect, Captain Hook stepped well into her personal space. “And who might you be?” he questioned, breath warm on the shell of her ear as he leaned in, hook lifting the heavy rope of her golden braid and tucking it back over her shoulder. It was an achingly familiar gesture and he stood much too close for calm comfort, sending her pulse fluttering again, and yet no recognition lit his gaze as he studied her; the fond devotion she had come to rely on more than she could say was utterly absent, making her heart ache and crack in her chest.
“Princess Emma of Misthaven,” she answered as sturdily as she could, raising her chin and meeting his eye with as much confidence as she could muster. “I had hoped to speak to you on a delicate matter of some importance.”
“A delicate matter, is it?” he asked, his enunciation and the way his tongue caressed his words seductively had not been altered or diminished in the slightest, whatever else had changed. He stood back to his full height, fingers in his waistband, hips thrust forward and looking every bit as sinfully irresistible as he ever did, complete with that wide-open, chest-exposing red vest she had witnessed once in their trip to the past through Zelena’s portal. If she hadn’t known him so well, she might have been fooled by the bravado, but knowing his heart as only a True Love could, she saw the emptiness behind the lascivious look, the pain within the façade – the proper, honorable lieutenant he had been, hating the persona his course had forced him to adopt. Even as he ran his tongue across his lower lip, letting his eyes trace her curves from head to toe almost lewdly, she could see the regret clouding the pupils and the wistful longing – as if he could sense what might have been.
Unable to stop herself, Emma reached forward impulsively, grasping both his hook and hand tightly as she spoke, “Yes, very…but just maybe…I was meant to find you. Maybe you’re the only one who would believe me.”
~~~OuaT~~~~~CS~~~~~OuaT~~~
Another hour found them below deck in his cabin, seated at the scratched, weathered wooden table which had served him in his lonely meals for ages, Emma’s hand still clinging to his hook where it rested on his thigh, but the other reaching up tentatively to trace that faded scar she knew so well beneath his eye. Hook – though more and more her Killian with every passing moment – had scooted closer to her on the roughhewn bench, blinking in awe as she saw hope returning to his face. He appeared both afraid to believe her words, but also desperate for them to be true.
“So you’re telling me that all of this around us – this whole life – is an illusion?” he asked haltingly, not daring to move his eyes from her face, as though he thought she might disappear as quickly as she had come to him.
“Well, yeah, basically,” she tried to explain. “Or more like…it’s a possibility that didn’t actually come true. There’s this v-villain in my home, in the real timeline that I come from, who made a wish that reset things, and I was sucked into it. I have a son, family and friends, a-and another version of you…who’s my True Love…there missing me. And I have to get back to them.”
“There’s another me?” he breathed, and where anyone else would have been skeptical, he looked merely stunned, wanting. “And…we’re…together?”
“Yeah, we are,” she whispered, laying a hand over his rapidly beating heart and drawing comfort from its rhythm. She already felt stronger, more certain, even with this iteration of her pirate. Her watery smile quirked up into a bit of a smirk at one corner, “And don’t worry, he’s still devilishly handsome.”
Her captain’s eyes fell to their joined hand and hook in his lap, huffing out a laugh at her words. “More so than I, I’d wager,” he murmured.
Emma hummed under her breath, reaching out to run her fingers along a grey streak in his longer hair. “I don’t know about that,” she offered. “There’s something pretty appealing about this model, grey hair and all.”
“You flatter me, Milady,” he teased, that voice still a sinful purr rumbling from his chest as he lifted her hand to press a kiss to its back. Still, emotion welled up beneath the flirtation, making his magnetic gaze all the harder for her to escape. She was blinking, nonplussed and floundering for some audible response, when he straightened and pulled her to her feet with him. “Enough lollygagging then! I’ll prepare the old girl to set sail. It’s time we got you back where you belong!”
For a moment, Emma was stunned anew. This full-on piratical version of her True Love, who didn’t really even know her and had no reason to do anything she said, had not only chosen to believe her story, but was going out of his way to help her – just as he had ever since he turned his ship around to take her to Neverland. The lump in her throat was almost too much to speak around, but Emma managed to croak out, “You really would give anything to help me, wouldn’t you?” even as she shook her head in disbelief.
“Aye,” he affirmed, looking a bit like he was marveling at that fact himself. “I am not sure I fully understand, nor can I explain it to you, but I sense that I would – that I am almost compelled – to help you in any world or time you would appear to me.”
“Thank you,” was all she could really say in response, her wondering smile nearly blinding him with its brilliance.
“Come then,” he offered her his arm, his speech all business again, even while the pointed tips of his ear flushed, clearly uncomfortable with the gratitude and praise. “Above deck, and we’ll be off. I know someone who deals in nigh impossible to procure objects.”
~~~OuaT~~~~~CS~~~~~OuaT~~~
Standing beside him at the helm just a few short hours later, wind in her hair and the salt spray on her face, it struck Emma that though she was desperate to get home, to make sure her son, her family, and her Killian were alright, she didn’t want to simply abandon this pirate captain beside her. She didn’t know what would happen to him, if he would find something to live for, something to be part of, or if she was dooming him to his quiet desperation…even if he might simply vanish into nothingness with the rest of this ill-fated wish. She didn’t know what happened next, to be completely honest. Laying a hand on his forearm, she gazed up into his face, swallowing hard. “I don’t know what becomes of you, or this realm, when I leave here and go home,” she admitted. “I’m not sure if you all just go on like it never happened, if you cease to exist, if you wander here aimless forever…I just…I don’t know…”
Covering her hand with his, he guided the ship with no more than his hook rested capably on the wheel. “Worry not, Princess,” was his confident response, fervent resolve painted over his strong, careworn features. “We shall still set things right, as they should be. Whatever comes after this – infinity or oblivion – will be an awfully big adventure.”
Tagging: @kmomof4 @searchingwardrobes @whimsicallyenchantedrose @laschatzi @jennjenn615 @tiganasummertree @optomisticgirl @spartanguard @therooksshiningknight @thislassishooked @winterbaby89 @darkcolinodonorgasm @hollyethecurious @artistic-writer @stahlop @elizabeethan @donteattheappleshook @wefoundloveunderthelight @apiratewhopines @lfh1226-linda @xsajx @ineffablecolors @drowned-dreamer @thisonesatellite @kday426 @ultraluckycatnd @xhookswenchx @hookedonapirate @blowmiakisscolin
#self promo sunday#cs canon divergent ff#season 6 divergent one shot#into the unknown with you#wish realm fix-it fic#of a sort?
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Once Upon a Time in Hollywood (SFWeek Day 6)
Actors AU or Social Media AU
AO3 || FFN
@mysteryandnonstopfun
“No, Baelfire!”
“It’s okay, Leia… all magic comes with a price, right? I’m happy paying this price if it means - ” he winced in pain as the magic drained more of his strength. “If it means you and Henry will be safe.”
She sniffed, a tear landing on his cheek. “But - but Henry doesn’t even remember you. He never got to see you again!”
“I have faith you’ll break his curse…”
“Bae…” came the broken voice of a father.
“Papa,” despite him dying, he had never felt more relieved to see his father. His sacrifice worked. Papa was safe.
Rumplestiltskin sank to his knees, taking his son’s hand. “Oh my boy. No, I’ll - I’ll stop this. I’ll make sure it takes me instead of you.”
“Papa, you can’t! It’s too late. It’s already begun. You have to let me go. Please.”
“Baelfire…”
Baelfire turned his gaze back to Leia. “Go… find your happiness… without me.”
A final breath escaped him, although his eyes remained open, glassy and empty, as they stared off into the bright light above him.
“CUT!”
Director Killian Jones’ voice sliced through the somber scene, chatter beginning to buzz as assistants, producers and camera operators continued the work that had been stalled while the cameras rolled.
Neal Cassidy blinked, trying to get his eyes to adjust to the studio lighting, and sat up, off his co-star, Emma Swan’s, legs. “That was the first time I’ve ever died in a movie before. Gotta say, I don’t recommend staring directly into the spotlight above your head.”
Arthur Gold, ‘Rumplestiltskin’, stood and stretched out his. “You two are good,” he remarked. “Really just thought you two were just pretty faces, but you two got real acting chops,” his voice dropped lower as Victoria Belfrey, one of the most cutthroat producers in Hollywood, strolled by, “ - especially if you haven’t been scared off by her, yet.”
“Ah, she’s not so bad,” Emma said with a shrug. “You just have to know how to butter her up.”
“Yeah, I mean, sooner or later, it’s going to be our generation that’s the big time producers,” Neal added.
Arthur blinked slowly, then smirked. “That’s the spirit. That will get you both far in this town.”
He ambled away in the direction of catering, and the mood shifted immediately when the two stars were left alone.
“You got snot on me when you cried.”
“Your breath stinks like garlic.”
Oh, Neal couldn’t stand to be near Emma Swan. But Regina Mills’ Misthaven had broken record after record for books and social media posts, so it only made sense that, when the inevitable movie adaptation was announced, Neal Cassidy and Emma Swan, both riding high from their own worldwide successes, would play the two star-crossed, tragic lovers - Baelfire the Spinner and Princess Leia.
He glared. “Yeah? What time did you get to your trailer last night? Two? Because before Elsa worked her magic on you, you looked like - ”
“That is enough out of you two!” Killian snapped, a clipboard tucked under his arm as he approached the sound stage. “I’d heard you two were trouble to work with, but I didn’t think it would be this bad.”
“Well maybe if - ”
“I don’t care. Neither of you are scheduled to film tomorrow, so I’ve set up a bit of a… bonding exercise for you. Don’t worry, your agents gave the okay.”
Neal and Emma shot Killian incredulous looks. “You did this behind our backs?” “What the hell, man?” They protested at the same time.
“Oh, look at that. It seems to be working already,” Killian smirked, handing them sheets of paper. “Meet there at nine o’clock sharp. Spend the day together. Get to know each other - without trying to rip the other’s throat out.”
Neal thought he might have more luck jumping into a zoo exhibit, but he really didn’t want to lose his reputation or everything he had worked for.
So the next morning, he was slumped in the back seat of a car, Emma doing the same on the other side. The ride had been quiet, neither of them much in the mood to talk.
Maybe if they learned to just ignore each other, that would be enough for Killian? Hell, it was already working.
His brow raised as they turned off the main highway, heading into the woods.
“Okay, I know Killian’s annoyed with us, but is he really going to murder us in the woods?” Emma whispered.
“Please, if they did that, Misthaven would tank, and that wouldn’t be fair to Regina Mills,” he replied, although the thought had crossed his mind as well.
“I didn’t think you cared about anyone but yourself.”
“I guess I’m just full of surprises.”
Finally, the driver stopped outside a cabin. “Alright you two. I’ll be back at three, Mr. Jones’ orders. Have fun and don’t do anything that might require an ambulance.”
“It’s like they don’t trust us or something,” Neal said, watching the driver pull away.
Emma didn’t laugh as she glanced at the cabin. “This is a joke, right? God, it’s like being back on Dad’s farm.”
“You grew up on a farm?”
“You gonna mock me for that?”
Neal held up his hands in a gesture of surrender as she unlocked the cabin door and stepped inside. “I was doing nothing of the sort. You just don’t strike me as the “farm girl” type with all the leather you wear.”
“I shed that image. I was never a fan of small towns or - or farms. They’re nice to visit, but I’m a city girl through and through,” she said, frowning as she looked around. “No TV?”
“Jones did say this was a bonding exercise. They probably figured we’d spend all day watching TV or going online and ignoring each other.”
“That sounds like a good idea to me.”
“Well, they ended that dream before you could fall asleep,” Neal said, flopping down on a couch. “Why don’t we talk more about that little farm thing you grew up on?”
“It’s a farm in Maine. Dad raises sheep, cows and chickens and has crops. Really not all that interesting to talk about, other than I hated getting up at the ass-crack of dawn to collect eggs. That was more my brother’s speed.”
Neal raised a brow. “Maine, huh? You don’t hear a lot about people from Maine.”
“Suppose not. Where was it you were from, again?”
“New Orleans.”
Her eyes widened. “Really? No offense, but you don’t sound like it.”
Neal chewed the inside of his cheek, before sighing. “My manager didn’t think it’d get me far if I kept the accent,” he said, slipping into his normal voice. “I really don’t think I’d have gotten Misthaven if I sound like this, do you?”
Emma shrugged. “I think the accent sounds fine, but I guess I can see what you mean. Still shouldn’t mean you couldn’t use it in other work or in interviews. Your manager must be a shark.”
“Cora Miller. And trust me when I say she wasn’t happy when she found out about this little adventure.”
“Ah, that explains it.” A pause. “Did you read Misthaven? The book, I mean.”
“I did. I think it’s bullshit that Baelfire dies.”
“You’re just saying that because that means you have to die and miss out on the last half of the movie.”
“No, no! I’m serious! Baelfire fights so hard to reunite his family and revive his father, and he knows the ins and out of magic, and he still pays the ultimate price? When others who did so much worse get to survive? Even if he and Princess Leia don’t get together, he deserved to be with Henry, at least,” Neal replied, frowning.
Emma tilted her head. “I guess that makes sense. And Baelfire returning a hero after being out of Princess Leia’s life for so long would have made for a great redemption story. Maybe Regina Mills will figure out a way to bring him back in the sequel.”
“Wait, she’s writing a sequel?”
“Yeah, it’s supposed to come out in a couple years. I didn’t know you were such a big reader.”
“You kiddin’? English was my favorite subject in school. I got a whole wall in my house dedicated to books.”
Emma sat back in her chair, clearly surprised. “Huh. It was mine too.”
Neal crossed his legs. “I guess we got more in common than we thought. What do you say we start over?”
Emma smiled. “Sure. I’d like that.”
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It Was Only a Kiss 1 /3
Summary:
Neverland may kill her. If it’s not her fear for Henry, then it will her exhaustion, or her doubt, or the overwhelming despair that she’ll never get out of here alive, that she’ll fail her son, that she’ll fail everyone. There’s only one thing she’s found that can silence it all, that can make her feel real again. She shouldn’t be seeking comfort in Hook. She shouldn’t, but she does. It was only a kiss. That was all it was supposed to be. But now that she’s started, she doesn’t think she can stop. Not now that she knows what it’s like.
Rated E.
Also available on Ao3
My first entry for the @neverlandnewyear
Disclaimer: @elizabeethan and I are very aware that we are basically writing the same story. This is how the event started. A big thank you to Elizabeth for betaing this fic and to @xhookswenchx as well for letting me brainstorm out loud with you guys.
***
Part One: Neverland
It had all started with a kiss. That was all it was supposed to be. Just a kiss; a one time thing. She’d been feeling good, she’d been relieved, he’d saved her father’s life for god’s sake. What she hadn’t expected was that kissing him would make her feel better- would make her feel like, for a second, things would stay better. For a whole thirty seconds, she’d forgotten that she was trapped in fucking Neverland, that her son was missing, that her parents were breathing down her neck, constantly giving her these sad desperate eyes, begging for mother daughter bonding time or ready to offer up speeches about hope.
No, for thirty goddamn seconds- for the first time in months- she’d just been Emma Swan and he’d just been Captain Hook and nothing else had mattered. It had been addictive, that feeling, that relief, the rushing of her blood and the turning in her stomach being brought on by excitement and desire rather than fear and anxiety. So she’d shut it down. “Don’t follow me,” she’d ordered, afraid of what might happen if he did, of what she’d do. She couldn’t start flirting and making out with Hook, or doing anything else with him for that matter. Not while her son was out there, not if she wasn’t sure she’d be able to stop.
To his credit, he respects her wishes. He waits a whole twenty minutes before returning to camp, arms full of firewood. She doesn’t miss the nod her father gives him and it raises a strange sort of satisfaction in her. She doesn’t know exactly what went on between them on their little adventure but this is the first time David hasn’t glared daggers at him since they met. When Hook’s eyes meet hers though, she swears the whole damn camp must feel the tension between them.
Her body stiffens, that twisting in her gut coming back in a mix of the good and the bad now, but he doesn’t say anything. He only smiles at her a little sadly before dumping the wood into the fire pit so Regina can light it. Then he takes a seat across the camp, as far from her as he can manage and pulls out his flask. She only realises she’s staring when she catches herself watching his throat as he swallows. Stop.
“We should turn in,” she says, noting how dark it is suddenly. Hadn’t it been midday less than an hour ago? Does time even exist on this island where it seems to both stand still and move too fast?
“Aye,” Hook says, nodding and returning his flask to his pocket. “I’ll take the first watch.” She almost expects her parents or even Regina to protest, but to her surprise no one does.
As they set about unrolling the bed mats, she can’t help but glance over at him. Something is… off. She’s not sure what it is, but he’s quiet. Way too quiet. Normally she can’t get him to stop talking- one innuendo or flirtatious comment after another- but now, nothing.
When she glances over again, he’s watching her, eyes boring into her like he’s trying to burn a hole through her and still, there’s that sadness, that regret. That’s what it looks like: regret. Does he regret kissing her? After all his quips about fancying her and the little playful smirks, has he changed his mind?
She focuses back on what she’s doing. Who cares if he regrets it? She should regret it. It was a stupid idea. Her son is here. Everyday he gets further and further away from her. She knows how easy it is to start believing you’ve been abandoned. How easy it is to slide into the role of an orphan, to build walls. The thought of Henry feeling any of what she spent her whole childhood feeling - it kills her and that unpleasant twisting in her gut is back, the one that makes her want to vomit. She doesn’t know how to get rid of it, how to stop it.
Well, she does know one way. But she can’t do that. Not again. She tells herself that over and over again. She can’t. She tells herself that as she lays down on her mat. She tells herself as she listens to Regina complain about sleeping in the forest. She tells herself as she hears her parents whispering sickeningly sweet nothings to each other. She tells herself again as she hears everyone’s breathing even out and the jungle goes quiet- she can’t. But they’re all asleep. Well, everyone except her. Everyone except her and Hook.
She hears him sigh, a deep, heavy thing, and she turns over to face him. She can’t see him well in the dark but she can make out that his head has fallen into his hand, and can picture him running it through his hair in frustration. Even from here, she can sense how tense he is.
His hand scrubs over his face and he lets out another one of those sighs, this one angrier, and stands suddenly to cross the small space quickly, pacing back and forth. He reaches a tree then and she jumps as he strikes it.
She must have made a sound because his head snaps towards her, clearly on high alert, and it makes her feel a little better having him keeping watch. His shoulders relax when he realises it was her and not some lost boy trying to find his way into the camp.
She meets his eyes in the dark. Even in the blackness of the night, she can feel his stare heavy on hers and her heart hammers against her ribcage. She shuts her eyes tight, determined to just stop thinking about everything- about him, about Henry, about Pan,- and just sleep, but sleep doesn’t come. Instead, she finds more fears, more worries, more doubts, and soon she’s sitting up, scrubbing a hand over her own face.
The tell tale sound of his flask being opened makes her turn to look at him as he drinks deeply from it before leaning against the tree he’d struck earlier. His head falls back against it as another sigh leaves him. There’s a long silence, the jungle is heavy and quiet as the dead, not even a rustling of wind or a chirping cricket, and it sends a shiver down her spine.
He doesn’t say anything, but after a moment, he raises his arm while holding the flask out in her direction. She only hesitates for a moment- she shouldn’t do this. She shouldn’t have a midnight drink with Hook. She shouldn’t want to ask him what’s wrong. Shouldn’t want him to ask her what’s wrong.
She shouldn’t, but she does anyway.
Emma takes the flask from him and swallows a mouthful, wondering for a moment how it could still be full. Knowing him, it’s probably enchanted. The rum feels good as it burns down her throat, settling hot in her stomach. She takes another drink.
She hands it back to him finally and he takes it, his fingers closing over hers around the bottle, and she looks up at him with a sharp inhale. Neither of them move even though every fiber in her body is telling her to step closer. Or to run away. She nearly does, nearly uses their shared grip to pull him closer, nearly turns and heads back to her mat to fein sleep.
But then he drops his hand, taking the bottle with him, and she regains her senses. This is Hook, she reminds herself. He’s one of the bad guys, or he was. She’s not even sure anymore. But he still hasn’t said anything, and it’s starting to worry her. Here they are, almost alone in the dark, drinking together, and he hasn’t so much as raised an eyebrow at her. Surely he can’t regret kissing her that much.
“What’s wrong?” she asks finally, the words falling out of her mouth of their own free will.
“Nothing.”
“I don’t believe you,” she pushes.
He shrugs, taking another drink. “You don’t have to.”
“Hook.”
“Swan,” he repeats and she rolls her eyes. That makes him smile a little at least. “Why are you up?” he asks, turning the question on her.
“Can’t sleep,” she says simply, taking the flask from him again. It’s definitely enchanted.
“Why not?” he pushes and when she doesn’t answer, he grins at her a little. Fine. They can keep their secrets. “Funny thing about Neverland,” he says then, and she looks at him wearily. “The ones who’ve always known love sleep soundly. It’s the ones who’ve been left behind who can’t find rest. That’s why you hear the Lost Boys at night.” She straightens her shoulders, her jaw clenching. Open book, he’d said. He nods, like she’s confirmed something. “So you do hear them.”
“How’s your hand?” she snaps, changing the subject. He doesn’t seem so restful himself.
“Which one?” he asks and she’s relieved to hear the teasing slipping back into his tone. Instead of answering, she takes another drink. He flexes his fingers a few times, turning his hand over to look at his knuckles.
“I’ve had worse,” he tells her, gesturing vaguely with his hook and she nearly chokes on the rum. He smirks and takes the bottle back when she hands it over. “You should sleep, Swan. Get some rest.”
“Yeah, well,” is all she can say. She’d love to sleep, but as long as Henry’s out there… Another silence hangs between them. “He’ll be alright,” Killian says then, and her heart swells into her throat, her voice coming out cracked and weak when she speaks. She wonders if Henry’s sleeping tonight, or if he already feels like a lost boy.
“How do you know?”
“If he’s anything like his father,” he starts and then looks at the ground for a moment before meeting her gaze again. “If he’s anything like you, then I’ve no doubt he can outwit Pan long enough for us to find him. He’s brave, Swan. You taught him well. I know a survivor when I see one.”
And that’s it. She breaks. A sob bursts from her chest, her hand snapping up to cover her mouth as every horrible thought she’s had since they got here- every thought she’s pushed down and refused to face- comes rushing to the surface.
She didn’t teach him. Any bravery, any survival drive he has isn’t because of her. She left him. She abandoned him. She left him to fend for himself in a world that she knew was nothing but cruel. She’s only known him a year. And if this year is all she gets with him, if Pan wins, if he takes Henry from her… She can’t lose him, not when she’s only just found him.
She struggles to muffle her cries, desperate not to wake her parents but unable to stop herself now. She can’t handle another speech about hope, about good always winning. Not when they’re so close to finding Henry but just as close to losing him forever. Good doesn’t always win; life’s proved that to her over and over again. If she’d kept him, if she’d just held him that one time, he wouldn’t be here at all. He’d be safe. He’d be with her. There wouldn’t be any magic or villains or monsters to threaten him. This is her fault. She can’t lose him.
Hook only hesitates a moment before he’s pulling her into his arms, cradling the back of her head in his hand and letting her tears seep into his shirt and his chest, letting her silence her cries against the leather of his coat. Her fingers find the chain on his neck and twist around it for something to hang onto, something to ground her.
He doesn’t say a word and she’s grateful for it. There’s nothing he could say that could make this better. Everything hurts. Her chest burns from strain and fear and she can’t stop thinking, can’t stop crying, though that’s all she wants. She wants it to stop, all of it. She wants to stop hurting. She wishes she’d never come to Storybrooke, wishes she’d never broken the fucking curse, wishes she’d never seen Neal again and let him and Tamara and all this fucking magic and madness into Henry’s life. He’d have been better off without them- without her.
Her sobs slow after what feels like hours, all the energy drained from her body, but the pain won’t go away. She may have run out of tears to shed, but the fear and self-loathing are still wracking her body, making her shake as she holds tighter to Hook’s necklace, her other hand finding the fabric of his shirt and bunching it in her fist.
She can hear him shushing her softly, his lips pressing against her temple as she trembles again. The sharp pain in her chest morphs into an ache that fills both of her lungs, suffocating her, drowning her. It overwhelms her, the grief, as though she’ll never be happy again. She imagines this is what it’s like to have her heart ripped out. She wonders if that would hurt less.
She just wants it all to stop. She can’t take it, feels like she’s going to crumble under the weight of it. She just needs something good. Just one fucking good thing, one good feeling. She turns her face into Hook's neck, seeking the warmth of his skin against her drying cheeks and the comfort of his soothing phrases breathed against her ear. She just wants it to stop. She just wants to feel something else, wants to know she still can feel something else.
She slides her hand from the chain at his chest up to his neck and pulls him down enough so she can press her lips to his. It’s messy and desperate, but he lets her kiss him, lets her fist her fingers in his hair and slide her tongue past his lips, and slowly, the pain is overtaken by this new ache that he stirs in her. It’s not enough, though. His hand is at her hip but she needs it everywhere, she needs him to erase every thought and feeling with his mouth and his hand and his hook. She needs him to make everything go away like he did earlier. She just needs more.
Her lips find his jaw and his neck, trailing heady, open-mouth kisses to his collarbone, and she hears his strangled moan as he catches his lip between his teeth, his breath panting above her.
“Emma,” he whispers, and she knows he thinks they should stop. The others are right there. But like he said, they can sleep soundly. “Emma, wait,” he says, a little desperately as she pushes him back against the tree. But she doesn’t listen. She shuts him up with her mouth on his as her hands reach for the few measly buttons he actually bothered to fasten. Her fingers undo them quickly and move to his belt before he stops her with his hook on her wrist. “Emma, I - I can’t…”
“What?” she demands to know. Why can’t he? She knows he wants to, she can feel the evidence pressing against her stomach through his leathers, and while his hook may have stopped her, his hand has a death grip on her hip. His head falls back against the tree.
“I have to tell you something,” he says, and she can tell from his tone that she won’t like it; that it’ll hurt. She doesn’t want that. She’s had enough of that. She just wants him.
“I don’t want to know.” She shakes her head and tugs him closer, and he lets out a sound that’s close to a whine.
She knew kissing him was dangerous; even as she pulls him back to her and kisses him again, she feels the rush of relief from the exhilaration and she knows she’s already hooked. She craves him and the release she knows he can bring her. “Please,” she says pathetically against his lips.
He doesn’t stop her from kissing him, but he doesn’t move until she reaches for his belt again and he stops her once more. She nearly lets out a cry of frustration, as she snaps her head back to glare at him. He barely gives her a second to be truly angry before his hand grasps the back of her neck and he kisses her like he’s drowning, like she’s the air he needs to breathe.
He turns her, pushing her back against the tree behind her as he tilts her head so he can open her mouth and find her tongue with his own. She moans softly against his lips and reaches desperately for him, clawing at his jacket, sliding her hands into his open shirt, dragging them through the hair at his chest.
He pulls back with a gasp and takes both her hands, pulling them away from him and trapping her arms at her side. She has a mind to protest but his lips find her neck, trailing down her throat to her collarbone and down her chest and the words die on her lips. His teeth and tongue tease at the spot beneath her ear, the hollow of her throat, the valley between her breasts, making her writhe against him.
He finally releases one of her hands so that his own can trace up her side, slide under her shirt and cup her breast in his palm. His thumb drags over the peak through her bra and he swallows her gasp with his mouth. She frees her other hand, giving up on undressing him and tangling both into his hair as he shoves her shirt aside with his hook and drags his tongue over one nipple before taking it into his mouth.
She’s too loud again and his lips quiet her even as his fingers trail down her stomach to the waist of her jeans. He pauses, toying with the button, the scratch of his nails against her skin driving her insane and he looks at her as he pulls away long enough to meet her eyes. She realises what he’s waiting for and nods furiously, dragging his mouth back to hers as he makes quick work of popping the button and yanking down the zipper.
The first touch of his fingers against her center is bliss and fire. She only barely manages to catch her moan, it coming out as a desperate sigh, her forehead falling against his as she grabs his lapels the way she had that afternoon. She expects him to say something, to smirk or laugh or whisper filth in her ear, but instead he just watches her, eyes fixated on her face as his fingers slide inside of her and find a rhythm.
When his thumb finds her clit, she can’t contain the sounds she makes anymore and he captures her mouth with his to keep her quiet, his kisses languid and slow and deep as his hand works her higher. He’s everywhere, his tongue sliding against her own, his fingers curling and circling, his chest pressed to hers. He’s all she can see and think and feel and she lets it overwhelm her, lets all the horrible thoughts of the day and of this place slip away under his touch.
When her mouth leaves his for air- hands fisting tighter in the leather and pulling him even closer as she pants and gasps, already nearly there- his lips find her neck. He presses slow, deliberate kisses against her skin, his tongue playing against every sensitive spot he can find as his fingers and thumb work faster, driving her to that edge she so desperately wants to fall over.
“Yes,” she whispers into the darkness when he finds just the right spot, just the right pace, and he redoubles his efforts. She can feel him watching her, can see the awe and the reverence in his eyes as he watches her come apart on his hand, and it’s too much. She drags his mouth back to hers, rolling her hips and riding his fingers until she comes with a gasp, her head falling back against the tree as for one, small moment, she feels something good again.
When she comes to, he’s pressing soft, gentle kisses to her jaw and below her ear as his fingers slow within her. She doesn’t protest when he takes her lips with his own again, too boneless and blissed out to register the intimacy of his kiss, to be bothered by it. She reaches for the laces of his pants, but he shakes his head, resting his forehead against hers.
There’s a moment when she can tell he wants to say something, his whole body tensing and his brow pulling down like he’s in pain. But instead he kisses her again, harder and more desperate than before. There’s an edge to it, like he worries this will be the last time.
And it should be, she reminds herself. Fuck. She just let Captain Hook finger her against a tree a few dozen feet from where her parents sleep. She nearly let him fuck her against it. What the hell was she thinking? She wants to tell him that this was a mistake, that it was another one time thing,but as his lips leave hers and a sigh leaves him, she knows she can’t promise either of them that.
The moment he steps back, she can feel the bad thoughts starting to creep in again and she nearly grabs him and holds him close just to keep them at bay. It’s never been like this. She’s never craved the comfort of a man’s presence, of his touch before. And it scares the shit out of her.
“You should get some sleep, love,” he tells her and she nods, only half registering what he’s saying. She doesn’t know what to say. Should she thank him? Address what this was or wasn’t? Warn him not to tell anyone? No, he wouldn’t do that. So she says nothing, setting her clothes right and returning to her mat.
She watches him as she tries to sleep, watches the tension return to his shoulders and the heaviness return to his composure. When he looks up at one point, finds her in the dark and catches her studying him, his brow pinches tight and then relaxes, a melancholy and a want settling over his features and it stirs new longing in her gut. Fuck. She should never have kissed him.
***
The next morning, Mary Margaret tells her Neal is alive. She doesn’t believe it. Not until she looks to Hook and sees the guilt and the shame on his face and she knows it’s true. Was that what he wanted to tell her last night? Was that why he wouldn’t let her touch him?
Neal’s alive. The revelation settles like a lead weight in her gut. She can’t. She can’t handle him being alive. After all the pain he’d caused her, his death had finally let her put him behind her, let her move on from everything he’d done… let her begin to see the possibility of being happy again. And now he’s coming crashing back into her life again.
They have to find him. She knows they do; he’s Henry’s father. She owes her son the attempt to rescue him if nothing else. She may never forgive him, but Henry has a right to make up his own mind, so they head off after him. Another detour, another chance at breaking her heart again, another chance to hurt.
She doesn’t know why she tells Mary Margaret. The words just slip out. ‘I kissed him.’ She can’t explain why she did it either, can’t explain to the woman who preaches hope that she feels hopeless, that finding solace in Hook and what he makes her feel is the only thing keeping her alive, keeping her going right now. She’d never understand.
‘I’m sure Neal will understand,’ she says, and it feels like a slap. She thinks she needs Neal to forgive her, after everything he’s done. She doesn’t say much else the rest of the way.
“I kissed Emma.” The confession makes her roll her eyes. They did a hell of a lot more than kiss. How is that his biggest secret? But what he says next, about moving on, about finding love again… until I met you.
Her heart hammers against her chest and she fights to ignore all the feelings his reveal brings to the surface. She’d thought maybe, with Neal dead, she could start to think of moving on, of trying again. But he’s not dead. And Hook just told her he’s falling for her and all of it is too much and she can’t handle it. She needs to focus on Henry. He’s all that matters. Her feelings, what she wants, it doesn’t matter.
When they make their way back to camp, Neal finds her and she feels the need to apologize. Everything she said in the cave was true, but it was harsh. He may have hurt her more than anyone in her life ever had or likely will again, but she can’t help but feel guilty. She blames Mary Margaret.
“I have a secret, too,” he tells her. “I’ll never stop fighting for you.”
Her throat constricts, she can barely talk, barely breathe through it. No! she wants to shout. No, I don’t want that. He hadn’t listened to her at all. She’d told him she wished he was dead, that the idea of him being alive, of being a walking, talking reminder of the worst moments of her life, was too much for her to handle. A part of her may always love him, and she’ll hate that, but she can never forgive him. The thought that he believes they can find their way back to each other, that she can excuse what he did as though it doesn’t matter… she feels small, worthless, all of the bad creeping back in.
He walks away first, going after the others, but she takes a moment in an attempt to compose herself and bottle up all the emotions once again so she can just focus on why she’s here and not on her heart being slowly ripped to shreds.
“Are you coming, Swan?” she hears, and she looks up to see Hook standing a few feet away. His whole body is hesitant, poised to run if she tells him to leave. But she doesn’t say anything. She still can’t find words.
I’ll never stop fighting for you. I’ll never stop fighting for you. It plays over and over in her head and she wants to scream. The thought of him being there, of Neal being around all the time, trying to worm his way back into her life and her heart -
“I’m sorry,” Hook says then and her eyes snap up to his. She frowns. Why is he sorry? “If my confession made things awkward for you and Balefire, I apologize. It wasn’t my intention. I heard you speaking just now and -” she wants to laugh. She almost does laugh.
“I told him I wished he was dead.”
“You what?”
“In the caves. I told him I wished he was dead, that having him in my life hurt too much, that I couldn’t take it. And he took that as an invitation to try to worm his way back in. And Mary Margaret, my mom, wants me to let him. She’s all about forgiveness,” she practically spits. “But if she knew what he did, if she knew…” She’d probably say the same thing, Emma realises with a twist in her stomach.
“What do you want?” Killian asks then, taking a step forward and then another, closing the distance between them. He’s still hesitant, still not turned towards her, but his head ducks down, trying to catch her eye and she does let out a laugh this time. Bitter and hopeless. She doesn’t even know what she wants. She can’t remember the last time someone asked her that. She just wants it all to stop, the barrage of memories, old and fresh wounds opening up again leaving her raw and exposed and vulnerable. She just wants it all to stop.
She shouldn’t. Not after his confession, not when he might think it means more than it does. But she reaches for him, taking his face in both her hands and pulling him to her, slanting her mouth over his, invading his mouth with her tongue, desperate for that release she’s come to associate with him.
He doesn’t miss a beat, both arms wrapping around her waist, tightening and pulling her closer as he groans into her mouth. This, this is what she wants. His lips devour her, tongue delving deep and demanding as his hand traces her side where she isn’t wedged against him. His fingers trail over her breast, her waist, her hip and her thigh, his arm dragging her hips against his own as he rolls them against her, the hard ridge of him pressing against her center through all their clothes and making her gasp.
He bites her lip, soothing it with his tongue before doing the same to her chin and her jaw and her neck and her shoulder, never stopping the steady grind of his cock against the seam of her jeans. She’s lost in the ache and the passion and the pleasure. Fucking hell, how he can make her feel this good with all their clothes on is beyond her, but if he stops, she might kill him.
“Emma?” Mary Margaret’s voice cuts through the quiet and she wants to cry as Hook jumps back from her before her mother can emerge from the dense forest. She looks between the two of them, Hook with his back to her, his hand crossed over and resting on the hilt of his sword as he says something about them having thought they heard lost boys lurking in the jungle. She helps them do a sweep but decides they’re safe and they head back to the camp. She can feel him watching her the whole way back.
***
They almost die. Both of them. Over a fucking lighter.
Okay, she knows it’s not about the lighter, but the fact that they let anything get between them, let anything risk their lives, risk Henry’s life… she’s furious. She hangs on to it, grabs hold of her anger with both hands and doesn’t let go because if she does she knows what will creep in. The fear. The fear that gripped her when she saw Killian at the shadow’s mercy.
She tells herself it was hatred and anger at Pan that made her find her magic. But she knows that’s a lie. It was him. The thought that she would lose him. She couldn’t lose him. Not after what he said. When I win your heart, Emma, and I will win it, it will not be because of any trickery. It’ll be because you want me.
Even now, remembering his promise sends her heart racing and her blood rushing through her veins and she wants. She’d almost kissed him then, almost let him in, almost let herself believe that maybe there was a possibility…
And then he went and almost got himself killed and she remembered again, remembered that she couldn’t let herself want him because everyone she’s ever cared about has left her, hurt her, abandoned her. Why would he be any different?
The whole way back to camp, Neal won’t even look at her. It takes her a moment to realise why. Because of her magic. He hates it, is disgusted by it. She heard it in his voice when he asked if Regina was teaching her and it hurts to hear him disparage it, to hear him fear it.
But then, suddenly, they’re arguing again and she snaps. Her mother warned her about the dangers of both of them having feelings for her. She just hadn’t thought this was what she’d meant. She knew that Mary Margaret wanted her to choose Neal, to reunite her family, and she worried that Hook might not react well. But she’d never imagined the risk they would put themselves in. Both of them. She can’t choose either of them, no matter that they’ve both asked her to. It’s too dangerous.
Enough. It's enough. She can’t take it. They already almost died and now they’re at it again. So she tells them like it is. She doesn’t have room for either of them in her life. Not for Neal’s persistence or Hook’s heartfelt confessions. She can’t. Not now. She needs to focus on Henry, on saving him and she can’t do that if she’s spending her time thinking about them. She sees the acceptance on Hook’s face. She can’t do that if she has to watch him die. It would break her.
When she thought Neal was dead, it had been a relief. All that pain had finally managed to leave her after over a decade. But when she saw Hook pinned against that tree, saw the life being ripped right out of him, god, it might as well have been her own shadow being ripped out.
She shuts her eyes as she walks away, trying to block the image of him screaming, of him begging her to go, from her mind. But it won’t go away. It just stays there, playing over and over well into the night as she tosses and turns on her mat. Neal has placed his own right next to hers, closer than she’d like. She’d seen her mother smile when he did it.
Regina’s on watch duty tonight and Emma sighs as she sits up, unable to sleep but glad for the other woman’s indifference to her troubles. Neal sleeps soundly, the sound of his breathing distracting. How can he sleep so peacefully while she continues to grow more and more distressed, continues to break at his hands? It’s not fair. She needs to get away. She needs to just… she glances over at where Hook lays a more respectable distance away.
She can tell he’s awake. His head turns to look at her after a moment and she meets his eyes. He almost died today. At least he has the good sense to look ashamed. She hates how much she wants to crawl across the space between them, feel his heartbeat under her hand, reassure herself that he’s really okay, let him wrap himself around her and hold her until the dread finally leaves her. She wants to let him take everything away with his body against hers, make her forget everything the way she knows he can do so well.
But they’re in the middle of the camp with eyes everywhere, so she can’t. Instead, she has to stew in it. In her fear for Henry, in her anxiety over nearly losing two people she cares about today, in her growing shame over her magic, both her possession of it and her failure to control it. At what he said. At what Hook said and how much it made her want, how much it reminded her that she can’t have the things she wants.
She can’t breathe. Right now, literally feeling like she’s trapped between the two of them, between two paths to inevitable heartbreak, she can’t breathe. She just needs to get away. She stands, storming past Hook and Regina into the thick canopy of trees. It’s not until she’s several hundred feet away that she finally feels like she can take a breath again.
Emma only realises what a stupid thing she’s done when she hears a rustling behind her. She reaches for her sword but it’s not there and panic seeps through her as she realises she left it next to her mat. But before she can look for a place to hide, a figure emerges from the dark and she lets out a breath. Hook.
“Apologies,” he says when he spots her, sees what must be the obvious distress on her face. “I saw you left your cutlass behind. It’s not safe to be alone in this jungle. Especially unarmed,” he warns her, just this side of chastising. She rolls her eyes but sees that he’s holding her blade in his hand and appreciates that he’s brought it to her.
“Thanks,” she says sincerely as she takes it from him.
He nods, scratching awkwardly behind his ear. “I don’t know what’s troubling you, Emma,” he tells her, and her eyes snap to his at the sound of her name falling from his lips. “But I can’t bring myself to leave you alone out here. I’ll step away,” he promises, gesturing back towards the thick brush. “But I won’t stray far should you need help.”
She wants to roll her eyes. He’s seriously going to go stand somewhere where she can’t see him, ten feet away so she can have her breakdown privately while still protecting her? Why the fuck would he do that? Because he cares about you. He nods again, taking her silence as permission and stepping back to leave her be, but she stops him.
“Do you have your flask with you?” she asks.
He reaches into his pocket and retrieves it. “Shall I leave it with you?”
She rolls her eyes. “You don’t have to go, Hook,” she says and he looks wary. “I’m over it. I just… had a moment.”
“Hmm,” he agrees. “Neverland will do that to you.”
She scoffs, glaring at him, pissed off now. “It wasn’t Neverland that did it to me,” she snaps and he frowns. “It was you. You and Neal and your stupid fight. Both of you, risking your life like idiots, like children!” He looks taken aback, searching for words as shame washes over his features again.
“Swan, I’m sorry. We -”
“Did you even mean what you said?” she demands then and he frowns in confusion.
“What I said?”
“All of it. About winning my heart, about moving on from Milah, about wanting me to choose you. All of it.”
His face grows serious then. “Yes.”
“Then how the hell could you do that? How can you make promises that imply you sticking around and then just be so goddamn callous with your life?”
“I’m sorry, love, I -”
“Stop apologizing!” she barks. His head snaps back like she slapped him and she stands there, panting and glaring at him. He studies her for a moment then steps forward.
“No.”
“No?” she demands incredulously.
“No. You’re right. It was reckless and stupid and childish. I know how much you’ve lost and I’m sorry if I made you fear losing more. Whatever this is, Emma,” he says, using her name again as he gestures between them, “whatever it is you do or don’t want from me, I meant what I said in Echo Cave. I meant what I said to you today. I’m not going anywhere. Not until you send me away. And I’m sorry if I made you doubt my intentions.”
“Stop,” she says, unable to hear more. Every word he says makes her hope and every moment she hopes is another moment closer to heartbreak. She can’t let herself care for him. She can’t let herself fall for him. What chance do they have? Her parents would fight her every step of the way, Neal would fight her. And he’ll leave. Just like everyone leaves. Everyone always leaves.
“Swan,” he says, stepping towards her again. His hand comes up to cradle her jaw, thumb brushing against her cheek as he tilts her chin up to face him.
“Don’t,” she warns again, tears burning her eyes now.
“Is that so hard for you to believe? That someone would want to stay? That I-”
“Stop,” she says again, giving him no choice this time, pulling him to her and stealing whatever words might have fallen from his lips with her own.
She kisses him until a small groan rumbles deep in his throat, reverberating through her and sending tremors of desire coursing through every inch of her body. She can’t let him in. She can’t let him say whatever it was he was going to say. But this, this she can do. She needs this, him. Nothing else calms and excites her all at once like this. Nothing else stops everything like this.
His hand leaves her cheek, tangling in her hair, fisting in it and tugging as he opens her mouth under his. Her hands leave his face, sliding down his neck to his chest to the clasps of his vest. He breaks apart from her as she undoes the first one, looking down at her hands and then back at her with heavy lidded eyes. There’s a question there, a request or a plea.
She answers by undoing the next clasp and he drags her back to him, tongue delving, seeking, teeth nipping at her lips as he guides her backwards until her back collides softly but urgently with a tree. By then she has his vest undone and she pushes it off, shoving his jacket down with it where it falls heavily onto the jungle floor.
She finds his shirt next, not bothering with the few buttons as she pulls it from his pants and lifts the shirt over his head. He releases her long enough to lift his arms and help her to pull it free from his hook. She traces her fingers along his forearms, marveling at the sinewy muscles and dark hair under her hands, hesitating a moment over his tattoo.
She follows the path to his biceps, to his shoulders, tracing the intricacies of his brace on one side, and the defined shape of his obvious strength on the other. She realises she’s never seen his arms before. His chest is always on full display but the rest of him is always covered head to toe in leather, in armour. She traces along his sides next, over his ribs where she notices another tattoo: ‘Liam’ written out in small, elegant script.
She looks at him, so much of him on display beneath her hands. He’s so goddamn beautiful and it sends an ache tugging low in her belly. As she draws her gaze up his neck and jaw to his face, she finds him watching her, something curious and tender beneath the desire. She kisses him again so she doesn’t have to see it. This isn’t what this is.
He takes the hint, hook snaking into her belt loop to pull her hips firmly against his as his hot and calloused hand slides up under her shirt, over her stomach to her breast. She keens when he presses his palm against her, dragging over her slowly, filling his hand before his fingers find her nipple through her bra.
She pushes him back a little, almost smirking at his surprised expression before pulling her shirt over her head, reaching behind her to undo her bra and let it fall somewhere at her feet. She reaches for him but he steps back, eyes raking over her slowly and intently and goosebumps raise everywhere that his eyes burn over her.
“Bloody hell,” he breathes.
“You gonna do something about it?” she challenges, and then he’s on her, lips attacking her neck, causing her to cry out as he sucks a mark into the hollow of her collarbone, dragging his tongue down her chest to her breast. He takes a nipple into his mouth, rolling it under his tongue and his teeth and she fists her hand in his hair so tight that she thinks it might hurt. His strangled moan makes her think he doesn’t care.
He moves to her neglected breast, giving it the same treatment before nipping and licking and sucking his way down her ribs and her stomach to her navel and to the waist of her jeans as he kneels before her. He doesn’t ask for permission this time, the way she pushes her hips against him clear enough as he makes quick work of them, sliding them down her legs and pulling them off along with her boots.
He looks up at her, toying idly with the waist of her panties, and it’s the hottest fucking thing she’s ever seen. Killian Jones, Captain Hook, shirtless with his hair a mess, kneeling between her legs and watching her like he wants to devour her. Then he smirks, eyebrow twitching up as he leans forward, holding her gaze as he presses an open mouthed kiss to her covered clit. Nevermind, that’s the hottest thing she’s ever seen.
“Killian,” she begs, shocking them both as his name falls from her lips. Something flashes in his eyes then and suddenly he’s yanking the fabric off of her and pulling her leg over his shoulder. Fuck. Fuck yes, is all she can think. But… “We don’t have time,” she tells him, knowing that the others could wake up at any moment, that Pan or a lost boy could stumble upon them.
He glances up at her with a smile that she can only describe as devilish. “There is always time, Swan,” he insists. Before she can protest or agree, his tongue is dragging through her folds, licking her slowly until he reaches her clit and pulls it into his mouth.
“Fuck!” she practically yells, head falling back as she fists her hands in his hair. She can feel him smirking against her but she doesn’t care because his tongue is flicking against her clit now, slowly, meticulously, and then quicker as she starts to roll her hips against his talented mouth.
He alternates flicking his tongue against her and sucking on her sensitive bundle as his fingers find her opening and push in roughly, pumping into her hard and fast. One of her hands finds his shoulder, steading herself against him, nails digging into his flesh, and he drives her to her climax so goddamn fast that she barely registers she’s almost there until she’s right at the brink.
She’s gasping, muttering incoherent yeses and pleas, when he suddenly pulls away and stands and she wants to scream. But before she can, he’s freeing himself from his leathers and pulling her knee up over his hip, sliding into her easily despite his impressive size.
Her fingers link behind his neck, her head thrown back against the bark behind her as he thrusts up into her purposefully, each stroke powerful and just the right side of rough. She’s forced to stand on her toes, foot nearly lifted off the ground as he drives into her, but she doesn’t want him to stop. Fuck, she’s never going to be able to stop. Not now that she knows this is what it’s like to be with him.
His head falls to her shoulder, lips and teeth finding her neck as he moves faster and she knows he’s close, can hear it in the desperate sounds he’s breathing against her skin. She’s nearly there, she just needs… He pulls her thigh higher over his hip, hand finding her ass and pressing her closer until he’s grinding against her clit with every push inside of her and that’s it.
Her back arches and her head falls back as she screams out her climax into the quiet of the jungle. He looks up at her, watching her fall apart, brows pinched in blissful anguish as he sets a breakneck pace, seeking his own release. She fists her hands into his hair, tugging and watching as his face becomes almost pained before she captures his lips with hers, biting at his lips, sucking at his tongue until she swallows his moan as it reverberates through her chest and he goes rigid.
She can feel him finishing hot inside her and it sends another little quiver of pleasure through her, her muscles contracting around him and he groans, sliding his tongue into her mouth and seeking her own.
They stay there, pressed against the tree, panting into each other’s mouths, seeking whatever they can find in one another until the sweat begins to cool on her body and a shiver runs through her, bringing her back to reality. He seems to sense the change because he’s the one to break the kiss first.
She just looks at him, unable to process any of her thoughts. She doesn’t know what this means. She doesn’t know what she wants it to mean. The thought that it could mean anything at all is terrifying to her. But a part of her knows she’ll find herself here again. But this is all it can be.
She can’t risk it. Can’t risk him. She’s damaged goods and she’ll hurt him or he’ll hurt her because… she cares. Fuck. She cares. There’s nothing more dangerous or terrifying to her than getting her heart involved. If she has to choose - and she does have to choose - the one where her heart isn’t on the line is the only safe option.
Neal could never break her heart. Not again. She’d have to be able to give it to him first for that.
She tenses in his arms, hands sliding from his shoulders to curl into her chest and she tries to make some room between them. She can’t look at him but it’s like he can read her mind, his eyes casting over her face as she makes her decision. Open book he’s always said.
He lets out a soft sigh of a laugh, self-deprecating and accepting as he slides out of her and pulls back, allowing her room to dress as he pulls his pants back up his hips. She knows he thinks she regrets it. She wishes she could tell him she doesn’t. But she can’t give him hope. And he wouldn’t believe her if she did, not while she’s practically recoiling from his touch.
“So you’ve made your choice then?” he asks, but it’s not really a question.
“Killian…”
“Don’t call me that,” he says, shaking his head and it feels like a knife twisting in her heart.
“I-”
“You don’t have to explain, Swan,” he says. “He’s Henry’s father. He’s a better man.”
She wants to scream at him, tell him that he’s wrong, but that would mean facing whatever it is that’s happened between them, whatever it was that started on that beanstalk and led them here, and she can’t do that.
He watches her for another moment, the pain and the self-loathing written all over his face before he slides his mask of indifference right back up and it hurts to see. It's the one he wore in New York and in Storybrooke after she betrayed him. She supposes this isn’t much different.
He gathers the rest of his clothes, nodding at her once before heading off into the jungle. “Don’t stay out here alone,” he says over his shoulder, and a tear runs hot down her cheek. He may hate her right now, but he’s still watching out for her.
***
They defeat Pan. They save Henry. She still can’t believe it. But they’re sailing back to Storybrooke and her son is sleeping soundly down below in Killian’s cabin. She frowns. She wonders when she started thinking of him as Killian. Probably when you realised how you felt about him, probably right before you broke his heart.
She’s staring out at the sky below them, leaning on the railing and she lets her head fall over her arms. When did everything get so complicated? She feels so lost. She wishes she had someone to help her, someone to guide her. She wishes she had Mary Margaret, her friend, but that woman is gone. In her place is Snow White, her mother. Someone who should understand her but doesn’t.
It’s Snow who finds her, places a comforting hand on her shoulder and gives her a supportive smile when she looks up.
“Are you alright?” she asks. Emma shakes her head, too tired to lie, and her mom gives her a sad look. “Emma…” she starts, and she braces herself for whatever speech is about to come. “I know that love can be scary. And after all you’ve been through, I don’t blame you for being afraid of it. That’s my fault,” she says and Emma wants to say no - well, yes, but not just her fault.
“But if you think that everyone that cares about you and who you let yourself care about is going to hurt you, if you don’t let yourself try and open up to the possibility… you might keep out pain, but you’ll also keep out love,” she finishes, parroting her words from so long ago and for a moment, Emma feels like she has her friend back, like Mary Margaret understands her.
“You owe it to yourself to give Neal a chance,” she says, and it’s like a bucket of ice water falling over her. “I know what you said, about it being easier to forget about the pain and to move on with him out of your life. But he’s your first love; he’s Henry’s father. Don’t you think he deserves a second chance? Don’t you think Henry does, that you do?”
Tears well in Emma’s eyes and her mother misreads them, assuming she’s hit the mark. She couldn’t be more wrong. But she’s right. Choosing Neal is easier. It's what everyone wants. It’s what everyone expects. It's the easiest way to make everyone she cares about happy. Even if it’s at the cost of her own happiness. Of Killian’s happiness. Her heart burns in her chest.
She wonders where Killian is. They’ve barely spoken since their moment in the jungle. He hadn’t been cruel or even angry, of course he hadn’t. But he’d been distant, keeping himself at arms length. She understands that, self-preservation and all. She’s been doing the same. She hears footsteps and looks up to see Neal walking towards them. Mary Margaret gives her an encouraging smile before disappearing below deck.
Neal leans against the railing next to her. “We did it,” he says, a big, satisfied smile on his face. “We got our kid back. We got our family back,” he says and the word is loaded.
“Yeah,” she nods, forces a smile. Neal could never tell the difference between her real ones and her fake ones. “We did.”
He nudges her shoulder with his and she laughs. They did get their son back. That’s the silver lining to this. That’s what she should be focused on. “Emma, listen,” he says then. “I meant what I said. I’ll never stop fighting for you.” His words twist in her gut but she doesn’t let it show. “And now that everyone’s okay, that it’s all over and everything is behind us… maybe we could try again.” Everything is behind us. Just like that he’s wiping his slate clean of any wrongs he’s done her.
“Neal, I-”
“I know I hurt you, Emma. But I had to. You know I did. And we have Henry to think about too. Do you think there’s anything he’d want more than for his parents to get back together? Don’t you think we ought to try? For him?” Her fist clenches against the railing but he takes it in his. “I’m just asking for a chance, Ems.”
She considers him, thinks of Henry. “Okay,” she says. “Okay.”
He beams, bringing her hand to his lips and kissing it, then, before she even knows what’s happening, he’s leaning in and pressing his lips to hers. It’s familiar, slow and practiced and it brings a slew of painful memories rushing back to the surface. He pulls back with a pleased smile and she forces one back.
“I’ll see you in the morning, okay?” he asks and she nods. As she watches him walk away, she knows one thing for sure. There’s definitely no risk with Neal. He could never break her heart. She could never give it to him.
She brings her fingers to her lips, still feeling his kiss and his scruff burning against her chin and it just feels… wrong. It leaves an ache in her, an emptiness and a need, a craving for something else and her whole body hums with it, burns with it. It’s wrong. It’s wrong. It’s wrong. It’s wrong. She needs to make it right, to set it right.
She walks almost blindly through the ship's lower deck, making her way past the crew’s quarters where everyone sleeps, past the captain’s cabin where Regina is watching over a sleeping Henry, past the galley and the storage and every other room she doesn’t recognize until she reaches the back, the bosun’s quarters where she knows she’ll find him.
She pushes the door open, not bothering to knock and he sits up where he was lounging on the narrow mattress, book balanced on his knee. He’s discarded his coat and his vest, his suspenders hanging at his sides. “Swan?” he asks, a frown marrying his brow. “What’s wrong?”
She doesn’t speak. She just crosses the room to the bed, shoving the book out of his hands and climbing over him, straddling his hips as she pulls his lips to hers, hands finding his shoulders as she uses his shock to push him back against the pillows.
“Swan,” he breathes against her mouth. “What are you -” She stops his words with her lips again, sliding her tongue into his mouth until she can pull that groan that she loves so much from his chest. “Emma,” he tries again, weaker this time and a little desperate.
She shakes her head, kissing him again, biting his lip, pulling at it, teasing him with her tongue until he breaks, sitting up and kissing her back, taking control as he tilts her head this way and that, arm sliding around her hips to set her more firmly in his lap. Yes. This is what she needed. The press of his lips, the scratch of his stubble, it feels right. And she knows she can’t have it, not really, but she can have tonight. She can have one last night.
She feels him stirring beneath her and she grinds her hips down over his to encourage him. It works, his lips dropping to her neck, sliding her shirt easily over her head and taking her breast in his mouth like he already knows she likes. God, he’s perfect. Perfect in that he’s not. In that he knows he’s not. That he doesn’t pretend to be. He knows her. He understands her. And she knows she’s going to break his heart.
She stops him as his hand begins to trail down to her jeans, pushing against his shoulders until he lays back. She pulls his shirt open, not caring about the few buttons that she sends flying across the floor as her lips latch onto his neck, desperately trying to find the spots that make him let out those sounds she can’t get enough of.
When he’s practically writhing beneath her, she trails kisses down the center of his chest, glancing up at him as he watches her, her lips teasing their way down to the waist of his pants where he’s already straining against the laces. She can see the head of his cock just peeking out and she draws her tongue over him. He hisses, hips pressing up involuntarily towards her.
She makes quick work of his laces, shoving his pants far enough down his hips that she can free him from them and take him in hand. He gasps out her name and it spurs her on, knowing how much he wants her. She’s glad when he doesn’t protest, only watches her as she drags her tongue slowly up the length of him before taking him fully into her mouth.
His back arches, his hook reaching up to find purchase on the headboard as his hand tangles in her hair. The sounds he makes as she works him with her lips and tongue send heat straight to her core, making her slick and desperate as she tries to rub her thighs together and find some relief. He lets out a litany of sighs and moans and words, both praise and filth as she drives him towards his release.
Before she can, he uses his hold on her hair to pull her off of him, to slide her back up his body to face him where he looks at her like he can’t quite believe she’s real. He reaches for her pants, undoing them and pushing them down her hips. She rolls onto her back beside him so that she can work them off and his mouth finds her breast, tongue pulling at her already hardened nipple and making her gasp.
As soon as she’s free of her jeans, she rolls back on top of him, taking his cock in hand and sinking down onto him. They both hold still for a moment, adjusting to the feel of him inside her, to how fucking perfectly he fits. Fuck, she’s going to miss this.
He lets out another moan as she starts to ride him, head falling back against the pillows. She’s never seen him quite like this, so lost in his bliss, so out of control, and god it makes her want him even more. She braces herself on his shoulders, moving over him faster, hips snapping against his, and he looks at her like she might just destroy him.
His hand grabs hold of her hip, pulling her down harder against him as his own hips lift up to meet her with every thrust. She can’t believe how close she is. He’s barely touched her. But with every roll of her hips over his, every time she feels him fill her up again and again, she feels like she’s on fire and she just wants to keep burning.
“Fuck, Emma,” he curses, his brow pinched tight, the chords of his neck stretched taunt. “Emma I’m going to -” he tries to warn her but she only rides him harder, desperate to get him there first. Her nails dig into his chest as she tries to hold off as long as she can and she sees the moment he breaks. It’s the most fucking amazing thing she’s ever seen and it sends her over the edge, collapsing over top of him as they both struggle to catch their breath.
His fingers trail over her spine, his head tilting down to kiss the skin of her shoulder, turning to press another to her temple. God, she wants to just stay here with him, to let him keep tracing patterns over her back, to let him keep kissing whatever parts of her he can reach, to let him just hold her here as long as she needs. But that’s exactly why she can’t.
“Emma,” he says softly, a little hopefully and she rises, getting off of him and standing, pulling her jeans and shirt back on, not bothering to look for her underwear because that would take too long. “Emma,” he says again and she makes herself look at him, makes herself face the hurt she’s causing him. It’s better this way. They’ll only hurt each other in the long run if they keep this up. “So, it’s still Neal then,” he says finally.
She nods. “It has to be.”
“And this was what?” he asks, an edge of anger in his voice. “Goodbye? One last fuck with the pirate before you go back to the man you’re making yourself choose? The one you’re settling for?”
Tears burn her eyes. “Killian...”
“I told you not to call me that,” he says, bitterness in his tone. “It’s Hook you want.” But he’s wrong, and that’s exactly the problem. It is Killian she wants, the man he might be, the man he is, the man she wants too much to trust herself with.
“Goodbye,” she says, backing away towards the door. “I’m sorry.”
***
@kmomof4 @snowbellewells @teamhook @resident-of-storybrooke @stahlop @hollyethecurious @artistic-writer @gingerchangeling @bubblegum1425 @jackieorioncat @darkcolinodonorgasm @xhookswenchx @lfh1226-linda @searchingwardrobes @winterbaby89 @whimsicallyenchantedrose @xsajx @thejollyroger-writer @elizabeethan @carpedzem @spartanguard @tiganasummertree @demisexualemmaswan @itsfabianadocarmo @courtorderedcake @yasbio2015 @the-darkdragonfly @klynn-stormz
#captain swan#cs neverland#cs smut#captain swan smut#neverland new year#captain swan neverland new year#cs angst
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At Christmas All The Roads Lead Home | part 2
Christmas morning finds Ashton and Y/N reminiscing about their very first holiday together – with both of their flights cancelled the strangers make the hasty decision to rent a room until they can leave for their own destinations. The pair soon finds out that there’s much more than they’ve bargained for when there’s only one bed in their hotel room.
story masterlist. | masterlist.
word count: 3488 words
tags/warnings: past: an unhealthy load of flirting. food sharing. some heart-to-heart talks. snowball fights. there’s still only one bed. & present: dad!Ashton. fem!mom!reader. married fluff with kids and a dog. Christmas morning cuteness. tooth rotting fluff. nostalgia. a healthy load of teasing.
“Do you think we could eat some more of that cookie we’ve left out for Santa?” Ashton nodded towards the kitchen, a grin spreading across his face. “We could tell the boys the reindeers ate them.”
“Daddy doesn’t have a sweet tooth, the reindeers do,” you lovingly rolled your eyes at him, hands sliding onto his face to pinch his cheeks, making him giggle.
“There’s something else Daddy loves that’s sweet,” his eyes were sparkling with mischief, hands sliding under your thighs to pick you up, and you muffled your squeal against his neck.
Your arms wrapped around his shoulders as he stood up, blankets falling to the floor in a heap. Ashton squeezed your butt lightly, brushing a smiley kiss onto your lips before adjusting you up on his hips, bringing you over to the kitchen. He put you up on the counter and stepped between your legs, already reaching for the plate of chocolate chip cookies you have baked the night before while he finished decorating the house with the boys. Their giggles still rang in your ears as you recalled them chasing each other through the kitchen, tiny arms wrapping around your legs for shelter before Ashton picked them up, pressing a series of kisses on their cheeks and noses, making them squeal with laughter.
Ashton broke a cookie in half before putting it in his mouth, leaning forward so you can bite into it as well, your lips lightly brushing in the middle. A smile pulled at your lips at this and the memory of how sharing Christmas cookies became a tradition for the two of you, something that now you also did with your sons. When the first batch was done you brought one over to the three of them; Tyler and Henry were cuddled into Ashton’s sides, watching a movie together while Bailey napped at their feet. Your heart was ready to burst with love as you watched him breaking the cookie into three, carefully giving the boys their own portions before sharing the remaining piece with you.
“What are you thinking about?” Ashton pushed himself up on his tiptoes, playfully biting your nose as he leaned closer, and you scrunched up your face, pulling back a little.
“You’re so weird. Why did I marry you?” you reached for another cookie and broke off a piece, bringing it to his mouth.
“Dunno. Why did you marry me?” he accepted the cookie from you, munching on it as he spoke. “I mean, the sex is really good, so…”
“Yeah, it was only for the sex,” you chuckled, curling a leg around his waist to pull him closer. “No, I was thinking about our day in London. How you stole half my croissant at breakfast.”
“Hey, I shared my panini with you,” Ashton gave you a faux pout. “And it was a damn good panini, thank you very much.”
“Yeah, I know, I brought you there,” you stuck your tongue out at him before popping a chocolate chip in your mouth. “Guess this is why I married you.”
“Because of the panini?” he furrowed his eyebrows and you leaned forward, pressing a kiss onto the bridge of his nose, stroking your thumb over his scruffy cheek.
“No, silly,” you shook your head, smiling at him “Because not a day has gone by without you making me laugh. Making me fall in love with you even more.”
*****
It surprised you how easy it was to convince Ashton to have breakfast with you in a small corner café instead of your hotel’s restaurant. Maybe it was the promise of fresh coffee and the world’s best panini, or maybe the offer that this time it will be you paying for both of your food. Either way you couldn’t complain as you’ve made your way towards the breakfast place.
“So what are your plans for today?” he asked as you both settled down at a table, waiting for your orders to arrive. “Or do we just walk around London all day long?”
“I mean, you’re welcome to go back to the hotel but I’ve thought we could make the most out of this situation,” you shrugged, giving him a smile. “I mean, when was the last time you’ve seen a winter wonderland like this in LA?”
“Can’t recall,” he chuckled, shaking his head. “But you have to promise me you’ll join at least one adventure of my choice today.”
“I mean – you were willing to come and have breakfast with me, so I guess that’s the least I can do.”
“We were sleeping in the same bed last night, having breakfast together is just the next step,” Ashton sent you a wink, one that could only be described as flirty. “And anyways, you’ve promised me the world’s best panini. Now I don’t know how you know that, but I trust you on this one. Can’t disappoint me now.”
“It is the best, I promise you.”
Before any of you could make another comment the waiter has arrived with your food and coffees, making both of you focus on your breakfast. You needed to stifle your laugh as Ashton moaned around his sandwich, clearly enjoying it as much as you’ve thought he would.
“Okay, you were right. This really is the best panini I’ve ever had,” he took another bite of it, eyes almost rolling back from how much he enjoyed it.
“Told you so,” you sipped you coffee with a smile, lightly kicking his foot under the table. “I wouldn’t have brought you here if it wasn’t the best.”
“Yeah, yeah, but your croissant is looking really good too…” his gaze moved from your face to the plate in front of you, and you quirked an eyebrow at him.
“Nooo. Don’t you dare…” but you were too late – a mischievous grin pulled at his lips as he quickly reached across the table to snatch up your breakfast, taking a hearty bite of it. “Ashton!”
“That’s a damn good croissant too,” he munched on it between words, and you rolled your eyes at him, laughing at his antics.
“I’m really glad, but you just ate my breakfast,” you kicked his foot again playfully, and he curled his ankle around yours, making heat crawl up your neck.
“Here,” he placed his plate in front of you, giving you another smile. “You can have the other half of mine.”
“Giving up your panini for me? What a gentleman,” you took a bite of the offered sandwich as Ashton kept eating your croissant. “Guess we’re getting better at sharing?”
“Yeah, I think we are,” he rested his chin in his hand, still smiling softly at you.
Your legs stayed tangled together under the table until you’ve finished breakfast.
*****
“It was one of the best days of my life,” Ashton pulled you to the edge of the counter, wrapping both your legs around his waist as he hugged you, face hidden in the crook of your neck. “I never wanted it to end.”
“And to think we were both on our way back home…” you hummed in agreement, fingers slowly brushing through his curls.
“We were already home,” he mumbled against your skin, lips pressing a soft kiss on your jaw. “We just didn’t know it yet. That home is not a place, but a person.”
*****
“You know, there’s something I’ve wanted to ask you since yesterday,” Ashton’s shoulder brushed against yours as the two of you made your way back to the hotel.
“So why didn’t you?” you let yourself slightly bump into him, making him let out a chuckle.
The day was spent walking around London and getting lost in the snowy city, window shopping and buying whatever food or drink one of you started craving. Both of you ended up with a few trinkets and last minute gifts that you just couldn’t leave behind before Ashton treated you to lunch, claiming that he also knows places you have to try out. He shared stories with you about the time he spent in England, how snowball fights with the boys were his favourite past time around this time of year, and in the end he made good on his promise and dragged you out to ice skating even though none of you have done it in years.
“What were you doing here?” he finally asked, tucking his hands in his pockets. “I mean before you were meant to go home.”
“You really wanna know?” you chuckled and he nodded, making you continue. “One of my friends came up with the brilliant idea to have a singles trip. Guess her bucket list included something about hooking up with a British guy but she didn’t want to come alone, so she dragged us with her. We rented a house and just had fun there, or went out to meet people, you know. She did find herself a guy, and it looked kinda serious, so I guess it wasn’t for nothing.”
“But you were alone at the airport,” your path led you through a park and Ashton kicked one of the snow piles, not looking up at you. “Did something happen?”
“I wanted to stay for a day or two,” you shrugged then a moment later let out a sigh. “I didn’t actually want to go home.”
“Why?” Ashton stopped and blinked at you, the confusion clear on his face. “I’ve thought you couldn’t wait to be back in LA.”
“There’s nothing wrong with LA. Just… going home means I have to go home, to see my family, and those visits usually end up, well– let’s just say they care too much about my personal life.”
“Is there someone waiting for you at home?” he stepped closer, the toes of his boots touching your shoes, and you looked up at him, shrugging.
“Does the guy my parents want to set me up with count?” at that Ashton let out a breath, cheeks turning slightly pink as a smile pulled at his lips.
“No, I don’t think so,” he chuckled, and you did the same, slowly continuing your way back to the hotel. “What about here?”
“What do you mean?” you had a pretty good idea what he was asking, but wanted to hear it from him.
“Have you met someone in London?” his shoulder bumped into yours again, and you stopped, eyes meeting after a few seconds.
“Do you count?” you quirked an eyebrow, the slightest bit of flirt in your voice.
“Maybe…” it was Ashton’s turn to shrug, his face turning another shade of red as he kicked the snow with his boots, quickly casting his gaze down.
“Then yeah. Maybe,” you stepped away with a giggle, making sure you brushed against him. “Are you coming? I don’t wanna miss dinner, Irwin.”
Ashton shook his head with a little laugh, scurrying after you. He fell into step with you, quickly picking up your previous conversation about his early days in London as you made your way across the park.
“…and then Calum somehow locked himself out in his boxers and– Y/N? Where ar– fuck, that’s cold!”
You laughed as Ashton turned around, shoulders pulled up and jaw clenched as he realized you just hit him with a snowball. You already had another one at the ready, and you could see the flash in his eyes as he dropped his shopping bags, reaching for the closest pile of snow.
“Oh no, you didn’t…” he gave you a grin, aiming at you.
“I think I just did!” you shouted at him, giggling as he missed hitting you with the snowball just by a few inches.
“I’m gonna get you, you can’t run away!” Ashton suddenly started running towards you, and you shrieked with laughter as he chased you through the park.
You felt his arms wrap around your waist, both of you crashing to the ground in a fit of giggles, trying to catch your breaths. His pupils were blown wide, lips slightly chapped but so kissable as he pushed himself up, looking at you like it was the first time. A second passed, maybe two, then he collapsed next to you on his back, giggling again.
“Told ya I’ll get you.”
“You still couldn’t hit me with a snowball,” you poked his side which made Ashton laugh even more.
“God, you hit my neck! It’s all the way down my shirt! I’m soaked!” he let out one last chuckle before looking at you.
“You can shower first when we get back,” you smiled at him and he just nodded. “We don’t want you to catch a cold.”
“Can we go back now?” Ashton pouted at you, pairing it with his best puppy dog eyes, and you stifled another laugh, sitting up.
“Sure,” you reached for his hand, none of you feeling the cold around you when your fingers touched. “Come on, Australia. Let’s go home.”
*****
Someone started moving upstairs and both of you stopped in your tracks, listening to the sounds coming closer and closer to the stairs. A moment later you’ve heard a thump, and soon Bailey appeared next to you, stretching and yawning.
“Well, good morning to you too, boy,” Ashton reached down to give him an ear scratch, and Bailey nuzzled against his palm. “Is everything okay upstairs?”
The dog nudged Ashton’s knee before turning around and making his way to the door. Ashton leaned back to you, pressing a kiss on your cheek before nodding towards Bailey.
“I’ll let him outside. Don’t go anywhere.”
“Sure, hot stuff,” you chuckled, and Ash wiggled his eyebrows at you. “Bring him back for some biscuits!”
A few minutes later the dog was already back in the kitchen and you slid down from the counter, reaching for the treats he loved the most. You saw Ashton smiling as you crouched down to Bailey, petting his muzzle as he patiently waited for his treats. He nuzzled against your side before starting munching on the biscuits, taking them one by one from your palm.
“Who’s a good boy? Yes, yes you are, Bailey, you are a good boy,” you stroked his side as you talked to him, and Ashton joined you too, scratching his ear again.
“Did you know I’ve got him for you because you’ve told me you wanted a dog for Christmas?” Ashton caught your eyes over Bailey’s head, and you bit your bottom lip, blushing.
“I didn’t think you remembered,” you confessed. “I just thought it was a lucky coincidence.”
“No, I did remember. I’ve been waiting for the perfect time to get you a dog, and thought our first Christmas as the Irwins would be it. Of course, I didn’t know you were pregnant, in that case I would have thought about it twice, but I wasn’t about taking him to a shelter just because of that.”
“I’m still amazed you gave up your precious garden just so me and the boys could have a dog,” you gave the last biscuit to Bailey, and Ashton beamed, a blush on his cheeks.
“I love you. I love the boys. And I love Bailey. A garden is just a garden – but you’re my family, and I would do anything for you,” he squeezed your hand, and you tangled your fingers together.
“I couldn’t ask for more. And I love you too, Ash. So much.”
*****
By the time Ashton got out of the shower your dinner had been brought up to your room, so he settled down next to you, knees slightly pressed together as you ate your food. A blanket was wrapped around his shoulders, and you joked if he was trying to protect himself from another snowball, for which he just stuck his tongue at you.
“Really funny, Y/N,” he rolled his eyes, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth.
“I do think it was funny,” you stifled your giggle, and he poked your knee with his finger, making you laugh even more.
“You’re still weird. I kinda like it,” he said, almost as an afterthought, but before you could react to that he already moved onto something else. “What about the cookie? Did they send that up for us as well?”
“No, that was actually me,” you confessed, and you suddenly felt a bit shy and embarrassed. “I would say it’s a peace offering, but– it’s a Christmas tradition in my family.”
“Now you have my attention,” Ashton put his elbow on his knee, resting his chin in his palm. “You’re gonna tell me?”
“Okay, traditionally it’s a Christmas apple not a cookie, but it was easier to get this one,” you started, pulling your legs under you. “They say that those who are together at Christmas and share an apple then they are all going to spend the next Christmas together too. It’s something my family has been saying and doing since forever, and… I mean, it’s Christmas Eve and we’re both here and not at home where we thought we will spend the holidays and…”
Ashton reached for your hand and squeezed it, tangling your fingers together. He gave you an encouraging smile, nodding a little to go on.
“I just thought that– that this could be something that we could do? Just a little piece of home while we’re here,” you mumbled, not really daring to look up at him. “It’s silly, I know. I’m being weird, I’m sor–”
“No! No,” Ashton turned towards you, thumb brushing over your cheek. “It’s really lovely. I really like the sentiment behind it.”
You felt your cheeks heat up and you quickly reached for the cookie, holding it up for Ashton. He grabbed the other half and broke it off, never looking at the baked good but at you, even when he brought it to his mouth to take a bite.
“So – does this mean you want to spend next year’s Christmas with me again?” he chuckled, munching on his cookie and you shrugged, a small smile pulling at your lips.
“Who knows, we might get stuck at the airport again. In that case it’s good to know I have someone who’s willing to share his room with me.”
“If we’re both in LA next year I’ll make sure to share a cookie with you at Christmas,” Ashton winked, his other hand still holding onto yours.
“Sounds like a promise,” you chuckled, taking another bite of your cookie.
It was around midnight when both of you found your ways to your shared bed after watching a tacky Christmas movie or two. Ashton was already wrapped in his blanket when you came back from the bathroom, slipping under your own sheets. He propped himself up, cheek resting against his palm as he looked at you and you turned towards him, blinking up at him.
“What would be your ultimate Christmas present?” he asked, voice soft and curious. “What is something you hope to find under the tree?”
“A dog, maybe,” you answered after some time, a smile pulling at the corner of your mouth and you saw Ashton mirroring you. “I miss having one. Would love to have someone waiting for me when the day is over.”
“Yeah, they have that effect on you,” he reached towards you, tucking a lock of hair behind your ear. “They are great company. I have one back in Australia – kinda miss little old Indie.”
“That’s a cute name. I would love to see them,” you rubbed your cheek against your pillow, getting comfortable. “What about you?”
“I have everything,” he chuckled, shaking his head. “The only thing I wish is to see my family. I really miss them, haven’t had the chance to go home since forever. I’m really lucky with my life and job, but family is family. They’ll always be on top on my list.”
“I’m sure we will be able to travel in a day or two. Snowstorms aren’t forever. You’ll be home before you know it,” your eyes moved to the window where you could still see the snow slowly falling. “And me too.”
“While I do miss being at home… right now I couldn’t ask for more,” Ashton whispered, and you knew there was something he wasn’t saying, something that you felt too.
“Me neither,” you shook your head with a smile, slowly closing your eyes. “Good night, Ash.”
“Remind me to show you a picture of Indie tomorrow,” he lightly chuckled, and you felt him brush another lock of hair away from your forehead. “Good night, Y/N. Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas,” you mumbled, already drifting away.
You still heard Ashton quietly humming, something that sounded a lot like I’ll Be Home For Christmas, and you could swore you felt him moving a little closer before you fell asleep.
Morning found you with fingers lightly tangled together between the two of you, his touch warm and comforting, and – even in this strange city – feeling a lot like home.
------------------------------------------------
» part 1 » part 2 » part 3 » part 4
taglist.
@mymindwide @loveroflrh @sadistmichael @notinthesameguey @babylonashton @talkfastromance4 @dead-and-golden @fuckyeah5sostakemehome @karajaynetoday @myfavfanficsever @myloverboyash @suchalonelysunflower @sexgodashton @rebelwith0utacause @creampiecashton @irwinkitten @allthestarsandthemoon @castaway-cashton @spicycal @wontlastimokwiththat @luckyduckydoo @sunshineeashton @2fangirl4u @talkfastdrummer @pastelbabygirl19 @istantommoandtpwk @perfectlieirwin @thesweetness-irwin-archive @c-a-l-m-hood @youngblood199456 @tiannaxox2 @caffeinecalum @fanficsandotherthings @melanindarling
#ashton irwin#ashton irwin x reader#ashton irwin fanfiction#dad!ashton#afic: at christmas all the roads lead home#fiction time#series: at christmas
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Clearly AUgust was a theme that spoke to you all, because of the 64 fills last month almost a third claimed the bonus badge! It’s the most fills there’s been in a month since February, and almost double the number of bonus badges I usually send out, and I am just so incredibly pleased with the response to this little event.
I really don’t have words to convey just how wonderful I think you all are, so instead I shall just share all the glorious fills created this month! As always, they’re sorted by ship and then by rating, and you should all pay attention to the warnings and practice self-care before you click on those links!
Gen
Young Arthur wanders through the valley of kings by Ice-mint
Rating: General audiences
Ao3 warnings: No archive warnings apply
Summary:
Close encounters by warpedalignment
Rating: General audiences
Ao3 warnings: No archive warnings apply
Summary: Arthur is woken in the middle of the night. Why? To hunt a witch, of course.
Through a Solid Wall by lancelitttle (lancelot2point0)
Rating: General audiences
Ao3 warnings: No archive warnings apply
Summary: Lancelot tries to find Platform 9 and 3/4's. He ends up with more than he bargained for, which doesn't seem all that bad, actually.
There was only one bed by ice-mint
Rating: General audiences
Ao3 warnings: No archive warnings apply
Summary:
Superhero Resurrection Moodboards by zoingfandom
Rating: General audiences
Ao3 warnings: No archive warnings apply
Summary:
Griffin by wmolecules
Rating: General audiences
Ao3 warnings: No archive warnings apply
Summary:
King Cenred by ice-mint
Rating: General audiences
Ao3 warnings: No archive warnings apply
Summary:
The one where Henry the Guard gets a shock by warpedalignment
Rating: General audiences
Ao3 warnings: No archive warnings apply
Summary: One of the new guards ran straight into Leon in the hallway, breathless and deathly pale, as though he’d seen something distinctly terrifying.
Or
Leon teaches a new guard how to act in Camelot.
Elena + tumblr tags by thebookluvrr1816
Rating: General audiences
Ao3 warnings: No archive warnings apply
Summary:
The Hobbit by hiddlydiddly
Rating: General audiences
Ao3 warnings: No archive warnings apply
Summary: Gwaine meets a hobbit.
Head Jerks by gremlinbehaviour
Rating: General audiences
Ao3 warnings: No archive warnings apply
Summary: After a head injury, Lancelot finds himself beginning to have tics
The Effects of Rain by gremlinbehaviour
Rating: General audiences
Ao3 warnings: No archive warnings apply
Summary: Elyan and Percival get drenched while on patrol, but when they return to the castle, Elyan realizes that it isn't just the cold and wet making him feel bad. Gwaine is there to look after him
Elena Fisher, Queen of Gawant by gremlinbehaviour
Rating: General audiences
Ao3 warnings: No archive warnings apply
Summary: Elena had heard the prophecy about Arthur returning when he was needed most, but she hadn't been expecting to be reborn herself, much less 1500 years after she had died. Despite the surprise of it, though, she wasn’t about to pass up the opportunity to explore this new and fantastic world and all the ancient ruins and handsome adventurers that came with it. Crossover with the Uncharted Video Game series
the pretty-faced, high ranking knight with the long, dark hair by gremlinbehaviour
Rating: General audiences
Ao3 warnings: No archive warnings apply
Summary: Gwaine and Lancelot get mistaken for each other, resulting in some chaos and injury
Hard Feelings by gwen-cheers-me-up
Rating: Teen
Ao3 warnings: Choose not to use archive warnings
Summary: After being rescued from the Dark Tower, Gwen is distant, sleepless, and easily startled. Perhaps most jarring of all is that she stops saying ‘I love you.’
Gwaine never started.
As Gwen struggles to fit into her old life and her old relationships while carrying these new traumas, Elyan decides that Gwaine might be just the right person to help her begin to heal.
Albion Apartments by UisceOneLove
Rating: Teen
Ao3 warnings: No archive warnings apply
Summary: Merlin recovers from a sprained ankle.
Belonging by warpedalignment
Rating: Teen
Ao3 warnings: Major character death
Summary: Arthur sets out to follow Merlin’s orders, and tries not to think. About anything, really.
Out-of-body by warpedalignment
Rating: Teen
Ao3 warnings: Major character death
Summary: Freya receives an offer.
Feel by warpedalignment
Rating: Teen
Ao3 warnings: Major character death, Graphic depictions of violence
Summary: Merlin struggles to cope, after Camlann
Knights and romance by merlinsprat
Rating: Teen
Ao3 warnings: No archive warnings apply
Summary:
Little Chick by warpedalignment
Rating: Teen
Ao3 warnings: Choose not to use archive warnings
Summary: Merlin has nightmares about another boy, far away, who needs help.
Speculation by warpedalignment
Rating: Teen
Ao3 warnings: No archive warnings apply
Summary: Gwaine and Merlin get drunk and make bets
Deep Wounds by warpedalignment
Rating: Teen
Ao3 warnings: No archive warnings apply
Summary: Arthur and Morgana have a long overdue discussion
Palms, Fingers, Nails, Again. by emrys-everlasting
Rating: Mature
Ao3 warnings: Graphic depictions of violence
Summary: In which we join Leon as he tries to remember where his sword has gone – and why his nails, his clothes, and his face are covered in drying blood and ichor.
Freya/Gwaine
What Happened In The Hot Tub by forever-rewatching-merlin
Rating: Mature
Ao3 warnings: No archive warnings apply
Summary: Missing scene from the fic “High Hopes & Slippery Slopes” by Saltedkiss. Just what were Freya and Gwaine getting up to in that hot tub before Arthur stormed in and oh so rudely interrupted them? 😉
Freya/Merlin
Bastet Blanket Battle by gremlinbehaviour
Rating: General audiences
Ao3 warnings: No archive warnings apply
Summary: Merlin is a blanket hog, Freya is cold, and the Bastet does something about it
Mordred/Morgana
Your Pain is My Pleasure by MerthurAllure
Rating: Explicit
Ao3 warnings: No archive warnings apply
Summary: Mordred’s mistress gives him what he deserves, which coincidentally is exactly what he wants.
Uther/Ygraine
Agravaine the Agravated by SandySins
Rating: Teen
Ao3 warnings: Graphic depictions of violence
Summary: The story of Agravaine and his petty villain story, trying and failing to take revenge on Uther.
Elyan/Gwaine/Percival
Show Praise With Your Body by UisceOneLove
Rating: Teen
Ao3 warnings: No archive warnings apply
Summary: Spring Break means a fun time clubbing. And Gwaine always gets what he wants.
The Blacksmith, the Rogue and the Stranger by donttouchtheneednoggle
Rating: Teen
Ao3 warnings: No archive warnings apply
Summary: One chance encounter and then another leads to a change in destiny for two wayward souls and one very confused farmer...
Merlin/Gwaine/Lancelot
Who's First by gremlinbehaviour
Rating: General audiences
Ao3 warnings: No archive warnings apply
Summary: Merlin, Gwaine, and Lancelot try to sneak back into their room after a midnight escapade, but Gaius catches them and rather forcibly tends to their injuries first
Merlin/Gwaine/Arthur
I See What You See by evaelisaa
Rating: Mature
Ao3 warnings: Choose not to use archive warnings
Summary: Arthur doesn’t like his soulmate. He doesn’t like them at all.
Every single time he sees flashes of what his soulmate is seeing at that moment, the person seems to be either getting naked, is already naked and/or is doing stuff to another human being Arthur couldn’t have even imagined in his wildest dreams. Well, either that, or they seem to be drinking mead, in a different tavern each time as well even.
Arthur/Elyan
Ready, Set, Win! by sam4587
Rating: General audiences
Ao3 warnings: No archive warnings apply
Summary: Elyan and Arthur are at Elyan’s football game.
Arthur/Gwaine
Sixty-Nine by @little-ligi
Rating: Explicit
Ao3 warnings: No archive warnings apply
Summary: Gwaine goes to the king's chamber to ask him a question about training, and ends up asking a very different one instead; does he want company?
Does what it says on the tin! 😉
Gwaine/Percival
Lay All Your Love On Me by UisceOneLove
Rating: Teen
Ao3 warnings: No archive warnings apply
Summary: Percival has found soulmate Gwaine in their new lives.
Merlin/Gwaine
Love and Pigeons by warpedalignment
Rating: General audiences
Ao3 warnings: No archive warnings apply
Summary: Gwaine wants to show Merlin something. Merlin is positive he does not want to see.
how you love by miofrommars
Rating: General audiences
Ao3 warnings: No archive warnings apply
Summary: Gwaine's love language is acts of service and gifts. Always has been. So when a beautiful stranger gets into his car mistaking him for his uber, he can't help but drive the pretty guy to his destination
Carrot Cake by warpedalignment
Rating: General audiences
Ao3 warnings: No archive warnings apply
Summary: Gwaine wakes up to an empty bed.
Ebb and Flow by forever-rewatching-merlin
Rating: Teen
Ao3 warnings: Major character death
Summary: Poetry, Gwaine POV, Angst, Pining, Self Esteem Issues
Merlin/Arthur
The Modern Age by warpedalignment
Rating: General audiences
Ao3 warnings: No archive warnings apply
Summary: Arthur is positive he knows what the noises are. He has been briefed by Merlin, after all.
Fireworks in our hearts by thebookluvrr1816
Rating: General audiences
Ao3 warnings: No archive warnings apply
Summary:
My Fire's Always With You by Dark_Angel23
Rating: General audiences
Ao3 warnings: Graphic depictions of violence
Summary: A playlist for the prompt 'Witch Hunt'. The songs tell a story of how a witch hunter comes to Camelot, and Merlin is captured and burnt on the pyre. Being immortal, he survives and later leaves Camelot. These songs try to portray his feelings and state of being, and well as Arthur's.
Moving Forward by Mischel
Rating: General audiences
Ao3 warnings: No archive warnings apply
Summary: It has been a year since Arthur found out about Merlin's magic, and today, he finally forgives him.
A Sofa by the Sea by RavenGirl42
Rating: General audiences
Ao3 warnings: No archive warnings apply
Summary: “I hate that stick. I don’t want to use it,” Arthur pouted.
“You’re adorable when you sulk, Arthur Pendragon. But if you use it, your new hip will heal more quickly and then you’ll be able to stop using it sooner. So just do as you’re told, for once.”
“I feel so old. I can’t believe I had to have a hip replacement.”
“I hate to be the one to tell you, but you’re in your seventies. You are old."
Merlin and Arthur are an old married couple who've retired to the seaside.
Agravaine + merthur by thebookluvrr1816
Rating: General audiences
Ao3 warnings: No archive warnings apply
Summary:
me and you [against the world] by OnceFutureEmrys
Rating: General audiences
Ao3 warnings: No archive warnings apply
Summary: He wanted to wake up to Merlin by his side every day. He wanted to hold him, he wanted to smell vanilla every morning.
And when he looked at him—groggy, with his hair stuck in many directions, his clothes ruffled and him with a tired smile—he never wanted to leave those moments.
And it wasn't just that, he never wanted to leave ever. He wanted to spend all his time with Merlin, he wanted to have picnic dates that turned into food fights and movie marathons that turned into make-out sessions and all their moments in between.
He wanted to forever hold onto these inside jokes and their laughs and their touches and their smiles and their looks; he wanted to bottle it up and keep it forever because Arthur never wanted to leave this.
He didn't know what he would do without this.
OR:
Arthur has been in many relationships before, but this one felt different. Right.
Especially when he realizes he's madly in love with him.
Please, Oh Please, This Role Is Suffocating by @the-ballad-of-deancas
Rating: Teen
Ao3 warnings: Choose not to use archive warnings
Summary: Merlin wants to scream his name at the skies, fold him into his arms and crush him to his chest but as he steps toward his destiny, the world falls away, inconsequential and unimportant until the only thing that remains is the fact that Arthur is here.
He is finally, irrevocably real and he is here.
OR:
Where Arthur returns and a lot has changed since he left but the one thing that hasn't, is their feelings toward each other. There are secrets left to uncover and identities left to discover even as a dangerous opponent looms over them. Will they manage it all; will they save themselves and Albion in time?
Exquisite by warpedalignment
Rating: Teen
Ao3 warnings: No archive warnings apply
Summary: Arthur is told categorically not to talk to the ambrosius' when they visit. This would be fine, if he could follow simple instructions.
The Dragon's Call by tehfanglyfish
Rating: Teen
Ao3 warnings: No archive warnings apply
Summary: “I need a dragon. Your biggest one.”
“I’m sorry?”
It had been a slow day at Ealdor Exotic Veterinary Clinic and Animal Rescue and Merlin Emrys wasn’t quite prepared for the suit-clad stranger who’d just thrown open the door and marched in, making demands without even an attempt at a greeting.
i’ve always dreamed of flying (and being with you) by ambrosius
Rating: Teen
Ao3 warnings: No archive warnings apply
Summary: When Merlin vanishes after exposing his magic, Arthur feels as if his whole world has been upended and he's never felt more alone. But when a little bird starts showing up everywhere he goes, Arthur thinks that maybe there is still some hope after all.
Something Wicked This Way Comes by UisceOneLove
Rating: Teen
Ao3 warnings: No archive warnings apply
Summary: It's Merlin, not Gwen, who Morgana takes to the Tower full of mandrakes.
I Won't Break Your Heart, If You Can Break My Spell by Mischel
Rating: Teen
Ao3 warnings: No archive warnings apply
Summary: Merlin is tired of waiting around for Arthur to finally accept the fact that Merlin is in love with him and do something about it. So, he takes matters into his own hands . . . and curses himself with a spell that can only be broken by a true love's kiss.
let it break ('cause you and I remain the same) by queerofthedagger
Rating: Teen
Ao3 warnings: No archive warnings apply
Summary: The magic was revealed, the shouting and explanations were done, and yet there remains one secret, one confession to be made. They always were easiest to declare in the light of a fire and only the forest bearing witness.
Gonna Rip it Off (Leave it Alone) by UisceOneLove
Rating: Teen
Ao3 warnings: No archive warnings apply
Summary: There is nothing Arthur hated more than Will's smug face when the bastard has beat them in a game.
I Can See The Stars In The Freckles On His Face by Dark_Angel23
Rating: Teen
Ao3 warnings: No archive warnings apply
Summary: Arthur is hungry. Merlin is late.
Couch Heaven by Mischel
Rating: Teen
Ao3 warnings: No archive warnings apply
Summary: Merlin and Arthur sit on a couch under one blanket, watching videos of them that Merlin had recorded on his phone. One of them is Arthur trying to eat ice cream for the first time in a really embarrassing way, but the other one is, to Arthur's surprise, actually really nice.
Across The Bar by TheCourtSorcerer (/ tcs-main)
Rating: Teen
Ao3 warnings: No archive warnings apply
Summary: Merlin & Arthur, old childhood friends, meet at a bar in the states after seven years of not seeing one another.
where the road takes us by TheCourtSorcerer
Rating: Teen
Ao3 warnings: No archive warnings apply
Summary: Merlin gets in a fight at school, and Hunith has to drive him to A&E. Arthur feels guilty.
a very special thing by TheCourtSorcerer
Rating: Teen
Ao3 warnings: No archive warnings apply
Summary: Looking for a resting place for the evening, on his way home to Camelot, Arthur stumbles across a handsome selkie named Merlin.
hold me like the night sky holds the moon by TheCourtSorcerer
Rating: Teen
Ao3 warnings: No archive warnings apply
Summary: Sometimes, it's overwhelming. Never a chance to be simply him, always a prince, always an heir, never a man, never a son. Sometimes, he just needs a break. A pause in time. Sometimes, he just needs to be held.
Wet N Wild by MerthurAllure
Rating: Explicit
Ao3 warnings: No archive warnings apply
Summary: Officer Emrys takes Arthur back to his flat where they continue their fun.
A Brooding Pendragon by MerthurAllure
Rating: Explicit
Ao3 warnings: Rape/non-con
Summary: In order for a dragon egg to grow and hatch, it needs to be incubated within someone with Pendragon blood.
That's How We Roll by @little-ligi
Rating: Explicit
Ao3 warnings: No archive warnings apply
Summary: It's games night, and that means a night of sexual tension and edging as they each try to be the last one standing.
Very sexually charged games and multiple pairings. Friends with group benefits... if you know what I mean... 😉
Steampunk AU – Reclist for Merlin Bingo by Clea2011
Rating: Explicit
Ao3 warnings: Choose not to use archive warnings
Summary: Rec list for Steampunk AU square and August bonus badge
#merlin bingo#round up#august#fills galore#more fills than there's been in months#i know i say it every month but wow#wow#wow wow wow
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2020 in Movies - My Top 30 Fave Movies (Part 2)
20. ONWARD – Disney and Pixar’s best digitally animated family feature of 2020 (beating the admittedly impressive Soul to the punch) clearly has a love of fantasy roleplay games like Dungeons & Dragons, its quirky modern-day AU take populated by fantastical races and creatures seemingly tailor-made for the geek crowd … needless to say, me and many of my friends absolutely loved it. That doesn’t mean that the classic Disney ideals of love, family and believing in yourself have been side-lined in favour of fan-service – this is as heartfelt, affecting and tearful as their previous standouts, albeit with plenty of literal magic added to the metaphorical kind. The central premise is a clever one – once upon a time, magic was commonplace, but over the years technology came along to make life easier, so that in the present day the various races (elves, centaurs, fauns, pixies, goblins and trolls among others) get along fine without it. Then timid elf Ian Lightfoot (Tom Holland) receives a wizard’s staff for his sixteenth birthday, a bequeathed gift from his father, who died before he was born, with instructions for a spell that could bring him back to life for one whole day. Encouraged by his brash, over-confident wannabe adventurer elder brother Barley (Chris Pratt), Ian tries it out, only for the spell to backfire, leaving them with the animated bottom half of their father and just 24 hours to find a means to restore the rest of him before time runs out. Cue an “epic quest” … needless to say, this is another top-notch offering from the original masters of the craft, a fun, affecting and thoroughly infectious family-friendly romp with a winning sense of humour and inspired, flawless world-building. Holland and Pratt are both fantastic, their instantly believable, ill-at-ease little/big brother chemistry effortlessly driving the story through its ingenious paces, and the ensuing emotional fireworks are hilarious and heart-breaking in equal measure, while there’s typically excellent support from Julia Louis-Dreyfus (Elaine from Seinfeld) as Ian and Barley’s put-upon but supportive mum, Laurel, Octavia Spencer as once-mighty adventurer-turned-restaurateur “Corey” the Manticore and Mel Rodriguez (Getting On, The Last Man On Earth) as overbearing centaur cop (and Laurel’s new boyfriend) Colt Bronco. The film marks the sophomore feature gig for Dan Scanlon, who debuted with 2013’s sequel Monsters University, and while that was enjoyable enough I ultimately found it non-essential – no such verdict can be levelled against THIS film, the writer-director delivering magnificently in all categories, while the animation team have outdone themselves in every scene, from the exquisite environments and character/creature designs to some fantastic (and frequently delightfully bonkers) set-pieces, while there’s a veritable riot of brilliant RPG in-jokes to delight geekier viewers (gelatinous cube! XD). Massive, unadulterated fun, frequently hilarious and absolutely BURSTING with Disney’s trademark heart, this was ALMOST my animated feature of the year. More on that later …
19. THE GENTLEMEN – Guy Ritchie’s been having a rough time with his last few movies (The Man From UNCLE didn’t do too bad but it wasn’t exactly a hit and was largely overlooked or simply ignored, while intended franchise-starter King Arthur: Legend of the Sword was largely derided and suffered badly on release, dying a quick death financially – it’s a shame on both counts, because I really liked them), so it’s nice to see him having some proper success with his latest, even if he has basically reverted to type to do it. Still, when his newest London gangster flick is THIS GOOD it seems churlish to quibble – this really is what he does best, bringing together a collection of colourful geezers and shaking up their status quo, then standing back and letting us enjoy the bloody, expletive-riddled results. This particularly motley crew is another winning selection, led by Matthew McConaughey as ruthlessly successful cannabis baron Mickey Pearson, who’s looking to retire from the game by selling off his massive and highly lucrative enterprise for a most tidy sum (some $400,000,000 to be precise) to up-and-coming fellow American ex-pat Matthew Berger (Succession’s Jeremy Strong, oozing sleazy charm), only for local Chinese triad Dry Eye (Crazy Rich Asians’ Henry Golding, chewing the scenery with enthusiasm) to start throwing spanners into the works with the intention of nabbing the deal for himself for a significant discount. Needless to say Mickey’s not about to let that happen … McConaughey is ON FIRE here, the best he’s been since Dallas Buyers Club in my opinion, clearly having great fun sinking his teeth into this rich character and Ritchie’s typically sparkling, razor-witted dialogue, and he’s ably supported by a quality ensemble cast, particularly co-star Charlie Hunnam as Mickey’s ice-cold, steel-nerved right-hand-man Raymond Smith, Downton Abbey’s Michelle Dockery as his classy, strong-willed wife Rosalind, Colin Farrell as a wise-cracking, quietly exasperated MMA trainer and small-time hood simply known as the Coach (who gets many of the film’s best lines), and, most notably, Hugh Grant as the film’s nominal narrator, thoroughly morally bankrupt private investigator Fletcher, who consistently steals the film. This is Guy Ritchie at his very best – a twisty rug-puller of a plot that constantly leaves you guessing, brilliantly observed and richly drawn characters you can’t help loving in spite of the fact there’s not a single hero among them, a deliciously unapologetic, politically incorrect sense of humour and a killer soundtrack. Getting the cinematic year off to a phenomenal start, it’s EASILY Ritchie’s best film since Sherlock Holmes, and a strong call-back to the heady days of Snatch (STILL my favourite) and Lock, Stock & Two Smoking Barrels. Here’s hoping he’s on a roll again, eh?
18. SPONTANEOUS – one of the year’s biggest under-the-radar surprise hits for me was one which I actually might not have caught if things had been a little more normal and ordered. Thankfully with all the lockdown and cinematic shutdown bollocks going on, this fantastically subversive and deeply satirical indie teen comedy horror came along at the perfect time, and I completely flipped out over it. Now those who know me know I don’t tend to gravitate towards teen cinema, but like all those other exceptions I’ve loved over the years, this one had a brilliantly compulsive hook I just couldn’t turn down – small-town high-schooler Mara (Knives Out and Netflix’ Cursed’s Katherine Langford) is your typical cool outsider kid, smart, snarky and just putting up with the scene until she can graduate and get as far away as possible … until one day in her senior year one of her classmates just inexplicably explodes. Like her peers, she’s shocked and she mourns, then starts to move on … until it happens again. As the death toll among the senior class begins to mount, it becomes clear something weird is going on, but Mara has other things on her mind because the crisis has, for her, had an unexpected benefit – without it she wouldn’t have fallen in love with like-minded oddball new kid Dylan (Lean On Pete and Words On Bathroom Walls’ Charlie Plummer). The future’s looking bright, but only if they can both live to see it … this is a wickedly intelligent film, powered by a skilfully executed script and a wonderfully likeable young cast who consistently steer their characters around the potential cliched pitfalls of this kind of cinema, while debuting writer-director Brian Duffield (already a rising star thanks to scripts for Underwater, The Babysitter and blacklist darling Jane Got a Gun among others) show he’s got as much talent and flair for crafting truly inspired cinema as he has for thinking it up in the first place, delivering some impressively offbeat set-pieces and several neat twists you frequently don’t see coming ahead of time. Langford and Plummer as a sassy, spicy pair who are easy to root for without ever getting cloying or sweet, while there’s glowing support from the likes of Hayley Law (Rioverdale, Altered Carbon, The New Romantic) as Mara’s best friend Tess, Piper Perabo and Transparent’s Rob Huebel as her increasingly concerned parents, and Insecure’s Yvonne Orji as Agent Rosetti, the beleaguered government employee sent to spearhead the investigation into exactly what’s happening to these kids. Quirky, offbeat and endlessly inventive, this is one of those interesting instances where I’m glad they pushed the horror elements into the background so we could concentrate on the comedy, but more importantly these wonderfully well-realised and vital characters – there are some skilfully executed shocks, but far more deep belly laughs, and there’s bucketloads of heart to eclipse the gore. Another winning debut from a talent I intend to watch with great interest in the future.
17. HAMILTON – arriving just as Black Lives Matter reached fever-pitch levels, this feature presentation of the runaway Broadway musical smash-hit could not have been better timed. Shot over three nights during the show’s 2016 run with the original cast and cut together with specially created “setup shots”, it’s an immersive experience that at once puts you right in amongst the audience (at times almost a character themselves, never seen but DEFINITELY heard) but also lets you experience the action up close. And what action – it’s an incredible show, a thoroughly fascinating piece of work that reads like something very staid and proper on paper (an all-encompassing biographical account of the life and times of American Founding Father Alexander Hamilton) but, in execution, becomes something very different and EXTREMELY vital. The execution certainly couldn’t be further from the usual period biopic fare this kind of historical subject matter usually gets (although in the face of recent high quality revisionist takes like Marie Antoinette, The Great and Tesla it’s not SO surprising), while the cast is not at all what you’d expect – with very few notable exceptions the cast is almost entirely people of colour, despite the fact that the real life individuals they’re playing were all very white indeed. Every single one of them is also an absolute revelation – the show’s writer-composer Lin-Manuel Miranda (already riding high on the success of In the Heights) carries the central role of Hamilton with effortless charm and raw star power, Leslie Odom Jr. (Smash, Murder On the Orient Express) is duplicitously complex as his constant nemesis Aaron Burr, Christopher Jackson (In the Heights, Moana, Bull) oozes integrity and nobility as his mentor and friend George Washington, Phillipa Soo is sweet and classy as his wife Eliza while Renée Elise Goldsberry (The Immortal Life of Henrietta Jacks, Altered Carbon) is fiery and statuesque as her sister Angelica Schuyler (the one who got away), and Jonathan Groff (Mindhunter) consistently steals every scene he’s in as fiendish yet childish fan favourite King George III, but the show (and the film) ultimately belongs to veritable powerhouse Daveed Diggs (Blindspotting, The Good Lord Bird) in a spectacular duel role, starting subtly but gaining scene-stealing momentum as French Revolutionary Gilbert du Motier, the Marquis de Lafayette, before EXPLODING onto the stage in the second half as indomitable third American President Thomas Jefferson. Not having seen the stage show, I was taken completely by surprise by this, revelling in its revisionist genius and offbeat, quirky hip-hop charm, spellbound by the skilful ease with which is takes the sometimes quite dull historical fact and skews it into something consistently entertaining and absorbing, transported by the catchy earworm musical numbers and thoroughly tickled by the delightfully cheeky sense of humour strung throughout (at least when I wasn’t having my heart broken by moments of raw dramatic power). Altogether it’s a pretty unique cinematic experience I wish I could have actually gotten to see on the big screen, and one I’ve consistently recommended to all my friends, even the ones who don’t usually like musicals. As far as I’m concerned it doesn’t need a proper Les Misérables style screen adaptation – this is about as perfect a presentation as the show could possibly hope for.
16. SPUTNIK – summer’s horror highlight (despite SERIOUSLY tough competition) was a guaranteed sleeper hit that I almost missed entirely, stumbling across the trailer one day on YouTube and getting bowled over by its potential, prompting me to hunt it down by any means necessary. The feature debut of Russian director Egor Abramenko, this first contact sci-fi chiller is about as far from E.T. as it’s possible to get, sharing some of the same DNA as Carpenter’s The Thing but proudly carving its own path with consummate skill and definitely signalling great things to come from its brand new helmer and relative unknown screenwriters Oleg Malovichko and Andrei Zolotarev. Oksana Akinshina (probably best known in the West for her powerful climactic cameo in The Bourne Supremacy) is the beating heart of the film as neurophysiologist Tatyana Yuryevna Klimova, brought in to aid in the investigation in the Russian wilderness circa 1983 after an orbital research mission goes horribly wrong. One of the cosmonauts dies horribly, while the other, Konstantin (The Duelist’s Pyotr Fyodorov) seems unharmed, but it quickly becomes clear that he’s now the host for something decidedly extraterrestrial and potentially terrifying, and as Tatyana becomes more deeply embroiled in her assignment she comes to realise that her superiors, particularly mysterious Red Army project leader Colonel Semiradov (The PyraMMMid’s Fyodor Bondarchuk), have far more insidious plans for Konstantin and his new “friend” than she could ever imagine. This is about as dark, intense and nightmarish as this particular sub-genre gets, a magnificently icky body horror that slowly builds its tension as we’re gradually exposed to the various truths and the awful gravity of the situation slowly reveals itself, punctuated by skilfully executed shocks and some particularly horrifying moments when the evils inflicted by the humans in charge prove far worse than anything the alien can do, while the ridiculously talented writers have a field day pulling the rug out from under us again and again, never going for the obvious twist and keeping us guessing right to the devastating ending, while the beautifully crafted digital creature effects are nothing short of astonishing and thoroughly creepy. Akinshina dominates the film with her unbridled grace, vulnerability and integrity, the relationship that develops between Tatyana and Konstantin (Fyodorov delivering a beautifully understated turn belying deep inner turmoil) feeling realistically earned as it goes from tentatively wary to tragically bittersweet, while Bondarchuk invests the Colonel with a nuanced air of tarnished authority and restrained brutality that made him one of my top screen villains for the year. One of 2020’s great sleeper hits, I can’t speak of this film highly enough – it’s a genuine revelation, an instant classic for whom I’ll sing its praises for years to come, and I wish enormous future success to all the creative talents involved.
15. THE INVISIBLE MAN – looks like third time’s a charm for Leigh Whannell, writer-director of my ALMOST horror movie of the year (more on that later) – while he’s had immense success as a horror writer over the years (co-creator of both the Saw and Insidious franchises), as a director his first two features haven’t exactly set the world alight, with debut Insidious: Chapter III garnering similar takes to the rest of the series but ultimately turning out to be a bit of a damp squib quality-wise, while his second feature Upgrade was a stone-cold masterpiece that was (rightly) EXTREMELY well received critically, but ultimately snuck in under the radar and has remained a stubbornly hidden gem since. No such problems with his third feature, though – his latest collaboration with producer Jason Blum and the insanely lucrative Blumhouse Pictures has proven a massive hit both financially AND with reviewers, and deservedly so. Having given up on trying to create a shared cinematic universe inhabited by their classic monsters, Universal resolved to concentrate on standalones to showcase their elite properties, and their first try is a rousing success, Whannell bringing HG Wells’ dark and devious human monster smack into the 21st Century as only he can. The result is a surprisingly subtle piece of work, much more a lethally precise exercise in cinematic sleight of hand and extraordinary acting than flashy visual effects, strictly adhering to the Blumhouse credo of maximum returns for minimum bucks as the story is stripped down to its bare essentials and allowed to play out without any unnecessary weight. The Handmaid’s Tale’s Elizabeth Moss once again confirms what a masterful actress she is as she brings all her performing weapons to bear in the role of Cecelia “Cee” Kass, the cloistered wife of affluent but monstrously abusive optics pioneer Aidan Griffin (Netflix’ The Haunting of Hill House’s Oliver Jackson-Cohen), who escapes his clutches in the furiously tense opening sequence and goes to ground with the help of her closest childhood friend, San Francisco cop James Lanier (Leverage’s Aldis Hodge) and his teenage daughter Sydney (A Wrinkle in Time’s Storm Reid). Two weeks later, Aidan commits suicide, leaving Cee with a fortune to start her life over (with the proviso that she’s never ruled mentally incompetent), but as she tries to find her way in the world again little things start going wrong for her, and she begins to question if there might be something insidious going on. As her nerves start to unravel, she begins to suspect that Aidan is still alive, still very much in her life, fiendishly toying with her and her friends, but no-one can see him. Whannell plays her paranoia up for all it’s worth, skilfully teasing out the scares so that, just like her friends, we begin to wonder if it might all be in her head after all, before a spectacular mid-movie reveal throws the switch into high gear and the true threat becomes clear. The lion’s share of the film’s immense success must of course go to Moss – her performance is BEYOND a revelation, a blistering career best that totally powers the whole enterprise, and it goes without saying that she’s the best thing in this. Even so, she has sterling support from Hodge and Reid, as well as Love Child’s Harriet Dyer as Cee’s estranged big sister Emily and Wonderland’s Michael Dorman as Adrian’s slimy, spineless lawyer brother Tom, and, while he doesn’t have much actual (ahem) “screen time”, Jackson-Cohen delivers a fantastically icy, subtly malevolent turn which casts a large “shadow” over the film. This is one of my very favourite Blumhouse films, a pitch-perfect psychological chiller that keeps the tension cranked up unbearably tight and never lets go, Whannell once again displaying uncanny skill with expert jump-scares, knuckle-whitening chills and a truly astounding standout set-piece that easily goes down as one of the top action sequences of 2020. Undoubtedly the best version of Wells’ story to date, this goes a long way in repairing the damage of Universal’s abortive “Dark Universe” efforts, as well as showcasing a filmmaking master at the very height of his talents.
14. EXTRACTION – the Coronavirus certainly has threw a massive spanner in the works of the year’s cinematic calendar – among many other casualties to the blockbuster shunt, the latest (and most long-awaited) MCU movie, Black Widow, should have opened to further record-breaking box office success at the end of spring, but instead the theatres were all closed and virtually all the heavyweights were pushed back or shelved indefinitely. Thank God, then, for the streaming services, particularly Hulu, Amazon and Netflix, the latter of which provided a perfect movie for us to see through the key transition into the summer blockbuster season, an explosively flashy big budget action thriller ushered in by MCU alumni the Russo Brothers (who produced and co-wrote this adaptation of Ciudad, a graphic novel that Joe Russo co-created with Ande Parks and Fernando Leon Gonzalez) and barely able to contain the sheer star-power wattage of its lead, Thor himself. Chris Hemsworth plays Tyler Rake, a former Australian SAS operative who hires out his services to an extraction operation under the command of mercenary Nik Khan (The Patience Stone’s Golshifteh Farahani), brought in to liberate Ovi Mahajan (Rudhraksh Jaiswal in his first major role), the pre-teen son of incarcerated Indian crime lord Ovi Sr. (Pankaj Tripathi), who has been abducted by Bangladeshi rival Amir Asif (Priyanshu Painyuli). The rescue itself goes perfectly, but when the time comes for the hand-off the team is double-crossed and Tyler is left stranded in the middle of Dhaka with no choice but to keep Ovi alive as every corrupt cop and street gang in the city closes in around them. This is the feature debut of Sam Hargrave, the latest stuntman to try his hand at directing, so he certainly knows his way around an action set-piece, and the result is a thoroughly breathless adrenaline rush of a film, bursting at the seams with spectacular fights, gun battles and car chases, dominated by a stunning sustained sequence that plays out in one long shot, guaranteed to leave jaws lying on the floor. Not that there should be any surprise – Hargrave cut his teeth as a stunt coordinator for the Russos on Captain America: Civil War and their Avengers films. That said, he displays strong talent for the quieter disciplines of filmmaking too, delivering quality character development and drawing out consistently noteworthy performances from his cast. Of course, Hemsworth can do the action stuff in his sleep, but there’s a lot more to Tyler than just his muscle, the MCU veteran investing him with real wounded vulnerability and a tragic fatalism which colours every scene, while Jaiswal is exceptional throughout, showing plenty of promise for the future, and there’s strong support from Farahani and Painyuli, as well as Stranger Things’ David Harbour as world-weary retired merc Gaspard, and a particularly impressive, muscular turn from Randeep Hooda (Once Upon a Time in Mumbai) as Saju, a former Para and Ovi’s bodyguard, who’s determined to take possession of the boy himself, even if he has to go through Tyler to get him. This is action cinema that really deserves to be seen on the big screen – I watched it twice in a week and would happily have paid for two trips to the cinema for it if I could have. As we looked down the barrel of a summer season largely devoid of blockbuster fare, I couldn’t recommend this enough. Thank the gods for Netflix …
13. THE TRIAL OF THE CHICAGO 7 – although it’s definitely a film that really benefitted enormously from releasing on Netflix during the various lockdowns, this was one of the blessed few I actually got to see during one of the UK’s frustratingly rare lulls when cinemas were actually OPEN. Rather perversely it therefore became one of my favourite cinematic experiences of 2020, but then I’m just as much a fan of well-made cerebral films as I am of the big, immersive blockbuster EXPERIENCES, so this probably still would have been a standout in a normal year. Certainly if this was a purely CRITICAL list for the year this probably would have placed high in the Top Ten … Aaron Sorkin is a writer whose work I have ardently admired ever since he went from esteemed playwright to in-demand talent for both the big screen AND the small with A Few Good Men, and TTOTC7 is just another in a long line of consistently impressive, flawlessly written works rife with addictive quickfire dialogue, beautifully observed characters and rewardingly propulsive narrative storytelling (therefore resting comfortably amongst the well-respected likes of The West Wing, Charlie Wilson’s War, Moneyball and The Social Network). It also marks his second feature as a director (after fascinating and incendiary debut Molly’s Game), and once again he’s gone for true story over fiction, tackling the still controversial subject of the infamous 1968 trial of the “ringleaders” of the infamous riots which marred Chicago’s Diplomatic National Convention five months earlier, in which thousands of hippies and college students protesting the Vietnam War clashed with police. Spurred on by the newly-instated Presidential Administration of Richard Nixon to make some examples, hungry up-and-coming prosecutor Richard Schultz (Joseph Gordon-Levitt) is confident in his case, while the Seven – who include respected and astute student activist Tom Hayden (Eddie Redmayne) and confrontational counterculture firebrands Abbie Hoffman (Sacha Baron Cohen) and Jerry Rubin (Succession’s Jeremy Strong) – are the clear underdogs. They’re a divided bunch (particularly Hayden and Hoffman, who never mince their words about what little regard they hold for each other), and they’re up against the combined might of the U.S. Government, while all they have on their side is pro-bono lawyer and civil rights activist William Kunstler (Mark Rylance), who’s sharp, driven and thoroughly committed to the cause but clearly massively outmatched … not to mention the fact that the judge presiding over the case is Julius Hoffman (Frank Langella), a fierce and uncompromising conservative who’s clearly 100% on the Administration’s side, and who might in fact be stark raving mad (he also frequently goes to great lengths to make it clear to all concerned that he is NOT related to Abbie). Much as we’ve come to expect from Sorkin, this is cinema of grand ideals and strong characters, not big spectacle and hard action, and all the better for it – he’s proved time and again that he’s one of the very best creative minds in Hollywood when it comes to intelligent, thought-provoking and engrossing thinking-man’s entertainment, and this is pure par for the course, keeping us glued to the screen from the skilfully-executed whirlwind introductory montage to the powerfully cathartic climax, and every varied and brilliant scene in-between. This is heady stuff, focusing on what’s still an extremely thorny issue made all the more urgently relevant and timely given what was (and still is) going on in American politics at the time, and everyone involved here was clearly fully committed to making the film as palpable, powerful and resonant as possible for the viewer, no matter their nationality or political inclination. Also typical for a Sorkin film, the cast are exceptional, everyone clearly having the wildest time getting their teeth into their finely-drawn characters and that magnificent dialogue – Redmayne and Baron Cohen are compellingly complimentary intellectual antagonists given their radically different approaches and their roles’ polar opposite energies, while Rylance delivers another pitch-perfect, simply ASTOUNDING performance that once again marks him as one of the very best actors of his generation, and there are particularly meaty turns from Strong, Langella, Aquaman’s Yahya Abdul-Mateen II (as besieged Black Panther Bobby Seale) and a potent late appearance from Michael Keaton that sear themselves into the memory long after viewing. Altogether then, this is a phenomenal film which deserves to be seen no matter the format, a thought-provoking and undeniably IMPORTANT masterwork from a master cinematic storyteller that says as much about the world we live in now as the decidedly turbulent times it portrays …
12. GREYHOUND – when the cinemas closed back in March, the fate of many of the major summer blockbusters we’d been looking forward to was thrown into terrible doubt. Some were pushed back to more amenable dates in the autumn or winter (which even then ultimately proved frustratingly ambitious), others knocked back a whole year to fill summer slots for 2021, but more than a few simply dropped off the radar entirely with the terrible words “postponed until further notice” stamped on them, and I lamented them all, this one in particular. It hung in there longer than some, stubbornly holding onto its June release slot for as long as possible, but eventually it gave up the ghost too … but thanks to Apple TV+, not for long, ultimately releasing less than a month later than intended. Thankfully the film itself was worth the fuss, a taut World War II suspense thriller that’s all killer, no filler – set during the infamous Battle of the Atlantic, it portrays the constant life-or-death struggle faced by the Allied warships assigned to escort the transport convoys as they crossed the ocean, defending their charges from German U-boats. Adapted from C.S. Forester’s famous 1955 novel The Good Shepherd by Tom Hanks and directed by Aaron Schneider (Get Low), the narrative focuses on the crew of the escort leader, American destroyer USS Fletcher, codenamed “Greyhound”, and in particular its captain, Commander Ernest Krause (Hanks), a career sailor serving his first command. As they cross “the Pit”, the most dangerous middle stretch of the journey where they spend days without air-cover, they find themselves shadowed by “the Wolf Pack”, a particularly cunning group of German submarines that begin to pick away at the convoy’s stragglers. Faced with daunting odds, a dwindling supply of vital depth-charges and a ruthless, persistent enemy, Krause must make hard choices to bring his ships home safe … jumping into the thick of the action within the first ten minutes and maintaining its tension for the remainder of the trim 90-minute run, this is screen suspense par excellence, a sleek textbook example of how to craft a compelling big screen knuckle-whitener with zero fat and maximum reward, delivering a series of desperate naval scraps packed with hide-and-seek intensity, heart-in-mouth near-misses and fist-in-air cathartic payoffs by the bucket-load. Hanks is subtly magnificent, the calm centre of the narrative storm as a supposed newcomer to this battle arena who could have been BORN for it, bringing to mind his similarly unflappable in Captain Phillips and certainly not suffering by comparison; by and large he’s the focus point, but other crew members make strong (if sometimes quite brief) impressions, particularly Stephen Graham as Krause’s reliably seasoned XO, Lt. Commander Charlie Cole, The Magnificent Seven’s Manuel Garcia-Rulfo and Just Mercy’s Rob Morgan, while Elisabeth Shue does a lot with a very small part in brief flashbacks as Krause’s fiancée Evelyn. Relentless, exhilarating and thoroughly unforgettable, this was one of the true action highlights of the summer, and one hell of a war flick. I’m so glad it made the cut for the summer …
11. PROJECT POWER – with Marvel and DC pushing their tent-pole titles back in the face of COVID, the usual superhero antics we’ve come to expect for the summer were pretty thin on the ground in 2020, leading us to find our geeky fan thrills elsewhere. Unfortunately, pickings were frustratingly slim – Korean comic book actioner Gundala was entertaining but workmanlike, while Thor AU Mortal was underwhelming despite strong direction from Troll Hunter’s André Øvredal, and The New Mutants just got shat on by the studio and its distributors and no mistake – thank the Gods, then, for Netflix, once again riding to the rescue with this enjoyably offbeat super-thriller, which takes an intriguing central premise and really runs with it. New designer drug Power has hit the streets of New Orleans, able to give anyone who takes it a superpower for five minutes … the only problem is, until you try it, you don’t know what your own unique talent is – for some, it could mean five minutes of invisibility, or insane levels of super-strength, but other powers can be potentially lethal, the really unlucky buggers just blowing up on the spot. Robin (The Hate U Give’s Dominique Fishback) is a teenage Power-pusher with dreams of becoming a rap star, dealing the pills so she can help her diabetic mum; Frank Shaver (Joseph Gordon-Levitt) is one of her customers, a police detective who uses his power of near invulnerability to even the playing field when supercharged crims cause a disturbance. Their lives are turned upside down when Art (Jamie Foxx) arrives in town – he’s a seriously badass ex-soldier determined to hunt down the source of Power by any means necessary, and he’s not above tearing the Big Easy apart to do it. This is a fun, gleefully infectious rollercoaster that doesn’t take itself too seriously, revelling in the anarchic potential of its premise and crafting some suitably OTT effects-driven chaos brought to pleasingly visceral fruition by its skilfully inventive director, Ariel Schulman (Catfish, Nerve, Viral), while Mattson Tomlin (the screenwriter of the DCEU’s oft-delayed, incendiary headline act The Batman) takes the story in some very interesting directions and poses fascinating questions about what Power’s TRULY capable of. Gordon-Levitt and Fishback are both brilliant, the latter particularly impressing in what’s sure to be a major breakthrough role for her, and the friendship their characters share is pretty adorable, while Foxx really is a force to be reckoned with, pretty chill even when he’s in deep shit but fully capable of turning into a bona fide killing machine at the flip of a switch, and there’s strong support from Westworld’s Rodrigo Santoro as Biggie, Power’s delightfully oily kingpin, Courtney B. Vance as Frank’s by-the-book superior, Captain Crane, Amy Landecker as Gardner, the morally bankrupt CIA spook responsible for the drug’s production, and Machine Gun Kelly as Newt, a Power dealer whose pyrotechnic “gift” really isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Exciting, inventive, frequently amusing and infectiously likeable, this was some of the most uncomplicated cinematic fun I had all summer. Not bad for something which I’m sure was originally destined to become one of the season’s B-list features …
#onward#onward movie#The Gentlemen#spontaneous#spontaneous movie#hamilton#hamilton movie#sputnik#sputnik movie#The Invisible Man#Extraction#extraction movie#the trial of the chicago 7#greyhound#greyhound movie#project power#2020 in movies
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Meeting Kal - Henry Cavill x Reader
Depression hit me hard today. I thought I wasn’t going to be able to write anything, but when I put my fingers to the keys, this came out! It’s based partially on a suggestion offered by a friend and partially on actual events that happened, lol! Hope you enjoy! Not sure if this counts as a drabble because of how long it is 😬Either way, I hope you like all the fluff because there is so much of it!!!
Word Count: 1,452
CW: FLUFF
@henryslilprincess @mitzwinchester @maeleeme @andyrazzledazzle @oddsnendsfanfics @henrycavillluv32 @jhenno2002 @xceafh @severuined @queenslandlover-93 @thummbelina @chamomilebottom @fanfictionaddiction99 @deep-in-my-thoughts13
You were nervous as you set the test on the side of the sink. Because it would be a few minutes before you knew anything, you turn your attention to random things around the house. After less than two minutes, you had nothing to do, so you impatiently sat on the edge of your bed, waiting. Your husband, Henry, finds you sitting there. Silently, he sits down next to you, taking your hand in his. You sit like that for the rest of the time, your fingers intertwined with your husbands, waiting for the results.
The alarm on your phone went off after five minutes and you just sit there. Henry is the first to move, but when he realizes you aren’t getting up, he pauses. Finally, you get up and slowly step into the bathroom. Without a word, you pick up the featherlight piece of plastic and you gasp. You turn to Henry, tears in your eyes, and show him the little window that clearly displays two pink lines. In one motion, your husband picks you up, burying his face in the crook of your neck.
“We’re going to have a baby,” he whispers when he sets you down. He’s smiling down at you with tears in his eyes and you smile back at him. From then on, it was everything that was to be expected with a change like this. You were not prepared for the morning sickness, but Henry did everything he could to help. He rubbed your feet and ankles as they began to swell. Henry helped his mom plan the baby shower where you received more sweet little girl clothes than you’ll ever know what to do with. He even made middle of the night store runs to keep up with all of your cravings, including the saltiest french fries with the largest chocolate milkshake someone would offer. He watched in complete horror as you dipped fry after fry into the frothy drink.
His family was there with you through the whole thing. Being in London and away from your own family, his mother made every effort to make you feel cared for when Henry couldn’t be there. He planned on taking time off once your little nugget was born, but before then, he had obligations that needed to be met. When your own mother was able to make it across the pond, she helped you get ready for the newborn. She took care of cooking and cleaning while you made a human.
Within seven months, you were large and in charge. Everyone, including Kal, knew to stay out of your way when you were up and moving, which wasn’t often. At five months, your doctor recommended lengthy bed rest to protect you and the baby. You oblige, but on occasion, you needed to be up. So when you were moving about, Kal was at your side. He understood early on that something was different with you - something important. He took notice of the way Henry treated you and adapted his behavior accordingly. No longer did he jump on you when you came home or when you were up and moving. If you were laying down, he was either nearby or directly next to you, one paw gently resting on an arm or a leg. Eventually, it was as if he refused to let you out of his sight.
Late one evening in the final stages of your pregnancy, you were lounging in bed. Your back was beginning to hurt quite a bit. You knew that meant something, but you couldn’t quite remember - pregnancy brain was real and it sucked. One thing you knew was that Kal was getting on your last nerve. He paced the floor beside your bed and every third pass, he stopped to sniff the air.
“Kal,” you moaned. “You’re making me nauseous,” you complain. Henry comes into the room, glaring disapprovingly at his Akita.
“Come on, Kal,” Henry murmurs. Kal, still pacing, pauses to take another sniff of the air. Then he sits down and places his head on the side of the bed, his eyes on your belly with a loud sigh. Henry huffs and steps into the room, reaching for Kal, but you stop him.
“Henry, it’s time,” you say firmly. At first he’s confused, but realization quickly follows as Henry jumps to action. Kal moves out of the way when you swing your legs over the edge of the bed, but is right next to you as you waddle out of the bedroom and down the stairs. Henry’s assistant is there and she corral’s Kal in the kitchen so you and Henry can make a clean getaway for the hospital.
Eight hours of intense labor later, you finally get to meet your little girl. She’s seven pounds and eight ounces of the purest beauty you’ve ever seen. When Henry holds her for the first time, you weep openly and he does as well. The next morning, you are released. Colin pushes you in the wheelchair to the entrance, where Henry is waiting. Nervously, he watches as you place your little girl in the car seat he installed in the days before. Then you climb into the passenger seat and hold your husbands hand the entire time back to the house.
“Hen, you go get Kal, make sure he’s stable. I’ll get her,” you explain to your husband. He smiles and nods, then clambers out and jogs into the house ahead of you. With a giant smile, you unhook the car seat. Holding her as steady as possible, you slowly walk into the house. There is Henry, sitting on the stairs with Kal between his legs. You smile at the both of them. Kal nervously shifts, but Henry’s got a firm grip on his shoulders.
“Kal,” he says with warning in his tone. You walk up to them, flipping the car seat around so Kal can look directly at the little baby. “This is Amelia,” Henry murmurs in the perked up ear of his hound. “You’re going to be good to her,” he says, giving Kal the slightest bit of leniency. Kal leans forward, loudly sniffing the little bundle. It’s enough to startle Amelia and she shifts, grumbling at the large black face pushing at her legs. Henry immediately pulls back on Kal, looking up at you with a questioning expression. Kal, in turn, grumbles his own protest, looking intently at Amelia.
“Let’s give him another chance,” you tell him. “Kal,” you say sternly to the hound. Kal looks up at you expectantly, then down at Amelia. “Behave,” you declare. As if he understands, Kal leans in and quietly takes inventory of what he can get his large nose on. Amelia patiently takes his inquiry until she’s had enough. With a loud cry, she makes herself clear. Kal jumps back into Henry, grumbling at the loud, tiny little girl. You and Henry chuckle. Henry rubs Kal’s shoulders while you turn and walk into the other room with Amelia. “I’m going to try and feed her. She’s probably hungry,” you call out over her wails. As you remove her squirming body from the car seat, Kal trots into the room with Henry hot on his heels.
“I tried to get him to go outside, but he won’t go,” he states, exasperated. The two of you watch as Kal paces around you, sniffing the air, and watching the little girl in your arms. When he realizes that your attentions are completely on her and not him, he pauses. Then, without a sound, Kal walks himself to the corner of the room and sits down, facing the wall. You and Henry watch him for a moment.
“Kal?” Henry says. The hound doesn’t do anything, just continues to face the corner. “Kal,” he says again with a little more determination. This time Kal responds by looking over his shoulder. The betrayal is completely clear on his face before he turns back to the corner. Henry raises his eyebrows and looks over at you, his mouth opened slightly. Amelia makes a crying sound as you attempt to shift her from one boob to the other. Kal’s head whips around and he stares pointedly at you.
“Oh my god, Kal,” you chuckle. The dog huffs then turns back to the wall. Henry laughs out loud, unable to resist taking a picture of his hound. The image and summary of his Akita’s behavior make it onto Instagram. Later, Henry will repeatedly tell the story of how Kal was jealous of baby Amelia Cavill. That jealousy didn’t last long, though, and Henry had even more tales about his wild-child daughter and her adventures with her best friend, Kal.
#henry cavill#henry cavill fanfic#henry cavill one shot#one shot#fanfic#fan fiction#writing#kal#american akita#henrycavillxreader#henrycavillxfemmereader#female reader#femme reader#meowpurrbookswriting
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If Only She Knew - 4/? | westallen fanfiction
A/N: Who wondered if I’d ever write again? *raises hand* Hopefully this is a sign of more fics to come (and sooner rather than later!). Enjoy.
Commissioned by @andromidagalaxie
*Many thanks to @valeriemperez for beta’ing.
...
Chapter 4 -
By the time they reached the beach, Barry had sunk inside himself so deep he didn’t even register Joe and Iris’ exclamations of the beautiful sunset taking over the sky.
“What do you think, Bear?” Joe asked, then frowned when there was no answer. “Bear?”
Iris hid a tiny smirk.
“What?” Barry lifted his head, eyes wide as he turned to look at Joe.
“The sunset,” he repeated. “Isn’t it beautiful?”
“Hmm? Yeah.” He looked toward the sky. “Yep. It’s very…pretty.”
For the first time, it appeared Joe was suspicious. He didn’t ask Barry if everything was all right, but Barry could feel the question radiating off of him in waves. He smiled a little too wide in an attempt to convince him he was fine.
“You can see the reflection in the lake,” Barry pointed out, which seemed to take the heat off him.
Joe looked back at the view before them and nodded.
“Are you two going swimming tomorrow?”
For the first time since Iris trudged on ahead of him, Barry made an effort to meet her eyes. She was standing on the other side of Joe and showing a faint amusement at the interaction between her father and her best friend. They were still best friends, right?
“If Barry wants to,” she said with a shrug.
His jaw dropped, but Joe was back to being oblivious since he wasn’t looking at him.
“Why wouldn’t he want to?” Joe asked his daughter.
Iris barely hid back a grin.
“The water’s cold.”
Joe rolled his eyes.
“Bartholomew Henry Allen, have you been complaining about the cold water again?” He turned to face a further paling Barry Allen. “You do this every year, and every year when you’re in for more than five minutes you’re warmed up.”
“I have not been-”
“Oh, please,” Iris interjected. “It was all you could talk about when we came down to the beach earlier.”
Yeah. Because I was trying my hardest not to get a boner in front of you, he thought to himself.
“Barry,” Joe scolded.
He scoffed, feeling defensive.
“She made me walk through it for way more than five minutes, and I-”
“What, six?” Iris fumed, her playful tone gone. “Did your poor toes come out as icicles or were they perfectly fine when we got back to our shoes?”
“If we had just gone up to the road, we wouldn’t have had to go through the water on our way back.”
“I told you,” she ground out. “The road is all gravel! We would’ve gotten our feet all cut up.”
“Actually, it’s not.”
Iris huffed. “What are you talking about?”
“Tell her, Joe,” Barry ordered.
Joe was so startled by the fight that had just broken out – a fight that clearly wasn’t about cold water – that he did as he was told.
“They paved it earlier this year, sweetheart,” he said, and Iris unraveled.
“They… They did?”
He nodded hesitantly.
“See!” Barry spat.
Joe gave him a warning look, but it was ignored.
“Well, why didn’t you tell me that?” Iris demanded. “If you knew, why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because you wanted to walk through the water!” Barry burst.
That silenced her. Joe smiled approvingly, knowingly, at the boy to his left.
Barry looked away from her, worrying he’d said too much. In the end though, he said a little bit more, despite himself.
“If Iris wants to go swimming tomorrow, of course I will go with her.”
Joe’s heart swelled with pride as Barry kept his eyes on the water hitting the wet sand on the beach.
Under any other circumstances, Iris would’ve pointed out that she was right there and he didn’t need to talk about her as if she wasn’t. But he knew she could already see the blush creeping up his neck and, by her silence, probably didn’t want to embarrass him further.
Thank God, Barry thought.
“I’ll come down with you two,” Joe finally said, and now Iris’ eyes widened, as if the idea was the most horrifying one she’d ever heard. Luckily for her, Joe didn’t face his daughter until after she’d morphed her expression into curious surprise.
“I don’t know how much I’ll be swimming,” he continued. “But I’ve brought a good book, and I’ll help you guys make sandcastles after lunch. Sound like a deal?”
“A great one,” Iris said, fully recovered.
Barry reluctantly made eye contact with Iris after they’d drifted away from Joe. Her genuine smile made the butterflies erupt inside him again, and he knew he was going on that reckless adventure with her no matter how much he resisted.
The colors in the sky now simmering out to a dark blue, Joe announced they should head back to the campsite for smores and stories before bed.
On the way back, Iris sidled up beside Barry and looped her arm through his.
“Did that mean what I think it means?” she asked in a hushed whisper with Joe several steps ahead.
Her happiness was contagious, so his strained sigh didn’t do much to squelch it from either of them.
That I like you? That I’m in love with you? That when all is said and done, I’d do anything to make you happy, even go behind your dad’s back?
“Probably.”
“Oh, Barry, you’re the best!” She laid her head on his shoulder, then skipped a little as they walked, awkwardly dragging him along with her. “It’s going to be the best time. I just know it.”
He laughed.
“If you say so…”
“It will,” she said. “And we’ll be safe. No jumping off cliffs or anything like that.”
His laugh turned pained.
“Just hiking?”
“Just hiking.” She beamed.
“But what about the swimming?” he asked, frowning. “We just told Joe-”
“Oh, we won’t do the hike tomorrow. We’ll save it for Friday. Then we can take a dip in the lake right before we drive into town to eat and enjoy live music at Mama Bear’s Diner.”
She giggled, sending his heart into overdrive.
“Right.”
“You’ll be fine,” she assured him, smoothing her hand down the arm she was clutching.
“I’m not the one I’m worried about,” he said in return.
“I’ll be fine, too,” she said.
“You’re sure?” he asked, stopping for a moment to meet her eyes.
She smiled and held up her pinky for him to twist his around.
“Pinky swear.”
…
Their campsite was dark and empty when they returned. As expected, Joe quickly handed them each a flashlight and lit a burning lamp for himself as he proceeded to get a fire going.
“Why don’t you get into some more comfortable clothes? Barry, you can change in my tent.”
Joe didn’t say it as a command. He never did. But still Barry was relieved to get some distance from Iris for something as private as changing clothes. Tomorrow morning, he’d probably have to go change in the bathroom, especially since he’d practically be crouching even in the larger tent. He was almost as tall as Joe now.
Iris was agreeable to the arrangement as well, so there was no trouble in that corner either.
“It’s going to be cold tonight, you two. Dress warmly.”
The image of Iris snuggling up to him in the middle of the night set Barry on fire. He worked hard to erase the image.
“Okay,” he said instead, and Iris mumbled the same.
Ten minutes later the two emerged from their prospective tents in sweats and long-sleeved shirts. Iris was still shivering when she came to sit in one of the camp chairs, so Barry quick returned to the truck for one of his sweatshirts.
“You want to wear my hoodie, Iris?”
Iris turned to look at him holding the garment out to her, all hesitant and shy but determined. Her eyes lit up, and she reached for it.
“Thank you, Barry.”
He gulped and forced a smile.
“No problem.”
There was a moment. Barry could’ve sworn there was a moment between them. But before he could analyze it further, Joe interrupted.
“All right, who’s ready for s’mores?” he asked, beaming as the roaring fire blazed before them.
Iris was riveted, and Barry had to admit, so was he.
“Me!” she said, immediately snapping out of the so-called moment she’d been sharing with Barry. “Me! Me! Me! Me!”
Joe chuckled as he handed her a stick – and she chose another one.
“What about you, Barry?” he asked, turning to the gangly creature watching his daughter with amusement and fascination.
“Yeah, sure,” he said, and took the offered stick.
Five minutes later, they were all roasting their marshmallows and squeezing them out between chocolate bar and graham cracker.
“Mmm, these are so good,” Iris said, enthralled.
“Mhmm,” Barry agreed, licking his lips, but he wasn’t immune to the giggle that slipped out of Iris beside him. “What?” he asked, a goofy grin on his face.
“You just… You got…” She pointed to the corner of her lips. “On your…”
He tried to reach it with his tongue, but he was just shy of it every time.
She laughed again.
“Here. Let me.”
She stood up and went over to him, leaning down as she rubbed her thumb over the corner of her lips and then sucked the marshmallow off her skin.
“Mmm. Tasty.”
Barry could feel his heart pounding away in his chest. His ears and cheeks and neck were on fire. He was so grateful she couldn’t see in this light, because he didn’t know how he would explain himself.
“Iris,” Joe scolded, making her turn her head to look at him, some of her flowing locks brushing against Barry’s neck in the process and nearly unraveling him.
“What?”
“A napkin would suffice just fine next time.”
Iris rolled her eyes and stood all the way up, dramatically strutting across the campsite till she reached the pile of napkins miraculously not blowing away in the slight breeze.
“Here you go, Barry,” she said, handing him one.
He gulped again as she passed him to return to her seat.
“Thanks,” he muttered, making no effort to wipe wear her thumb had been and instead running the napkin along the other side of his mouth to hopefully make it convincing to Joe who likely couldn’t tell the difference in the dark.
“You are welcome,” Iris said, crossing one knee over the other and snuggling into his hoodie.
She raised her eyebrows at her dad, daring him to utter another word on the subject. There was a hint of a glare in Joe’s eyes, but then he just shook his head and pulled his stick from the fire. Due to his attention on his daughter’s scandalous activity, he’d nearly forgotten about it, and now his marshmallow was burnt to a crisp. He frowned and threw it into the fire before grabbing another marshmallow from the bag.
“Do you want me to toast it for you, Joe?” Barry asked.
“No, Barry. I think I can manage toasting my own marshmallow, thank you very much.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” Iris muttered on her side of the fire, and despite the slight tension between the three of them, they all laughed, and the mood shifted to as sweet as the treats they were consuming.
The night continued in a happy manner, everyone sharing memories from previous camping trips and what Barry and Iris were looking forward to in the upcoming school year.
“I don’t really want to talk about that,” Iris said, licking her lips successfully of the remnants of her s’more.
“Since when does my daughter not want to talk about school?”
“I second that,” Barry said, comfortable in his element now. “You can’t wait to talk about school usually. The classes, friends, outfits you’ll wear on important days.” He rolled his eyes with a smirk.
“Hey, outfits are important!” Iris yelled back, laughing as she did.
Barry laughed too. “Then why don’t you want to talk about it?”
The laughter subsided slowly, and the boys waited for her response.
“Because it’s our camping trip. Out here…we’re away from everything else, and we’re just us.” She met Barry’s eyes. “I don’t want to think about anything else.”
Barry caught his breath in his throat, Joe a distant thought from his mind. He couldn’t think of anything to say, but he felt hot. And breathless. And like he really, really wanted to kiss her.
“Fair enough,” Joe said, taking a swig of water after he finished his final s’more. “I’m getting tired anyway. You two ready for sleep?”
“Yep,” Barry said, still fighting the urge to keep looking at Iris even after his gaze had been torn away to Joe moments earlier.
“I guess,” Iris said on a sigh.
“More fun tomorrow, Iris,” Joe said, and she smiled sweetly at her dad.
Joe put out the fire, blew out the burning lamp, and made his way to his tent. Now it was just Barry and Iris and their flashlights, sitting near the embers floating away into the starry sky.
“Well. Shall we go to bed, Barry?” Iris asked.
And was it his imagination, or was her voice husky?
“Yeah,” he said very seriously, and he could sense her pout from the two feet away she was from him.
“Well, let’s go then,” she said, stretching into a stand, folding up her chair and setting it against the picnic table in the middle of the site.
Then, she returned to Barry and held her hand out to him.
“Coming with me?”
...
*Also posted on AO3 and FFnet.
#westallen#fanfiction#backtothestart02 fanfiction#westallen fanfiction#if only she knew#chapter 4#for andromidagalaxie
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CS Father’s Day OS - “Of Love and Fathers”
Rating: G
Summary: A very fluffy Father’s Day one shot featuring Killian’s first Father’s Day!
Read on ao3 here
//
As usual, Killian woke at the crack of dawn and was at Hope’s side the second she stirred awake. Emma was sure he spent hours watching Hope sleep, hopelessly wrapped around her finger. If it was up to Killian, he wouldn’t spend a second apart from his baby girl. He could watch her curious blue eyes take in the world around her for the rest of his life and never tire of it.
In her nightstand, Emma has Killian’s first Father’s Day card right under the gift-wrapped box containing her gift to him. She and Mary Margret had a few - okay a lot - of laughs while attempting to shop for both Killian and her dad. The thought of buying Captain Hook, the pirate captain from the enchanted forest who spent much of his life in Neverland, a set of power tools nearly killed them. Really, purchasing them for him might have resulted in Killian killing himself. David, on the other hand, had taken up a few too many DIY projects around the farm. And as cliche as it is, Emma thought she’d get him some kinda power tool set thing. Honestly, she got him exactly what he had asked for because really what did Emma and Mary Margret know about power tools other than that David used them and that sometimes (read: often) they were loud. All this to say that Killian’s gift took a much longer time to figure out. Emma’s lucky it was ready in time for today.
Once soft sounds of a fussy baby start seeping through the baby monitor, Emma hears Killian’s gentle coos. “Good morning my little love.”
Emma giggles right along with Hope. Hearing the fearsome pirate captain coo to a baby in the sweetest voice imaginable still made her laugh a little. Slipping out of bed, she grabs her robe from the closet and makes her way to her husband and their daughter. Killian is leaning over the crib, tickling Hope’s belly telling her over and over again how pretty she is while she laughs at the ridiculous faces he’s making.
-------------
Nearly a year ago Emma was feeling particularly miserable to the point that Killian, at times, wanted to stab himself with his own hook just to stop her from screaming at him for just about everything. If she wasn’t testing his patience, she was throwing up or crying which hurt him in an entirely different way.
After a particularly grueling morning, Emma took the day off from work. In the quiet solitude of an empty house, her mind was clear enough to recognize what might be going on which, of course, led to more crying. Because they hadn’t talked about this. Because she wasn’t sure they were ready. Because she wanted this so desperately. Because part of her knew that in their conversations about the future, the unspoken meaning of “we” was “us and our children.”
So she took a test. And it was positive. And it took every fiber of being to not run down to the station and shower Killian in a million and more kisses.
When Killian got home that night, Emma was waiting for him in the living room with a pale yellow gift bag which might have confused him if he wasn’t so happy to see her smiling at him.
“Are you feeling better, love?”
“Much better,” Emma said, handing him the bag. “I have a surprise for you.”
Killian kissed her cheek as he took the bag from her. He pulled out a small white onesie with a blue anchor on it and read the text out loud. “Daddy’s little sailor?” He asked. Then it hit him and his eyes met hers. “Swan are you pregnant?” Killian asked softly, his voice barely a whisper as tears pooled in his eyes.
Emma nodded. “We’re having a baby.”
Killian swept her up in his arms, careful not to hurt her with his hook, and spun her around. When her feet touched the floor again he kissed her. She could taste his tears against his lips. His hand was still clutching the small item of clothing. “We’re having a baby,” Killian repeated. “I’m going to be a Papa.”
----------
“A shilling for your thoughts, love?” Killian’s voice pulls her out of her thoughts. He was cradling Hope, who was clutching Killian’s hook with her tiny hands, in his arms.
“I was just thinking about how wonderful you are with her.”
Killian grins, dipping his head to press his lips against Hope’s temple. “I never thought it was possible to love someone this much.” Hope’s wide eyes watch the way the morning sunshine dances on the shiny silver of Killian’s hook that now dons a rubber pink protector to keep Hope from hurting herself on the end of it.
Emma wraps her arms around his waist from behind, resting her cheek against the back of his shoulder. “Happy Father’s Day, Killian.”
Killian is genuinely confused. “Happy what?”
“Father’s Day.”
“Are you making up holidays now, Swan?”
Emma released him from her arms and moved to step in front of him to figure out if he’s joking with her or not. He’s not. “Have you never heard of Father’s Day?”
“No.” Killian sighs. “I never had a father worth celebrating.”
Emma tries to remember celebrating in years past but the first few Father’s Days here she spent alone with Mary Margret and David and when Killian came into her life he’d cover for them at the station so they can spend the day together. This time, a new deputy was covering so that Killian could enjoy the day as well.
“Well,” Emma starts, “remember when we celebrated Mother’s Day? This day is yours, babe. You’re a wonderful father and we love you so much.” Emma turns to Hope, tickling her belly. “Isn’t that right Hope? We love Daddy very much.” Hope giggles in response, causing Killian to smile.
“Daddy loves you too my little starfish.”
Emma kisses him softly. “We’re heading to my parents for a barbecue around 3 but the whole morning is yours. We can do whatever you want.”
Killian raises an eyebrow at her. “Whatever I want?”
Emma rolls her eyes. “Aye, Captain.”
He looks at Hope. “Want to spend the morning on the Jolly, little starfish?”
They spend the morning on the Jolly, enjoying some brunch and the sea breeze while the ship remained docked. They walk Hope around the whole ship as Killian talks incessantly about the ship and his adventures and Emma listens, enraptured as always by the way Killian tells a story (even ones she’s heard multiple times). He’s a real-life storybook character albeit with a more indecent past with the women he’s seduced and the people he’s killed and stolen from. She finds it amusing how he skips over those parts when he’s talking to Hope.
Truthfully, Killian’s biggest fear is still what Hope will think of him when she finds out. It’s impossible to hide his past when it’s written in Henry’s storybook. As many times as Emma reassures him that Hope will love him not matter what because he’s her daddy and she’s his starfish and he is absolutely brilliant with her, Emma knows this fear will be something he lives with for a long time.
Time flies as Killian recounts his adventures and soon it’s time to head over to see her parents. Henry, Robin, Regina and Roland beat them there and Henry and Roland are already sparring with David by the time they park the car. Mary Margret fawns over Hope, complaining that she doesn’t get to spend enough time with her beautiful grandbaby and Killian nearly frowns when she’s no longer in his arms. Robin greets Killian with a clap on the back
“I think it’s time for presents!” Mary Margret squeals after they have dinner on the back deck. Henry leaves with her to grab everything. Somehow the two of them manage to carry everything to the table and both David and Killian blush furiously.
“Mine first!” Henry says, handing David a large wrapped box. Inside was a new saddle blanket for David’s horse in Northeastern University red and white. After a bear hug from his grandfather, Henry handed Hook a red gift bag. “Happy Father’s Day, Hook.”
It took Killian a second to process what was happening. He would’ve cried if he didn’t have a reputation to maintain. “Thank you, mate.” Inside was a dark grey t-shirt with white and gold lettering that read “Northeastern Dad.” Pulling the shirt out of the bag and reading what it said, pushed Killian over the edge, a single tear slipping from the corner of his eye. He quickly stood and pulled Henry into a tight embrace. “Thank you.”
“Mom got a Northeastern Mom one when we were moving in. I thought it was time you had a matching one. Now you can both look equally embarrassing when you’re moving me in in August.”
Killian chuckled. “Don’t give her any -”
“That’s a BRILLIANT idea!” Emma squealed.
“Ideas.” Killian sighed as he finished his sentence, still smiling brightly at the family he now had, the family he had always wanted but never believed he deserved.
“Okay okay. It’s my turn.” Emma said. David opened the set of power tool things and proceeded to explain what he would use each tool and feature for. Finally, it was time for Emma to give Killian his gift. It was a small wrapped box, only slightly larger than the size of Killian’s hand. In the box is a pocket sundial. Since Killian refuses to wear a watch, Emma thought this would suit him more. It’s solid brass and with his name engraved on the outside and a photo of him and Hope from the first time they took her to the Jolly on the inside. “Happy Father’s Day, babe.” Killian looked up from the sundial to see Emma holding their daughter. His heart was suddenly filled with more love than he ever believed was possible for one man to feel.
Robin rested his hand on Killian’s shoulder. “Happy Father’s Day, mate. Isn’t it the best feeling in the world?”
Killian grinned at his friend. “Aye. Happy Father’s Day.”
Roland gave Robin a handmade card, which was quite possibly the most adorable thing in the world, and a new set of arrows that were hand painted fun colors (which were clearly a joint effort between Regina and Roland).
Mary Margret, as a joke, had t-shirts that said “Hot Dads of Storybrooke Crew” on them made for David, Robin, and Killian which elicited howls of laughter from all three of them when they opened them at the same time. Their last names were on the back, like a jersey, and their numbers reflected the order in which they became fathers - Nolan 01, Locksley 02, Jones 03. The rest of them roll their eyes at the men’s now even more inflated egos. Seconds after opening them, the “Hot Dads of Storybrooke Crew” plans to wear them together at Roland’s next soccer match. Town summer soccer matches turn into mini festivals with all different food being sold for fundraisers, music and dancing for the kids, and adult beverages for the parents.
Hope was fast asleep on the drive home and Emma was barely awake herself while Killian drove. He put Hope to sleep while Emma showered and got ready for bed. She read a bit of a book Killian had recommended to her while he did the same afterwards before climbing into bed.
“Emma?” Killian asks, rolling on his side to face her.
She knows by the look in his eyes that this is moving in a more serious direction. Killian clearly has something on his mind. Emma sets the book down and turns on her side to face him “What’s on your mind, Jones?”
Killian's hand rests on her hip. “I uhm -”
Not often does Killian get flustered, but now he was blushing furiously. “Talk to me, babe.” Emma cups his cheek, her thumb stroking soothingly.
“Have you thought about having another baby?” Killian whispers.
“Maybe.” Emma grins. “Have you?”
“Aye.” Killian returns her smile.
“And do you want another baby?”
Killian kisses her softly. “Aye, love.”
“Me too.” Emma rests her forehead against Killian’s. “Watching you with Hope has been the most incredible thing in the world, Killian. I love you with all my heart.”
“I love you, too. Always. To the end of the earth and time.”
#cs ff#cs fanfic#CS fic#Captain swan#killian jones#captain hook#emma swan#baby hope#of love and fathers
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Rubin ‘Rubi’ Orn
“A tall, redheaded stern faced woman with an ugly curse scar across her face. Wouldn’t fancy meeting her in a dark alley.”
- Chaotic Neutral
- Born September 22, 1948 on the Faroe Islands.
- Asexual.
- Was the result of a fling of Henry’s before he married his first wife. Her mother, Elsa, is a half-blood.
- Alumni of Drumstrang. Recommends attending one of the smaller schools or even a school out of the area when asked about her time there.
- Drumstrang does not have ‘houses’ in the traditional sense but they do have different schools of Magic that students can focus on after their third year. Rubi chose seiðr or Old Norse magic.
- Sees magic as a neutral force, it is only as Light or as Dark as those using it.
- Morally grey.
- sarcastic.
- Worked as a spy during the First Wizarding War. Later hunted Death Eaters for a time before becoming a professional Duellist.
- Hates Grindelwald with a burning passion.
- Blew her cover after Death Eaters targeted her father’s children (Hecate and Jacob.) Brutally killed three of them, two escaped.
- Owns a Kneazle named Sam and speaks with him at length on various subjects. Values his opinion. Hecate, Bryn, and Sean are concerned.
- Moved two houses down from Hecate’s house after the incident with the death eaters
- Her patronus is a wolverine. Has no idea what it is, refers to it as a “Fucked up Badger thing.” Her memory is holding Hecate and Jacob for the first time.
- Practices an older, more traditional form of wandless magic. Uses plants, crystals, and bones in her spells. Does have a wand for duelling.
- Yew Wand, 11 inches, springy flexibility, and a vial of Swooping Evil venom as a core.
Popular in Ireland and Scotland, the European Yew is a wand wood of death and rebirth. The owner values honor highly, and would often prefer to die rather than submit or surrender in extreme cases. They often have a preoccupation with religion, spirituality, spirits, reincarnation, and the after-life.
These witches and wizards are independent, and may refuse the help of others (this may be overcome later in life, but will be especially prominent in their youth). It takes them much time to develop as people, as well as to develop their magic.
The unusual quality about yew wood itself is how flexible the wood is, despite its great hardness and strength (for being a softwood). The owner is similar in that they have strong convictions but are flexible in the manner in which they accomplish goals or uphold their convictions. They have an inner-resilience which allows them to spring back from metaphorical deaths.
They can be exceptionally protective of those they’ve ‘claimed’ as their own, and make for frightening adversaries
A powerful core, swooping evil venom has an odd reputation as it is capable of the most terrifying mind-altering spells as well as the most potent mind-healing magic. This core chooses creative witches and wizards, with great imaginations. Often, this reveals itself in endeavors like stone carving as well as creating the most ingenious and twisted of hexes and jinxes. Their owner’s head in the clouds appearance belies their talents in offensive magic and manipulation. At their worst, they can be a bit sadistic and play head games on other people for their own amusement. There is talent in magic to do with darkness, memory, the mind, hiding, and concealment. This core also possesses a latent soul-based magic, which is activated by specific wand woods (such as camphor). Otherwise, it gravitates towards woods with a darker nature such as blackthorn or snakewood.
(Description courtesy of cloverlywands blog)
Wren Ito (Maiden name: Ames)
“Their older sister, Wren, was a fine student of my house. Quiet, made almost no trouble for anybody. Clearly that must have come from her mother.”
- Lawful Good.
- Born January 1st, 1950 in London, England.
- Pureblood (technically).
- Ravenclaw, the first in the Ames family
- Daughter from her father’s first Marriage to Nancy Ames (Maiden name: White). Her mother was the muggleborn daughter of a Mortician and a housewife.
- Nancy was murdered in 1955, the murder was never solved but was believed to have been committed by an early version of Death Eaters. Wren was with her grandparents at the time of the murder.
- Wren was a good student during her time at Hogwarts but was generally quiet and unassuming. Her favorite class was Ghoul Studies and her best class was Astronomy. Involved in Astronomy Club and Ghoul Club
- Became interested in Ghouls due to her mother sticking around for two years after her death and because Muggle Shades often hung around her grandmother, the daughter of a muggle and a Squib, who had a mild version of second sight.
- Slight build with light brown hair and tiny. Looks nothing like her younger siblings.
- Met her future husband Osamu at the Triwizard Tournament.
- Her patronus is a fox, which is her husbands Animagus form. It was previously a field mouse. Her happy memory is her first date with her husband.
- Really dislikes Rakepick as she went to school with her.
- Still a quiet person but has developed a very wry sense of humor from her husband. Also loves Puns. This causes great pain to her family.
- Lives on Mahoutokoro school grounds with her husband and two children Sara and Mirou. Her husband is the Professor of Transfiguration and she writes books on Ghouls and Shades (Muggle ghosts). Is considered the foremost expert on the subject. Uses a typewriter rather than a quill.
- Her wand is Mahogany, 12 inches, swishy flexibility and a mermaid hair core.
Mahogany wand owners are charismatic, energetic, and possess much curiosity. They have above average magical cores, and great endurance. They like to be intellectually stimulated and become bored very quickly. The lion’s share of their energy goes towards what interests them, and they neglect that which does not. There is a regal air to their mannerisms, and a devil may care attitude in their interactions with others. They care little for others’ opinions, but also care too much on the opinions of those they admire or are close to them.
Most subjects and knowledge comes easily to them, and they can come up with innovative solutions incredibly fast.
Though they can be sweet and protective of their loved ones, these witches and wizards are also jealous and vengeful to those they dislike. Many times,their dislike is arbitrary or due to jealousy. They can be extremely possessive and controlling at their worst.
Merperson hair wands’ reputation varies by the subspecies and by cultural norms. What is shared between people with this core, it that they all are creative and imaginative, and usually have some sort of musical talent. These witches and wizards also have a talent with language, and may learn foreign languages with relative ease. ‘Restless’ describes these people well, and they like to investigate and explore. They are always searching for something, and even they don’t know exactly what it is. They can become irritated by those who try to force a routine on them, or those who try to tell them how to live. Adventurous at heart, they like to try new things or novel approaches. They don’t care for doing something just because it’s “tried and true.” Finding new and better ways is important to them, testing the limits of what is possible and what they can accomplish.
Fiadah O'Faud.
“All O’Faud’s are Blood Traitors. Especially that one.”
- Technically Chaotic Good. Lawful Chaotic would be a better term.
- Born April 1st 1951, in a home for unwed mothers in County Galway Ireland. Was the result of an affair between her mother Brigid O’Faud and Henry Ames.
- Pansexual
- Has a half-Veela partner of seven years named Simon Jones.
- Pureblood.
- O’Faud’s had not been allowed at Hogwarts up until about 1914 due to an ancestor killing the grandson of Salazar Slytherin because he (allegedly) married and then murdered Callum O’Faud’s granddaughter, who was a squib. They were not allowed in Slytherin until 1951.
- Her mother and stepfather immigrated to America when she was 13 years old. They both still currently live in Boston, Massachusetts. She transferred to Ilvermorny and was sorted into Wampus House. Was originally in Slytherin.
- Visits all her half siblings often, especially Hecate, Bryn, and Danny.
- Fiadah works as a magical law Prosecutor in America and takes cases that mostly involve violence against Creatures, Muggles, Squibs, Muggleborns, and foreigners.
- Cunning and extremely bullheaded but surprisingly well spoken. Does not look like she would be well spoken.
- Dry as dead leaves humor.
- Covered in magical tattoos that move around her body. Currently has a snake, a thunderbird, two crows, a raven, a hare, a spray of flowers that bloom in the morning and close at night, and a Thestral.
- Average height with black hair in a pixie cut and black eyes.
- Animagus form is a crow.
- Patronus is an Irish Hare. Her happy memory is introducing Hecate, Sean, Bryn, and Jacob to American rock the day she got her law certification.
- Saw her grandmother die (cancer).
- Lives in rural Georgia. Does not speak to any of her parents, does not like them.
- Plays the fiddle. When she tells someone she played them ‘Like a fiddle’ that’s a compliment, Fiddles are hard to play.
- Her wand is a Redwood wand, 13 inches, slight flexibility, and a dragonheartstring core.
Prized in California and Pacific Northwest, redwood is notorious for its owner’s ability to survive the impossible (Pottermore). Which is fortunate because they seem to be danger magnets. Their personality and natural skill set that this wand is attracted to also make for people who thrive under pressure and against the odds.
These witches and wizards have good reflexes as well as good judgement and foresight. Not much surprises them and what does surprise them, they react and adapt to with ridiculous ease. As Ollivander states, they have a talent for turning disaster into opportunity.
Brave and adventurous, not much intimidates the owner of a redwood wand.
As a rule, dragon heartstrings produce wands with the most power, and which are capable of the most flamboyant spells. Dragon wands tend to learn more quickly than other types. While they can change allegiance if won from their original master, they always bond strongly with the current owner.The dragon wand tends to be easiest to turn to the Dark Arts, though it will not incline that way of its own accord. It is also the most prone of the three cores to accidents, being somewhat temperamental.
(Description courtesy of cloverlywands and pottermore
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Self Promo Sunday: Into the Unknown with You
Good morning all! Here’s a little alternate take on what could have happened in 6x11 as Emma looked for another way home. I wrote all but some of the last scene before the midseason premiere of 6B, and when I didn’t get it finished before then, I debated even posting this, but I decided I wanted to anyway. I’ve come to be even fonder of it since then, so I hope that someone finds a bit of enjoyment in it! Clearly I don’t own them, as I would sometimes have had wildly different things happen (particularly in this stretch of episodes).
One more Author’s Note: The “awfully big adventure” bit is a tiny nod to J.M. Barrie’s Peter Pan.
On AO3 On ff.net
“Into the Unknown with You”
by: @snowbellewells
‘No, no, no!’ Emma’s mind reeled horrifically as she stared at the spot where only moments ago the portal had been whirling, her way home to her son and her pirate wide open. She wanted to scream; it couldn’t just be gone, and yet, a second too much hesitation, and the chance was lost. She looked at Regina anxiously, her fists clenched so tightly she felt the impressions her nails cut into her palms. It was all she could do not to rail at the older woman, this whole twisted world, and her own bad luck.
‘What now?’ she wanted to demand, wanted to shake her former nemesis turned tentative friend. However, one glimpse at the other woman’s stunned, disbelieving face staring across the shoreline at her presumed dead True Love, and Emma knew it would be a lost cause. Having stood beside a grave in grateful stupefaction at her own love’s miraculous return to life not so long ago, Emma couldn’t find the heart just yet to hurry Regina along or to remind her that she had spent the last day preaching how none of their surroundings or those they encountered in the Wish Realm were real. She too found herself blinking dazedly at this other – very convincing – version of Robin Hood for a few moments.
Even if her heart was still crying out for her home and her family, for Henry’s soft hair tickling her nose when she placed a kiss to the top of his head, and Killian’s arms enfolding her, she didn’t know where to go in this topsy-turvy version of the homeland she had never actually lived in, and so she had to wait – more impatiently by the minute – until one of these two, either queen or thief, snapped out of their spell and led the way…
As it turned out, Robin Hood was not the sort of outlaw who would truly do harm to two ladies passing through his territory. He wouldn’t have even made to steal their jewels and furs once the same trance that had overcome Regina seemed to strike him mute as well, but Regina offered him a pouch of coins that had been strapped to her waist and a ruby ring, pressing it into his calloused palm with a quirked smile and the assurance that “she insisted, she was much more partial to his cause than he knew”.
Emma wanted to snort at the ridiculous understatement those words were, and she only barely managed to hold back a roll of her eyes, which she sensed the thief saw but let slide with a conspiratorial wink.
Before she could make an argument for trying to catch up to Gold – or Rumplestiltskin here, she supposed – or ask where they were going to find another bean, it was evening, they were entering a forest in the gathering dark, and soon they had been welcomed to sit around a roaring fire with Robin’s motley crew, and even been offered the ale and venison passed around the circle as if they were part of the merry band.
“Now,” the archer began, seated beside Regina, his boy nodding drowsily on his lap. He looked around her to meet Emma’s gaze head on. “You must be thinking that I owe you an apology. Clearly you were about to leave this place, and because of me, you missed your ride.”
She tried to shrug it off nonchalantly, not wanting to get them kicked out in the cold, or to lay blame on him for something he couldn’t have known, but instead, to her own mortification, she felt hot tears stinging in the corners of her eyes. Though her sight grew glassy, Emma refused to let them fall. “So,” she tried for flippant, even if it fell horribly flat, “does that mean you know where we could find a replacement bean and want to help us get it?”
“Actually, your Highness,” Robin winked, a knowing sort of mischief in his eye, “I just might.”
~~~OuaT~~~~~CS~~~~~OuaT~~~
The following morning dawned misty and cool, but fair, and Robin greeted Emma at the simmering coals of the previous night’s campfire with a welcoming grin, Regina at his side on the stump they used for a seat, looking as soft and at ease as Emma had ever seen her, her head resting on his strong shoulder seemingly still half asleep. She and Regina had talked at length the night before, and at long last Emma had accepted that Henry’s adoptive mother wasn’t returning with her yet. “I know he isn’t the same Robin, that this whole place is built on a whim, but I’m not losing him again,” she had whispered vehemently. “There has to be another way to get back…one that he could take as well…if he wanted to…” The emotion welling in Regina’s dark eyes had been raw enough that Emma finally consented to go on without further fighting to change her mind, only giving a nod in affirmation when Regina had asked, “You’ll explain to Henry? Tell him I mean to return as soon as we both can?”
“Ready, your Highness?” the sandy-haired outlaw asked, breaking into Emma’s recent memories once more and looking down at her from where he now stood at the ready. “We should make the harbor by noon, if we set out now.”
“The harbor?” Emma asked breathlessly, dazed for a moment by what this could mean. Her heartbeat kicked up in both anticipation and dread. Surely he wasn’t here too…was he?
“Yes,” Robin answered her spoken question with an amiable nod as he kissed the back of Regina’s hand in farewell and turned to head off with Emma on his heels. “I happen to know a pirate with whom I sometimes trade my less than lawfully acquired goods. He might have just the sort of thing you need to return home…”
~~~OuaT~~~~~CS~~~~~OuaT~~~
The sound of gulls crying and wheeling overhead and the creak and groan of the wooden docks as they reached the edge of the shore town and neared the sparkling blue harbor was enough to take Emma’s breath away. Robin took a step forward to lead her down the docks, already offering to make introductions, but Emma stopped him with a gentle hand on his arm.
There before them, as recognizable as always, was the Jolly Roger, bobbing proudly at anchor. Though most might be intimidated by the sight, Emma drew in the first full breath she’d had since remembering herself in this strange realm – as if she had gotten her first real glimpse of home at last. He might still be the vengeful Captain Hook in this reality, but somehow she wasn’t afraid. He would never truly hurt her – and she only wanted to be at his side again without further delay.
Reassuring Robin that she could take it from there, Emma bid him goodbye. Though he looked uncertain, the archer took her at her word and left her with his best wishes. If she clutched his hand a moment longer and a bit tighter than would be normal and bid him be safe a little too fervently – well, she didn’t have to explain herself to anyone here.
At her first step onto the gangplank, a shudder of recognition ran through her, as if the vessel itself was welcoming her back aboard, shivers skittering along her spine. At first glance, the ship seemed deserted, her crew perhaps gathering supplies or unwinding at the nearest tavern, but the air around her wavered, charged suddenly, letting her know she was not alone. Emma felt even before she heard heavy footfalls on the planks or that deep, commanding voice at her back, asking who went there, that she had not gone undetected by the ship’s captain.
Turning, her eyes found him, hungrily drinking in the details; altered, but still without doubt the man she loved. The dark hair was windblown and unruly, practically begging for her fingers to delve into its soft abundance and brush the fringe back off his forehead. Though the strands might be shaggier and generously shot through with grey, it made him no less attractive to her starving eyes. In fact, she only wanted to stare at him all the more, to catalogue every difference, trace the deeper crow’s feet around his eyes and the added lines on his forehead. Those fathomless blue eyes were lined so liberally with the kohl she hadn’t seen him use for some time in their modern Storybrooke life that she almost wanted to chuckle at the effect until she registered the way the blue of his gaze also looked paler – as if washed out by too many tears shed alone and without comfort, or dulled by pain held back because he couldn’t afford to let it show.
Brandishing his moniker, and that dastardly, flirtatious mask he had long since let drop around her, to full effect, Captain Hook stepped well into her personal space. “And who might you be?” he questioned, breath warm on the shell of her ear as he leaned in, hook lifting the heavy rope of her golden braid and tucking it back over her shoulder. It was an achingly familiar gesture and he stood much too close for calm comfort, sending her pulse fluttering again, and yet no recognition lit his gaze as he studied her; the fond devotion she had come to rely on more than she could say was utterly absent, making her heart ache and crack in her chest.
“Princess Emma of Misthaven,” she answered as sturdily as she could, raising her chin and meeting his eye with as much confidence as she could muster. “I had hoped to speak to you on a delicate matter of some importance.”
“A delicate matter, is it?” he asked, his enunciation and the way his tongue caressed his words seductively had not been altered or diminished in the slightest, whatever else had changed. He stood back to his full height, fingers in his waistband, hips thrust forward and looking every bit as sinfully irresistible as he ever did, complete with that wide-open, chest-exposing red vest she had witnessed once in their trip to the past through Zelena’s portal. If she hadn’t known him so well, she might have been fooled by the bravado, but knowing his heart as only a True Love could, she saw the emptiness behind the lascivious look, the pain within the façade – the proper, honorable lieutenant he had been, hating the persona his course had forced him to adopt. Even as he ran his tongue across his lower lip, letting his eyes trace her curves from head to toe almost lewdly, she could see the regret clouding the pupils and the wistful longing – as if he could sense what might have been.
Unable to stop herself, Emma reached forward impulsively, grasping both his hook and hand tightly as she spoke, “Yes, very…but just maybe…I was meant to find you. Maybe you’re the only one who would believe me.”
~~~OuaT~~~~~CS~~~~~OuaT~~~
Another hour found them below deck in his cabin, seated at the scratched, weathered wooden table which had served him in his lonely meals for ages, Emma’s hand still clinging to his hook where it rested on his thigh, but the other reaching up tentatively to trace that faded scar she knew so well beneath his eye. Hook – though more and more her Killian with every passing moment – had scooted closer to her on the roughhewn bench, blinking in awe as she saw hope returning to his face. He appeared both afraid to believe her words, but also desperate for them to be true.
“So you’re telling me that all of this around us – this whole life – is an illusion?” he asked haltingly, not daring to move his eyes from her face, as though he thought she might disappear as quickly as she had come to him.
“Well, yeah, basically,” she tried to explain. “Or more like…it’s a possibility that didn’t actually come true. There’s this v-villain in my home, in the real timeline that I come from, who made a wish that reset things, and I was sucked into it. I have a son, family and friends, a-and another version of you…who’s my True Love…there missing me. And I have to get back to them.”
“There’s another me?” he breathed, and where anyone else would have been skeptical, he looked merely stunned, wanting. “And…we’re…together?”
“Yeah, we are,” she whispered, laying a hand over his rapidly beating heart and drawing comfort from its rhythm. She already felt stronger, more certain, even with this iteration of her pirate. Her watery smile quirked up into a bit of a smirk at one corner, “And don’t worry, he’s still devilishly handsome.”
Her captain’s eyes fell to their joined hand and hook in his lap, huffing out a laugh at her words. “More so than I, I’d wager,” he murmured.
Emma hummed under her breath, reaching out to run her fingers along a grey streak in his longer hair. “I don’t know about that,” she offered. “There’s something pretty appealing about this model, grey hair and all.”
“You flatter me, Milady,” he teased, that voice still a sinful purr rumbling from his chest as he lifted her hand to press a kiss to its back. Still, emotion welled up beneath the flirtation, making his magnetic gaze all the harder for her to escape. She was blinking, nonplussed and floundering for some audible response, when he straightened and pulled her to her feet with him. “Enough lollygagging then! I’ll prepare the old girl to set sail. It’s time we got you back where you belong!”
For a moment, Emma was stunned anew. This full-on piratical version of her True Love, who didn’t really even know her and had no reason to do anything she said, had not only chosen to believe her story, but was going out of his way to help her – just as he had ever since he turned his ship around to take her to Neverland. The lump in her throat was almost too much to speak around, but Emma managed to croak out, “You really would give anything to help me, wouldn’t you?” even as she shook her head in disbelief.
“Aye,” he affirmed, looking a bit like he was marveling at that fact himself. “I am not sure I fully understand, nor can I explain it to you, but I sense that I would – that I am almost compelled – to help you in any world or time you would appear to me.”
“Thank you,” was all she could really say in response, her wondering smile nearly blinding him with its brilliance.
“Come then,” he offered her his arm, his speech all business again, even while the pointed tips of his ears flushed, clearly uncomfortable with the gratitude and praise. “Above deck, and we’ll be off. I know someone who deals in nigh impossible to procure objects.”
~~~OuaT~~~~~CS~~~~~OuaT~~~
Standing beside him at the helm just a few short hours later, wind in her hair and the salt spray on her face, it struck Emma that though she was desperate to get home, to make sure her son, her family, and her Killian were alright, she didn’t want to simply abandon this pirate captain beside her. She didn’t know what would happen to him, if he would find something to live for, something to be part of, or if she was dooming him to his quiet desperation…even if he might simply vanish into nothingness with the rest of this ill-fated wish. She didn’t know what happened next, to be completely honest. Laying a hand on his forearm, she gazed up into his face, swallowing hard. “I don’t know what becomes of you, or this realm, when I leave here and go home,” she admitted. “I’m not sure if you all just go on like it never happened, if you cease to exist, if you wander here aimless forever…I just…I don’t know…”
Covering her hand with his, he guided the ship with no more than his hook rested capably on the wheel. “Worry not, Princess,” was his confident response, fervent resolve painted over his strong, careworn features. “We shall still set things right, as they should be. Whatever comes after this – infinity or oblivion – will be an awfully big adventure.”
Tagging a few who might enjoy this: @kmomof4 @jennjenn615 @searchingwardrobes @whimsicallyenchantedrose @tiganasummertree @spartanguard @thislassishooked @therooksshiningknight @stahlop @lfh1226-linda @resident-of-storybrooke @let-it-raines @ineffablecolors @optomisticgirl @shireness-says @snidgetsafan @profdanglaisstuff @thisonesatellite @mayquita @ohmightydevviepuu @revanmeetra87 @teamhook @darkcolinodonorgasm @gingerchangeling @blackwidownat2814 @nikkiemms @kday426 @hollyethecurious @seriouslyhooked @ohmakemeahercules
#self promo sunday#cs one shot ff#cs 6x11 divergent ff#ouat 6x11 fix it fic#ouat 6b one shot#into the unknown with you
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just follow my yellow light (and ignore all those big warning signs)
Warning! This fic includes mentions of depression, anxiety, needles (in a medical setting), and dealing with grief/trauma. Please stay safe should you choose to read!
A/N: This is also a more plot-heavy fic, with most of the fiendery occurring in the very last sections, so please be aware of that!
Word count: 8499
Title: “Yellow Light” by Of Monsters and Men
The thing about hospitals is that they’re all the same.
Cal understands why people hate them—really, he does—but sitting here on the exam table, the paper crinkling beneath him, a blood pressure cuff tightening around his bicep, he can’t help but feel...safe. Understood.
He’s biased, he guesses. He grew up in one, doodling on prescription pads with crayons, running his favorite toy car along the floor (weaving around the nurse’s practical clogs on his hands and knees, look, Mom, look at how fast I am!), his mother Marianne bouncing him on her lap as she updated charts on her computer even though he was far too old for that, stray blonde hair that escaped from her tight bun tickling his cheek. Every once in a while, she’d turn to him with a wide, warm smile.
The whirring of blood pressure machines were his lullaby. The smell of antiseptic was the closest he got to the smell of home, and was in fact the very smell that followed him home from work with Marianne, permeated the whole house along with her tired sighs and her whispered arguments with his father Henry when she thought Cal was sleeping.
So, yeah. Cal likes hospitals. Don’t overanalyze it.
The nurse—Alicia, today—gives him a small, tired smile, the expression of someone who genuinely cares but is too busy to do much about it. “Dr. Moore says everything looks good, Cal. Just make sure to keep an eye on your lungs. Don’t bind for too long and keep doing your injections around the same time each week, okay? You know where to find us if you need something.”
“Thanks, Alicia,” Cal says, but she’s already whisking out the door. Cal wonders how many patients she has. Alicia oversees the hospital volunteer program, and even though Cal's known her for years, he swears her face is as young and beautiful as it was when he was a child. She’s funny and whip-smart and strong and she likes Cal best, he thinks, but lately she’s looked so tired.
He wonders if she’s one of the nurses who really cares about all of her patients. He wonders if that kind of thing is sustainable.
Alicia cares, he thinks.
He’s walking down the corridor, idly rubbing at the bandage across his forearm—and yeah, okay, if he has to name one part of the hospital experience that he could do without, it’s the blood draws—and he’s so fixated on reaching under the bandage to rub at the stinging skin there that he almost runs directly into Sweater Guy, who reaches out preemptively to steady Cal by the shoulders.
“Shit, sorry,” Cal mutters reflexively, then looks up to see that it’s him and, well, fuck.
Cal’s been volunteering at the hospital for six months or so, now, answering call buttons for the nurses and giving directions to confused family members and just grunt work, really, something—nay, anything—for him to put on his resume, and at every single shift he’s volunteered for, he’s seen Sweater Guy.
He’s Cal’s height but twice as skinny, collarbones jutting out underneath his sweaters (his endless sweaters, usually layered over collared shirts and rolled up to the elbows, no matter how swelteringly hot it gets outside). The sweaters bother Cal more than they should, because they all look expensive, and yeah, sue him, he’s a little bitter, because he buys one new pair of shoes a year and calls it splurging. He’s a candy striper, Cal thinks. He wears a pair of yellow-tinted glasses that Cal cannot for the life of him make sense of, constantly slipping down his nose (and yes the yellow compliments the rich brown of Sweater Guy’s skin beautifully, not that Cal has noticed, thanks). He has what Zara always insisted is sex hair, expression perpetually annoyed, like he always has something better to doing.
And he avoids the fuck out of Cal.
“It’s not on purpose,” Zara said one day a few months ago, leaning conspiratorially over their little table in the hospital cafeteria, mouth full of mediocre tuna fish sandwich, because Zara is a godless heathen who enjoys tuna fish sandwiches. “He’s just...busy, you know? He doesn’t avoid you more than he avoids anyone else.”
“Except he does,” Cal muttered, toying with the bottle cap from his soda. More than once he’d made eye contact with him in the hall, and then watched him completely switch directions, head ducked down low over his shoulders.
Not long after that, Zara--who had, until then, occupied the third room in he and Amy’s apartment--left school to attend a community college program for mortuary science, because Zara is, in addition to being a godless heathen, a chiefly ridiculous person, and now Cal doesn’t have anyone to complain to about this.
It shouldn’t bother him, except...Cal is likeable. He is. He charms nurses as though that’s what he’s getting volunteer credit for. Babies smile at him on the street. He’s likeable.
So what the fuck, you know?
“I apologize,” Sweater Guy says now, and Cal is hyper-aware of the guy’s chapped lips, of his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down nervously in his throat. He makes himself look away.
“You apologize? I’m the one who didn’t see you, dude,” Cal says, and God damn does that yellow sweater he’s wearing look nice on him. It shouldn’t. Yellow is categorically the worst color. Cal’s pissed.
Sweater Guy actually cracks a smile. “Yes, well. I’m glad we avoided a collision.”
And just like that, he’s walking off, and Cal doesn’t know what he’s supposed to make of it, if it means anything at all, but surely first contact after six months of silence means something.
“Hey,” he calls out before he can think better of it. “What’s your name?”
Sweater Guy stops and blinks, surprised, then pauses for a minute like he has to think about it. “Oh. My name is Quincy Washington.” He swallows. “What’s yours?”
“Cal.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Cal,” Quincy says softly, and Cal watches him walk away until he disappears around the corner.
*
Cal has a routine. He’s never been particularly organized, never been the type of person with color-coded planners or who lays out his outfits the night before, but he has a routine for check-up days: after picking up his inhaler refills and testosterone from the hospital pharmacy, he’ll treat himself to an iced chai tea latte with almond milk, hot if it’s cold outside or he’s feeling adventurous. He shifts his weight from foot to foot as he waits in line to place his order, his lips flicking up into a small little smile as he pulls out his phone, realizing he finally has an update, deciding to send it to the group chat he still has with Amy and Zara:
I figured out his name!!
Amy texts back immediately, and Cal’s little smile splits into a full-blown grin. ???????????
Sweater Guy, Cal types, shifting forward as the line moves. It’s Quincy Washington, apparently.
Cal grins when he sees a message from Zara appear: r u sure he gave u his real name? that sounds pretty made up ngl :* but hey u finally talked to him!!!! told u it wouldn’t be hard!!!!! <3 <3 <3 <3
Cal rolls his eyes a little, but good-naturedly. Zara was always convinced that Cal has a crush he’s not addressing, a conspiracy theory that has infected Amy as well, because no one fixates that hard if they DON’T have a crush, Cal, come on. Cal maintains that while he isn’t blind, there are about a million things more interesting about Sweater G--Quincy than how attractive he admittedly is.
Cal: In my defense, he talked to me first, and it’s only because I ran into him.
Zara: charming! did u gaze longingly into his eyes? did he gaze longingly into urs?
Cal rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. Well it wasn’t his EYES I was looking at. ;) (I was looking at his stupid yellow sunglasses.)
Zara: silly! u should’ve asked him if he needs roomies. it would be an honor if my old room went to The Cause :)))
Cal’s lips droop, the smile sliding off his face as he pockets his phone. He knows Zara meant nothing by it, but he’s been compartmentalizing the roommate situation until now, and it’s not something he can particularly deal with at this moment. He doesn’t have to, as it happens--at that moment, an impatient “--sir? Sir, may I please take your order?” breaks through his mental abstraction, clearly not for the first time, and he shakes his head to clear it, cheeks flushing as he approaches the counter, mumbling apologies. He orders his drink, iced chai tea latte, please, making sure to leave a hefty tip in the jar.
Eager to spare himself further social anxiety, Cal grabs his drink as soon as it’s placed on the counter, mumbling another apology as he grabs a straw and walks briskly out of the exit closest to the parking lot, sipping eagerly at the drink (he swears it’s even better than usual) and what do you fucking know.
“Quincy,” Cal says when he reaches his car, clamping down on the little thrill he gets from knowing the name. He swirls the drink a little like some kind of movie character with a glass of wine. He’s chill. He’s cool.
“Oh. Hello, Cal,” Quincy says sheepishly. He’s standing at the front of a car—not just a car, the car—its hood propped open in a universal sign of defeat. “I seem to...be having some car trouble.”
“No fucking way,” Cal breathes out, because some things are too strange to be coincidences.
“I’m...I’m sorry?”
Cal shakes himself. “No, you’re good, sorry. It’s just that, uh. This is your car?”
It’s a Mercedes AMG, and it’s been parked next to Cal’s car every day for a couple months now. Cal’s awe hasn’t dulled with time. He figured it belonged to some paranoid doctor, rich and extravagant and scared enough of car crashes to buy a luxury armored SUV. The fact that it belongs to Quincy isn’t strange all on its own—because sure, whatever, Quincy is well-off, that’s a thing that happens to people—but the odds of the day he realizes it belongs to Quincy being the same day he learns Quincy’s name after months of wondering and silence?
Well.
“Yes. It’s practically new,” Quincy says sadly, “but I’m hopeless with cars. It’s probably something rather foolish.”
And then, because Cal is a masochist, he finds himself saying “Well, I know a thing or two about cars,” and yeah, okay, this is happening, apparently.
“You do?” Quincy’s expression is nothing short of hopeful. “Cal, I would be incredibly grateful.”
“Of course,” Cal says, already moving toward the car, because who is he to say no to a beautiful boy in a yellow sweater, to a beautiful car with its hood propped open? “It’s no trouble. Keys?”
“In the ignition.”
Cal forces himself to focus on the task at hand, even though sitting in the driver’s seat makes him feel downright giddy. He tells himself it’s the car’s immaculate leather interiors, the sheer novelty of sitting in a ridiculous, extravagant vehicle, and not the boy standing in front of the hood with his arms folded across his chest in defeat. He takes a breath.
Although, he thinks as he twists the key in the ignition, surely this is an acceptable thing to be intrigued by. Why is unassuming Quincy, who looks no older than Cal, driving an armored SUV—and not just any armored SUV, but one that can sustain machine guns and hand grenades?
He guesses people could say the same about him and his car, because the upkeep of classic cars is a bit of a bitch, but Cal’s beat-up inherited ‘59 Chevy Apache isn't machine gun proof, and it certainly isn't new. She's valuable, of course, but she was passed down to him, not bought fresh off the lot, and that value is probably tempered by years of dings and scratches. She's not a symptom of extravagance the way this absolute mammoth must be. So. Not the same, actually.
When he tries to crank up the car, it makes a horrible grinding sound that he knows well, the needles on dashboard instruments shuddering. Cal takes great pains to compose his amused grin into something more sympathetic.
“Good news and bad news,” he says, slamming the car door behind him reflexively before cringing. This isn’t the Apache, with its squeaky doors and stubborn latches, and that door alone probably cost more than Cal’s college tuition. “The good news is it’s nothing serious. You’ve just got a dead battery.”
Quincy slumps a little with what Cal assumes is relief. “That seems manageable.”
“The bad news, though,” Cal says. “Do you have jumper cables?”
“No,” Quincy replies, ducking his head like he’s embarrassed.
“See, that’s what I was worried about.” Cal gestures to his own car. He sips at his latte, and is genuinely alarmed to realize it’s almost empty. It’s delicious, but still, he’s only had the drink for twenty minutes at the most. “I don’t have mine either. I--” Cal considers the location of his jumper cables, in a heap in the living room of the apartment, leftover from a Skype debate with Zara centered on a story her classmate insisted was true concerning jumper cables and nipples. Cal doesn’t regret the use of a visual aid--he won the debate, after all, because seriously, have you seen jumper cable clamps, there is no way--but he decides this is not something he needs to share with Sweater Guy. “They’re at home. I can go grab them and come back to give you a jump, though? Our place is literally right around the corner.”
“I wouldn’t want to impose,” Quincy hedges, a little desperately. Cal sees him battling internally between the need to be polite and the need to get his car running again.
“You’re not imposing,” Cal says, “because I offered. Seriously. Apologizing to me when I ran into you! Thinking you’re an imposition after I offered you something! You’re too nice for your own good, Quince.” The nickname slips out without Cal’s consent, and he feels the tips of his ears warm.
Quincy looks at him, tilting his head curiously. “I have an anxiety disorder,” he says after a moment, very plainly, and Cal feels like the biggest asshole in the world. He feels like an even bigger asshole because his knee-jerk reaction is to laugh, because what a mood, really.
To his abject horror, the laughter actually bubbles out, warm and genuine and fuck, he needed it, but he can also feel himself blushing crimson, because Jesus Christ, Cal, this is not the kind of reaction you should be having to this information. “I’m sorry,” he manages after a too-long moment. “I’m so sorry, oh my God, I promise I’m not laughing at you. It’s just...fuck, we’re not allowed to be that blunt, you know?”
Quincy inclines his head again, an unspoken question, and yeah, okay, you made this bed, Cal, now lie in it.
“I just mean, like...okay. Example. I’m chronically ill, right? I have asthma, thanks for that, genetics, but anyway the point is that I tell people I’m sick and they’re like, get well soon! They don’t understand that I don’t...want that. They don’t get that I’m sick, and that it’s okay! That’s fine! If you’re sick, you either have to be dying, or you have to be overcoming it or some shit. I just…I wish I could introduce myself like hi, I’m Cal, I have depression and my lungs don’t work very well. But I can’t, because that’s weird, that makes healthy people feel awkward, and our whole lives are about making healthy people feel better about our fucking lives.” He takes a breath, a little more painfully than he would prefer because it's goddamn cold out. “I just mean...I don’t know. It’s refreshing.”
Well, okay. Emotional intensity with Sweater Guy is not what Cal banked on happening today, but Sweater Guy is Quincy Washington, and now that he’s looking at him up close, he kind of feels like he’s demystifying him or...or something. The expensive sweater, he sees, is fraying at the sleeve from being picked at nervously. That annoyed expression, the one Cal always interpreted as aloof, is the face Quincy makes when his glasses start slipping down his nose. His sex hair is just...really good hair, perhaps a little mussed at the roots from a tendency to run his hands through it with the air of an exasperated father in a movie, and what’s wrong with that, really?
Sweater Guy, as it happens, is just a guy.
Anyway, Cal’s shifting his weight awkwardly from foot to foot, feeling the full force of the straight-up monologue he’s just delivered, but then Quincy is saying “That’s exactly it” in this relieved goddamn voice, so maybe things are okay after all. “What is that? Why do they make it so weird? It’s not as though it’s contagious.”
“Right? I don’t know. I’m just kind of exhausted of healthy people.” He inclines his head, toward his car, moving to the driver’s side because, again, it’s cold as shit and his lungs ache and he really should get Quincy that jump. “I’ll go grab those cables.” Something in the pit of his stomach grumbles at the movement, and he frowns, a reflexive hand coming up to rest on his belly. Weird.
“Oh, yeah,” Quincy says, like he’s forgotten what the whole point of this was (and doesn’t that just make something warm pool in Cal’s chest, God, he’s so screwed), and casts a withering glance toward the hospital doors. Cal looks at him for a second, shivering underneath his layers in front of his out-of-commission car, and before he can think about it any further than that he’s saying “You can ride with me there and back, if you want? It’s awfully cold out.”
Quincy positively beams. “I would like that very much, Cal.”
Okay then.
*
Amy is doing an honest-to-God tarot reading in the middle of the living room when Cal gets home, complete with candles and a red cloth draped over their coffee table, and isn’t that just their whole relationship summarized. He throws Quincy a put-upon glance over his shoulder, and Quincy bites his lip to keep from laughing. Has Cal mentioned that Quincy is attractive? God fucking damn it.
“Permission to enter the divination room?” he says in lieu of a hello, and Amy startles, nearly knocking over one of the candles.
“Cal!” Amy says, scandalized, staggering to her feet. “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming! I would’ve gotten rid of these!”
Cal can’t help but chuckle. “I’m not going to have an asthma attack from candles, Ames.”
“You could! Go--go stand in the kitchen or something! Make your friend help me!”
Cal gives Quincy a look, a sort of see what I have to deal with? shrug, and Quincy responds with an amused smirk. “I’d be happy to help,” he says in a tone that sounds like he’s honest-to-God fucking with Cal. “What tarot deck is that?”
The kitchen is essentially attached to the living room, the two only separated by a narrow doorway, but Cal shrugs and takes this opportunity to wriggle out of his jacket and grab a soda from the fridge. He has a feeling he’s gonna be here for a while. As he reaches into the fridge, however, that strange little twinge deep in his belly makes itself known again, and he grimaces as a cramp seizes his insides. He closes the refrigerator empty-handed, leaning a suddenly-clammy forehead against the cool stainless steel. This does not bode well.
“So how do you know Cal, again?” Amy is saying just as he’s composed himself enough to re-enter the living room. Quincy has migrated to the couch, at least, albeit with his back ramrod straight, Amy apparently having been satisfied that Cal is not in any immediate mortal peril.
“He volunteers at the hospital with me,” Cal says before Quincy can say anything, and when Amy glances over at him, Amy mouths Sweater Guy over Quincy’s head. Amy’s eyes bulge, so Cal forges ahead before she can say something to embarrass him. “His battery died, so I came here for the jumper cables.”
“Riiight, the hospital,” Amy says, a barely restrained grin in her voice, and God, when Amy tells Zara that Cal brought Sweater Guy home he is never going to hear the end of it. “Did you put up the fliers, by the way? We’re really gonna struggle this month if we don’t get it figured out soon,” and Cal looks up sharply, idly placing a hand on his stomach when it protests at the movement. Why is Amy bringing up the roommate fliers now?
“I know,” Cal says slowly, trying to communicate please don’t do this now with just a glance.. He sits on the couch next to Quincy, careful to leave a socially acceptable distance between them. “I know, Amy. But...no, I didn’t.” He wipes sweat from his brow with the back of his sleeve, his stomach starting to churn in earnest.
“Cal,” Amy chastises, and Cal thinks he would prefer anger to disappointment. “Did you talk to anyone, at least? It’ll be easier if it’s someone we know for, like, negotiating rent and stuff.”
“Um,” Cal says eloquently, but then Quincy is saying, “Actually, he talked to me,” and alright then, that took a turn.
“Oh,” Amy says, skeptical, but her face has brightened nonetheless. “Really?”
“That’s part of why I brought him with me to grab the cables,” Cal says, because he’s rolling with this, apparently. He really is never going to live this down. “To show him the room.”
“I wanted to see it for myself,” Quincy says sagely.
“Uh, yeah,” Cal adds lamely.
Amy is giving him this proud goddamn grin, and Cal is having trouble looking at it, because seriously, it shouldn't be like this. Amy has left this whole roommate search up to him, which is a nice gesture—Amy could live with anyone, with her natural inclination toward small talk and her compulsive baking which is the least unwelcome coping mechanism and her goddamn optimism, but Cal, with his bound chest and testosterone injections, has a lot more to lose here. The thing is, Cal, for all his charm and his mock-flirting and his wolfish grins, has a hard time with people, so him bringing home a coworker (or whatever he's supposed to call Quincy—coworker doesn't feel right, and Cal's trying really hard not to overanalyze that) isn't exactly a common occurrence. Amy is a proud parent smiling at her kid for making friends on the first day of kindergarten, and Cal loves her for it, he does, but it also chafes against him like his chest binder on a hot day.
"Well, go ahead," Amy finally says, breaking what could have turned into an awkward silence. "Don't let me stop you! I'm Amy, by the way. What's your name? I’m not sure I caught it." She glances at Cal as she says with a terribly unsubtle wink.
"Quincy Washington," Quincy says in that same quiet way he told Cal. "It's wonderful to meet you, Amy. I’m a fan of tarot myself and you have an excellent eye for ambiance."
"Thanks!" Amy beams, and Cal wrenches himself off the couch and ushers Quincy down the hallway before Amy loops him into a conversation about the history of tarot or some shit. Cal loves her to death, but knows she’s practically chomping at the bit. He won’t be surprised if she’s texting Zara as he speaks.
"You did me a solid, there, Quincy," Cal says quietly when they're far enough down the hall to be out of Amy’s earshot, hyper-aware of how sluggish he is. "We can just waste a little time and then I'll get you that jump."
"May I see the room?" Quincy asks, and Cal's heart just about stops entirely. "I'm glad to have done you...a solid, but I do happen to be looking for a room to let." His voice catches strangely and unfamiliarly around the slang.
Cal stares at him for a second. "Seriously?"
"I am very serious. If you'll have me, of course," Quincy says then, rushing through the second sentence and looking self-conscious about it.
"No, I just..." Cal says in something like disbelief, then shakes himself off. "Anyway. I guess I'll show you the room, then?"
"Please," Quincy says, so Cal leads the way.
"It's kind of small," he says apologetically, pushing open the door and flicking on the lights. They're Edison bulbs, and they cast the room in buttery yellow. "And obviously we'd move this stuff out of here if you moved in."
Quincy doesn’t say anything, and Cal turns to see that his face is frozen in genuine, slack-jawed awe. It's more than a little endearing, and Cal tucks his fond little grin away before he speaks. "You're a book guy, huh?"
"You could say that," Quincy breathes, and moves forward a little. "May I—?"
"Go for it," Cal says, and Quincy reaches out to touch one of the bookcases.
The room belonged to Zara until she moved out, the smallest room by far but also the one with the most windows, all against the far wall looking out toward the main road. Pushed against the opposite wall are three wood-paneled curio cabinets that Henry once used as bookshelves, packed tight with the books he cared about most in this world. Many of them are leather-bound and there is more than one special edition, all of them older than Cal's grandparents.
"They're beautiful," Quincy finally says after a moment, "but why do you have rare books in your apartment?"
Cal snorts, because it is so contrary to what he was expecting, but also because this is a valid question. "Honestly," he says, "I just couldn't bear to part with them. They were my dad's." The words are out before he realizes he's just dropped the dead dad bomb, so he forges ahead. "Uh, like I said, we'd get them out of here before you moved in."
"Or you could leave them," Quincy murmurs, eyes darting back and forth as he scans the titles. "God, is that a livre d'artist?"
On some level, Cal registers that this a very pretentious question, and also that there is just something strange about the way Quincy speaks, like everything he says has been polished beforehand. On another, baser level, he finds it frustratingly hot. "Uh, that sounds like a question I should maybe know the answer to, but honestly, these were my dad's thing. I haven't opened up any of the books since he died. I keep the shelves dusted, but I'm not much of a literature person."
"Are you a book person?" Quincy asks.
"Come on, you can be one or the other. People can like books without liking capital L literature," he says, turning to look at Cal with this ridiculously excited expression. It's kind of heartwarming. "You know, people who hate Hemingway but loved Twilight."
Cal may or may not have the entire saga on the much smaller, far less decorative bookshelf beside his bed, but Quincy doesn't need to know that. "Interesting distinction. Yeah, I guess I am."
"I knew it. Team Edward or Team Jacob?"
"Wow I hate this conversation."
Quincy smirks and turns back to the shelves with a quiet sort of reverence that makes Cal smile. It also makes his heart ache a little because it reminds him so much of his dad, but it's an ache that has dulled with the passage of time.
"So," Cal says, trying to sound casual, "Are you a student?"
"Yes," Quincy replies, still scanning book titles with a feverish intensity that skirts perilously close to lunacy. "I'm a senior. Are you?"
"Yeah," Cal says thinly. There's still a chance, he tells himself, and has to catch his breath as his stomach cramps again. A low rumble has begun deep in his gut, like someone set it to simmer, his stomach doing lazy barrel rolls that make him swallow hard. "Senior, too. Pre-med."
"I'm a double major. Classics and Theology. Not the most practical, I know," Quincy says, sheepishly, like he's used to people reacting poorly to it.
Fuck. God fucking damn it.
"Oh!" Cal says, forcibly infusing his voice with something akin to enthusiasm. "That's really cool. Um. Side note, just by the way..."
Quincy looks at him inquiringly. Fuck. All at once, his stomach cramps harshly enough to have him seeing stars, a cold sweat breaking out across his forehead again, and he can’t quite stifle a pained moan, clutching at his roiling insides, leaning against the doorframe for support.
“Are you okay, Cal?” Quincy takes a step toward him, evidently not too worried about whatever Cal was going to say, looking more concerned than Cal would expect from someone who avoided the fuck out of him prior to today, and he gives a pained nod, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment. Something bubbles in his lower belly painfully, and it hits him all at once.
“Fuck,” he hisses, noticing all at once how his stomach is puffy, poking out under his shirt and over the waistband of his jeans, how the cramps are accompanied by a near-constant rumble and oppressive waves of nausea. “Sorry, I’m--I just forgot to ask for—” He swallows again, hardly able to think about the damned chai tea latte, presumably made with full fat milk, churning around inside him. “I’m...lactose intolerant,” he manages, painfully aware that this is happening in front of Sweater Guy of all people. “I forgot to ask for almond milk instead of regular.”
“Are you alright?” Quincy sounds alarmed, eyes darting from Cal to the door and back again. “Should I get Amy? Is it an allergy, or—?”
“No, no,” Cal manages, laughing lightly. “You sound just like her, though. It’s just—” He grimaces, clutching at a twinge of nausea— “Just a pretty gnarly tummy ache. I’ll be okay.” He allows himself to rest a hand on his belly, straightening up through immense willpower. “Seriously, let’s just...move on, if that’s alright.”
“Of course,” Quincy murmurs, still looking rather concerned. It’s endearing, Cal thinks, even through the fog of nausea and the embarrassment tinging his cheeks red. “I believe you were saying something?”
“Oh,” Cal remembers, and looks at the floor. "My dad's name was Henry Kline?"
Quincy freezes. To his credit, he reigns in the incredulous expression relatively quickly.
"Cal," he says instead, very sincerely, turning to look at him with sad, sad eyes. "Cal, I am so sorry."
"Don't be," Cal mumbles, looking down, rubbing at the back of his neck. His stomach lets out a loud, angry rumble, and he flushes an even deeper shade of crimson. "I just, uh, wanted you to know from me. 'Cause if you live here, you gotta understand that people are gonna talk. They always do, about us. 'Specially when they hear our last name."
"Cal Kline," Quincy realizes all at once, and then, with that painful sincerity again, "I wouldn't listen."
Cal smiles despite himself. "Thanks, Quincy."
Quincy clears his throat, straightening up from where he's been crouched to pour over the books. Cal is sort of impressed at the sheer muscle tone it must’ve taken to forget he was doing a deep squat. "Cal, I have something to tell you as well."
This is it, Cal thinks. He doesn't want the room. Doesn't want to live with the bereaved Klines. It's too much. Just give him the jump and go back to never speaking again. The anxiety stirs up his upset stomach, and he clamps down forcibly on a burp that tries to burble up. His stomach lets out a low groan in response to the air being forced back into it.
"I was studying under Professor Kline," he says instead, and oh, okay. Which is to say, what the fucking shit, how many motherfucking coincidences can there feasibly be in one 12-hour period, but okay, it's better than what Cal was expecting. "I was a teaching assistant, and I was helping him restore his book collection." He glances back to the shelves. "I should have recognized them immediately, but I never saw them on the shelves..."
Cal's glad Quincy isn't looking at him anymore, because he can't vouch for what his face is doing. The ache Henry left is healing, dulled with the passage of time, but it still hurts if Cal picks at it. Quincy studied with Henry. Quincy knew him in a way Cal never did, never will, his brain screams, and something about that is just, well. His stomach flips, something cramping low and urgent in his belly.
Quincy is beautiful, and he is wearing a yellow sweater, and he likes Cal's car, and the only reason he cares that Cal's last name is Kline is because he doesn't want to be inconsiderate to Cal.
So, fuck.
"Well, now that we've got the awkward parts out of the way," Cal says, and Quincy flashes him a genuine smile that is positively blinding. He recovers from his seven consecutive heart attacks before continuing, "I can show you the rest of the apartment."
“Are you sure?” Quincy glances dubiously at Cal, who still has an arm curled around his belly. “You’re awfully pale.”
“That’s, uh—” Cal laughs nervously, feeling sicker and sicker by the moment. “Yeah. Maybe you could just...show yourself around?” At that moment, a low whine fills the apartment, a sure tell that Amy has gotten into the shower, and Cal’s stomach tightens. “Minus the bathroom, I guess. Sorry, our pipes do that when we use the shower. I’m just gonna, uh, have a seat in the living room.”
Quincy doesn’t question this, and Cal sends up a silent cry of gratitude to whoever may be listening. He settles into his favorite crease on the sofa, looking furtively over his shoulder to make sure Quincy is occupied with checking out the patio before pressing both hands to his grumbling stomach, feeling irritable movement beneath his palms. Oh, it hurts, cramps squeezing at his lower belly like a vice, a sticky, hot nausea plaguing his tummy. He tries in vain to soothe the ache, rubbing his hand across his bloated stomach as gently as possible, but the touch only sends up a dangerous belch that leaves him panting, hanging over the edge of the couch, the taste of chai and stomach acid coating his mouth revoltingly.
Quincy’s self-guided tour doesn't take long; their three-bedroom student apartment doesn't exactly contain multitudes. Cal has thankfully composed himself before Quincy pokes his head into the living room. “I have seen what I need to see, I believe,” he says with that stiff formality that seems to crop up occasionally.
"Yeah, that's the place! Nice and straightforward,” Cal says brightly, as convincingly as he can without moving around too much. “Any clutter you see is mine because Amy is an android, probably."
Quincy smiles, and Cal's cardiac health continues to worsen, God those fucking smiles. "Can you prove it?"
"Irrefutably. Evidence: runs for fun. Consumes spinach, also for fun. Wakes up and goes to bed at the same time every day. Possibly irons her clothes, but I'm still not sure on that one."
"She sounds...pretty human. Perhaps you're the android."
"No, I just have depression," Cal says before he can stop himself.
Quincy throws his head back and laughs, and it makes Cal feel so fucking warm. Has he mentioned recently that he is completely screwed in a way that has nothing to do with his cramping stomach?
"God, Amy hates when I joke about it. It'll be nice to have someone who understands around here when you move in."
Quincy straightens up. "When I move in?"
"What can I say. You sold me. If you want to live here, I want you to live here." He smiles, small.
It was kind of a done deal when you said you worked with Henry Kline, Cal doesn't say. The way you talk to me like I'm a normal person and the fact that you're fucking gorgeous are just bonuses.
"There is one more thing," he says, steeling himself. Much of his life is spent steeling himself. He pauses, waiting for Quincy to make a joke, to grin another heart-stopping grin, but he just looks at Cal curiously. "I'm trans. I wasn't born a male but I am and always have been a boy. I bind my chest and live as a male and use he/him pronouns. If you don't understand it, that's okay, but I will demand a certain level of respect in my own home, and it'd be preferable if that respect was voluntary." The speech is well-oiled from use, but Cal's voice still shakes.
"Is that all?" Quincy says, and Cal feels his entire body slump in relief, straightening back up a little when his stomach protests. "I mean, of course, Cal. I'm not ignorant."
"Oh, yeah, right. Thank you, gentle cis man. I worship at the holy altar of your allyship." He says it like a joke, but it takes effort to get out, because despite everything, it's taken him years to give this speech to a receptive audience and not feel like he's been granted a favor.
It's taken him years to say I'm here and not have it come out as I'm sorry.
When he told Zara, it was this whole thing, Zara reaching across the table to clasp one of Cal's hands in both of hers, you know I'm here for you, right? Cal's Facebook messages are full of Zara sending him every post she sees with the word trans in it, and like yeah, Zara, you're very sweet and supportive, but sometimes Cal just wants to be Cal, you know?
It's just that Cal's known Quincy for all of a few hours and he already feels so goddamn understood.
"I'm happy to pay whatever Zara’s share was," Quincy says, "And if you would be willing to leave Professor Kline's books, I would be honored."
"Consider it done," Cal says, smiling a little. He’s almost able to forget about the slow, sinister ache in his stomach. Almost. "Though get ready for Amy to talk about it all the time. She’s really not on board with them being here."
"I mean...religion isn't my cup of tea either, believe it or not, but I saw an original King James Bible. That alone has to be worth at least twenty grand. Literature person or not, that's...a really valuable thing to be keeping in your rented apartment."
Cal's eyes flit to the tiled floor, and he can feel Quincy's gaze on him, and he knows he's biting his lip, something he does often enough that one side of it is slightly larger than the other.
"Oh...Cal, I apologize. I didn't mean to intrude." It's that stiff formality from their almost-collision at the hospital again, and when Cal glances up, Quincy is backing away from him, hands folded behind his back. "I'm sure they're insured, or...even if they're not...I just mean, it's your business, of course. I apologize."
"No, it's fine." Cal clears his throat nervously. "You're right. Zara and Amy just kind of went a little crazy helping me get rid of his stuff when he died, and they wanted to donate them to the university. I probably should have let them, but..." He shrugs, wipes his sweaty palms on his jeans, presses his lips together around another burp that he forces down, wincing at the added pressure. "It's not like these are even all the books he had. There are probably hundreds in the storage unit. But I'm ridiculous, and they were just his thing, and for some reason the thought of them just sitting in a dusty room with boxes of his old clothes and the lawnmower and literal cobwebs just didn't sit right, so."
"So you brought them here." Quincy looks at him like he understands, and isn't just that the worst fucking thing? "I get it."
"I kind of do want to donate them, as it turns out," and wow, okay, Cal didn't realize that until he says it out loud. "I'm just a little worried because I haven't exactly been...maintaining them, or whatever. I wouldn't even know where to start. If I'm going to let the university open up the Henry Kline Memorial Library or whatever the fuck, I don’t want to give them dusty books with cracked spines, you know? He would've hated that."
Quincy clears his throat, licks his lips a little, and wow, okay, Cal's feeling things again. "I don't know if this is something you'd even be comfortable with, but...I could continue the work I was doing with Professor Kline. We were in the middle of restoring his collection, and I learned his technique well. I still have access to the labs. I could take it one book at a time. With your approval, of course."
Cal blinks. "Um...yeah. Yeah, okay. That's super cool of you, thank you."
"Are you kidding?" Quincy blurts, and then scratches the back of his neck a little like he's embarrassed. "I mean, it's just that you're doing me a favor. Henry Kline's book collection...I'll admit that I've missed them."
Cal can't help the little smile that tugs his lips up, and seriously, he has to get these feelings under control, God, the guy hasn't even moved in yet.
Before he can say anything, Quincy's face softens into that aching sympathy again. "And Cal...I miss him, as well. He was a good man."
Cal kind of wants to cry, so suddenly and desperately that it takes his breath away for a second. His stomach churns audibly, and Quincy looks at him in alarm.
"Quincy," he says when he gets his voice back, "How soon can you move in?"
Quincy beams. "How soon will you have me?"
*
When Amy gets out of the shower, Cal is sprawled across the couch, openly groaning, clutching his stomach with both hands.
"What happened to Quin--Cal?” Amy blurts out as she enters the living room, rushing over to the couch when she takes in Cal’s sickly pallor.
“Finally drove him back and jumped his car," Cal groans, still marveling that he was able to hold it together long enough. He may or may not have had to pull over on the way back, heaving up a trickle of stomach acid and chai tea latte onto the side of the road, at least as much due to anxiety as it was to lactose intolerance, but Amy doesn’t need to know that. "Says he'll take the room…"
“Okay, that’s great, we’ll unpack that later,” Amy says, sitting gently at Cal’s feet, “But what’s going on with this?” She doesn’t wait for permission, laying a soft hand on Cal’s bloated belly, kneading gently at a cramp, ushering up a soft burp. Amy is sort of a miracle worker.
"’S gonna pay Zara’s share,” Cal murmurs, leaning into Amy’s touch, grimacing as the pressure ushers up a burp that brings up a wave of stomach acid. He swallows hard.
"Again, that’s great, but,” Amy says, rubbing his belly in wide arcs, maintaining a steady pressure that does wonders for the cramps. “What the hell?”
“I got anxious getting my latte,” he mumbles, letting his eyes slide shut. Amy’s ministrations are easing the worst of the nausea, and he is so, so thankful for her. “Forgot to ask for almond milk.”
“Cal,” Amy says, all faint disapproval and warm concern. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
“You were showering,” he whines, then whimpers a little at a particularly strong cramp, and Amy moves closer, applying a bit more pressure as she kneads at the cramp, massaging her other hand gently over the burbly places in his lower belly. “I made him show himself around. He didn’t even mind.”
“Sounds like a dreamboat,” Amy says, her voice light and teasing.
Cal doesn't know what to say to that that won't be self-incriminating, so he just says, "He really likes yellow."
"I noticed that,” Amy agrees. "When does he move in?"
Cal keeps his eyes shut, studiously avoiding eye contact. "Tomorrow."
"Oh, wow, so soon! I can't wait to get to know him." Amy’s tone is completely genuine, probably working out what she can bake that properly conveys a message of thanks for living with us! She applies a bit of firm pressure unexpectedly to the bloat beneath Cal’s ribs, and he groans, feeling a flutter in his stomach as it tries and fails to expel a rush of trapped air. “Oof--please don’t do that again,” he manages, clutching at his chest.
“I’m sorry, honey,” Amy says, sounding genuinely sad, and Cal slowly opens his eyes. “Just seems like you’ve got quite a lot of air stuck in there. Would you like some tea? Not chai, I guess...”
Cal groans, shoving a couch pillow over his face. “I know. I’m an idiot. Oh, my tummy—”
“Let me make you that tea,” Amy says lightly, giving his tummy a little pat before wrenching herself off the couch, and Cal loves the fuck out of her, has he mentioned?
"I think you'll like him," Cal calls as Amy moves into the kitchen, deciding to take this opportunity to drop the bomb, adding more quietly, "Oh, and, small world, he worked with my dad."
The rustling in the kitchen pauses, then starts again almost as suddenly as it stopped. "Does he...?"
"Yeah, I told him. Didn't seem to bother him. He really likes the books."
"The books," Amy murmurs, and oh God, not this again, but Amy is already following up with "Have you thought any more about what you're going to do with them?"
Cal takes a deep breath and feels it stutter a little in his chest, reminding him he's been binding for a bit too long. "Yeah, actually. They were working on restoring the books when Dad died. He said he'd help me get them back into shape and I think I'll donate them to the university."
"Oh," Amy says, pleasantly, and Cal reminds himself that Amy is good, that Amy is only doing what she thinks is best, what Zara told her would be best, that most rational people would question the wisdom of having cases of books worth thousands of dollars in an apartment not known for its impenetrable security measures. "That's really cool. He sounds like a really neat guy, Cal."
Cal thinks of yellow-tinted glasses, of that scar on his face and the way he looked at Cal like he understands him. "Yeah," he says softly. "He really is."
“Ginger or mint?” Amy calls, and Cal is thankful for the change of subject.
“Ginger, please,” he calls back, carefully cupping his stomach with his palm, and takes a very deep breath.
*
A long while later, Amy has fallen asleep on his shoulder, a hand still splayed across his slightly-less-bloated belly, old episodes of The Twilight Zone streaming at a low volume on the TV. Cal can’t be bothered to move, too comfortable, too deep in thought, the churning of his belly finally soothed by Amy’s ministrations and a few shamefaced trips to the bathroom.
Cal thinks about his dad every day, and that is no euphemism. He sometimes drifts past the extra room (Quincy's room, he thinks, something blooming in his chest in a way he doesn’t want to deal with right now) and sees his books, or catches sight of the scar on his knee he got the first and last time he and his dad went fishing when they were supposed to be studying for Cal's math test the next day, when a stray hook went straight through and he needed stitches, remembers the ice cream after, I'm not going to say don't tell your mom, but I'm going to say I won't if you won't, and he smiles, just a little (he didn't tell his mother). Every night he lays in a bed across from a desk that's been flush to the wall underneath the window since the day his dad built it, the one they picked out together at IKEA before Cal moved in, the one that had him muttering profanities for three hours on a blisteringly hot day in August while Zara’s mother, Virginia, poked her head in intermittently, how are those PhDs treating you, Dr. Kline? Cal thinks about his dad all the time.
It's just that he can't remember the day he died.
It's just that he knows that he's the one who found the body, that he's the one who, somehow, called 911, who clung to Amy when the ambulance came, but he knows it the way you know stories about your fourth birthday party or your first day of school—more retelling than memory. Something you know because you're told.
If he tries hard enough, he thinks he can remember what his uncle was wearing that day, what the perfume of the hospital secretary smelled like, but he can't for the life of him remember his dad's face, what the last thing he said to him was. And when it comes down to it, maybe he doesn’t remember what his uncle was wearing at all, maybe he just remembers him saying at the funeral, he bought me this tie, you know.
You'd be surprised how many people come to a funeral for a professor, how many handshakes and hugs Cal got just for losing someone. How many looks of pity he got (gets) when they hear his name: Cal Kline, the guy who found his dad dead.
And he can't even remember it.
Psychogenic amnesia, Dr. Hodge told him in one of their first sessions, because yeah, when you're trans and you find your dad dead and can't fucking remember it, the one thing you spare no expense on is a really badass therapist. His brain couldn't handle what happened. He repressed it. It was the emotional shock, was the trauma, was the pain, yeah, Cal gets it.
It's just that the one thing you should be allowed to hold onto are lasts, and Cal can't even remember his. He thinks of his dad and sees fishing, sees the lectures he sometimes sat in on, sees a receding hairline and eyes just like his and of course I still love you, sweetheart, daughter or son, you're family, and it aches.
He wonders if Quincy's lost someone, if that's why he looked at him like that, eyes soft and understanding but not pitying. I get it, he said, and Cal believes him.
Cal rolls that around in his head like a marble.
I get it. I get it. I get it.
Yellow's an awfully pretty color.
#timeline#Cal#Zara#Quincy#Amy#okay yeah i forgot to write a bio for zara we'll get to that later#i. did not proofread this#belly rubs#spot the myx shoutout :P
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If After All These Years, You’d Like to Meet
Note: Here we are, six months exactly after I posted the first chapter. This was the first fic I wrote for this fandom and it was an absolute pleasure to write! The reaction has been unbelievable and has made me want to continue writing not only this one, but other stories. This story ended up being so much longer than I ever expected I could write. I loved this version of these characters and I'm so glad that others did too! I hope you enjoy this final installment. Thank you for all the support and feedback!
master list - AO3
Chapter Twenty-Two
Claire sat on the picnic blanket, stroking her large belly. She could hear high pitched giggles carrying through the air as her husband and their child approached the picnic site. “Mama!” Claire looked over to see her second child hanging off Jamie’s shoulders, his arms keeping her from falling.
“Couldn’t find Ellen?” Claire asked, reaching her arms out for her child. Jamie handed her over before sitting down next to Claire.
“She ran off wi’ Young Ian,” Jamie explained. “Jenny went to find her and send her up this way.”
“You think she knows it well enough?” Claire asked, her eyes scanning the field.
“Aye. She spends plenty of time here,” Jamie reminded her. “Plus, she and Ian have wandered everywhere together. I’m sure she knows this land better than we did at her age.”
Claire grinned. “I don’t know about that. I was talking about the cave the other day and she had no idea it existed. It was probably a bad idea to mention it.”
“Mama, I wanna eat,” Lucy cried, curling in closer to her mother.
Claire leaned down and planted a kiss on the small girl’s head. “Soon, sweetheart. We’re waiting on your sister.”
Lucy sighed dramatically. “I dinna want to wait.”
Claire glanced over at Jamie as they shared a look. A jolt to her stomach made Claire gasp. She laid a hand over the spot that had just been kicked rather violently. “Goodness,” she sighed. Jamie scooted closer and ran a hand along her stomach, leaning down to kiss it. “Don’t get too close. He might kick you too.”
Jamie laughed, leaning back as he picked up Lucy and held her in his lap. “I’ll leave that privilege to ye, Sassenach,” he said with a grin.
“Of course you will.”
“Do ye need me to have a stern talk wi’ the lad?” Jamie asked. He leaned down, his head resting on her stomach. “Now ye listen to me, Henry Brian Fraser, ye’re no’ to be using yer mam like a human football. She willna thank ye verra much for it. And then I’ll have to be doing all the changings when ye’re out.”
Claire rolled her eyes. “On second thought, stay there. Let your son kick you.” She smacked his arm as he sat up.
The sound of quickly approaching feet grabbed both their attention as they saw their five year old daughter running toward them. “Ellen, nice of ye to join us,” Jamie remarked, raising an eyebrow at her.
“I’m sorry,” she said, looking down. “Ian and I were having an adventure.”
“Of course you were,” Claire commented as she moved to finally spread out the food. “We did tell you though that we’d be going on our Fraser family picnic at a certain time though.”
“I know. I’m sorry,” Ellen said, settling down next to Claire.
“Yer sister’s getting verra hungry,” Jamie informed her.
“El’s here. I wanna eat!” Lucy yelled this time.
“Yes, ma’am,” Claire responded, handing Jamie the container with Lucy’s lunch.
They sat there and had their picnic, fulfilling the little tradition they’d started just over five years before, right before Ellen was born. Jamie had convinced Claire they should go back to Scotland one last time before she had the baby. Even though travel had been anything but enjoyable, she agreed because she truly loved being back in Scotland. And Jenny’s knowledge and advice was a comfort as Claire went through her first pregnancy. About two months before Lucy was born, Jamie had suggested they make it a tradition. This pregnancy, they didn’t even need to address it. They’d both decided it would happen again. Traveling with their children was never easy either, but they found themselves back in Scotland much more often as their family grew.
Jamie and Claire had been married at Lallybroch in a small but beautiful ceremony. They didn’t need much more than the quiet simplicity with their friend group and Jamie’s family. Their married life hadn’t changed much from when they’d moved in together, but they were still blissfully happy.
The biggest change had come when Claire got pregnant.
“We have to be clever,” Claire reminded Jamie. “They’re going to know something’s up if I’m not drinking.”
Jamie sighed. “I know, Sassenach. Ye’ve mentioned this ten times.” Claire turned and glared at him.
“I’m sorry, perhaps the energy from growing your child wiped it from my mind,” she retorted. “Look, I don’t want to steal the focus from Rupert and Hannah tonight. So we just need to be sneaky. It’s too early to tell them anyway.”
“The doctor said ye’re having a very healthy pregnancy. Surely it would be fine if they found out,” Jamie reasoned.
“Why jinx it?”
Jamie nodded with a shrug as he followed Claire into the private room of a restaurant where they were meeting the rest of their friends.
It was only two years after Jamie and Claire had been married. Rupert had met Hannah at a work party Jamie and Louise had decided to throw. Sparks had immediately flown and they’d just gotten engaged. The group was all getting together for a small engagement dinner at the couple’s favorite restaurant.
Everyone gathered in a circle, drinks raised in the air. Claire tried to be nonchalant about her water she was toasting with. Rupert was starting to speak when his eyes locked on Claire’s glass.
“Claire? Do ye only have water? Ye canna just toast wi’ water,” he pointed out.
Everyone turned to look at her. The hand of Jamie’s that was resting on her waist tensed slightly. “Uh, no, it’s vodka,” Claire lied.
“You’re drinking a full glass of vodka?” John asked, his brow furrowed. “Doubtful.”
“Who cares what I’m drinking? Let’s just toast!” Claire exclaimed, trying to throw off the attention.
“Claire, honey,” Louise began, turning from the happy couple to watch Claire. “Is there a reason you’re drinking water?”
Claire sighed. “Just trying to cut back a bit,” she tried. “You know, we really do drink a lot.”
“We havena been out in weeks,” Willie stated.
“Aye, especially ye and Jamie,” Angus said as he narrowed his eyes at them.
“Could it be…” Geillis asked.
“Could it be that it’s Rupert and Hannah’s big night and we’re supposed to be toasting them? Yes, indeed,” Claire said, still trying to avert attention.
“Hannah, give me yer ring,” Rupert said. Hannah laughed as she took it off and placed it on his palm. “There, tis like we’re no’ engaged. Now, Claire, tell us.” He took a long pause. “Are ye pregnant?”
She still couldn’t admit it. “What makes you think I’m pregnant? Just because of the water?”
“That and yer boobs are huge,” Geillis remarked.
“Aye, they are, aren’t they?” Jamie said with a grin.
“Jamie!” Claire scolded, slapping his arm.
“Sorry.”
Hannah met Claire’s gaze. “Claire, don’t worry about stealing our spotlight. Are you pregnant?”
Claire took one look at Jamie and he gave her a look that said “Up to you.” She shrugged and took a deep breath. “I am,” she admitted quietly.
The whole group burst out in cheers and yells, clearly very excited for the both of them. Jamie and Claire were met with hugs and claps on the back as their friends joined in their formerly private celebration.
“I canna believe ye’re pregnant,” Geillis said, tears in her eyes. “This is incredible!”
“Well done, lad,” Rupert said to Jamie with a wink. Jamie laughed but Claire glared at Rupert.
“This is amazing news!” Hector joined in.
“Your baby just needs to know that I was your child first,” John reminded them. The whole group burst out in laughter at that.
“Well thank you all,” Claire said, wrapping her arm around Jamie’s waist. “Now, Rupert give Hannah back that ring so we can celebrate your big news instead of ours.”
They smiled as Rupert slid the ring back on her finger and the group resumed toasting the newly engaged couple. As they sat around the table eating dinner and unhelpfully making suggestions for the future wedding, Rupert set his sights on John and Hector.
“So lads, when will it be yer turn?” Rupert asked, one brow raised.
John rolled his eyes before he placed his hand over Hector’s on the table. “We’re taking our time. What’s the rush?”
Claire had been largely pregnant (and indignant about it) at Rupert and Hannah’s wedding. It had been rather the opposite of Jamie and Claire’s wedding. The whole thing was large and boisterous, but also fun. Claire and Jamie made sure to avoid Dougal Mackenzie as best they could. A lot of Jamie’s cousins he didn’t speak with much were there. Claire picked up on some of their comments on not being invited to Jamie’s wedding. Neither of them had any regrets though.
When Ellen was eighteen months old, John and Hector finally got engaged. They had a long engagement and by the time their wedding day arrived, Claire was pregnant with Lucy.
Claire appreciated the sight of Jamie standing up at the altar. It had been since their own wedding that she’d been afforded such a view. She couldn’t help but notice how handsome he looked in his tux. Claire bent down as best she could to whisper to Ellen. “Okay, darling, you see Da up there? All you have to do is walk up to him. If you drop some flowers on the ground on the way there, even better.” John laughed as he stood next to Claire. “Think you can do it?”
Ellen looked up, a bit unsure. The little girl looked down the aisle to her father who was nodding and gesturing for her to walk to him. Suddenly she straightened up and set back her shoulders and walked slowly and calmly down the aisle, dropping petals one at a time. Claire laughed and shook her head as she watched her daughter walk from her to Jamie.
“I want to take a moment to say thank you, Claire,” John whispered to her.
Claire looked over at John in confusion. “Whatever for?”
“For all you’ve done for me and Hector. For all you’ve done for me in general,” John explained.
“And yet you still chose Jamie as your best man,” Claire reminded him. “What happened to us Sassenachs sticking together?”
John chuckled. “You know it had to be Jamie.”
She grinned, nudging him with her shoulder. “I know.”
“But I couldn’t walk down the aisle without my mother,” John said, extending his arm to her. Claire smiled brightly as she linked her arm through his. “Seriously though, you’re a wonderful person, Claire. You’ve brought so much joy to my life just by being my friend.”
“Dear God, John. At least pretend you’re British,” Claire remarked, trying to hold in tears. “You can’t say these things to a pregnant lady.”
“If it weren’t for you and Jamie, I don’t think I’d even be with Hector, so thank you,” John continued. “You both did so much for me after...after the attack. I don’t think most relationships would have survived something like that on the first date.”
“I think that speaks more to you and Hector than it does to Jamie and I helping you,” Claire admitted.
“Perhaps. But you pushed me to take care of myself and helped me while I was trying to do so. You both did. You guys changed my life,” John said, leaning in to kiss Claire’s cheek, “And I’ll be forever grateful.”
Tears were starting to spill from Claire’s eyes. “Well what kind of parents would we be if we didn’t do so?” she teased. The music changed, signaling their time to walk down the aisle. She squeezed his arm. “But in all seriousness, we love you. Both of you.”
John smiled brightly as he started walking with her. “The feeling is mutual.”
“I will say, I’m a bit mad that you followed Rupert’s lead and got married while I was largely pregnant,” Claire remarked.
“Well maybe you should keep your legs closed for a bit,” John joked.
Claire smacked his arm lightly, stifling a laugh as they processed down the aisle.
On their walk back to the house after their picnic, Lucy fell asleep in Jamie’s arms. Claire could tell that Ellen was getting tired too, but she would surely fight a nap. She often tried to tell her parents that she was too old to nap. Claire craved some rest herself.
Jamie quietly walked up to the room Lucy and Ellen were sharing and tucked Lucy in. Ellen had found Ian and Caitlin in the kitchen and was trying to rally so she could spend time with them. Claire shrugged, deciding to let Ellen do what she wanted. She turned and laid down on the couch, needing some rest herself.
She didn’t end up getting much before Jamie found her. “Are ye up to go look at something wi’ me, mo nighean donn?” Jamie asked.
Claire groaned. “What are we looking at?” she asked, not opening her eyes. “Your son is draining my energy.”
“Tis a surprise, I’m afraid,” Jamie said with a small grin.
“You’re trying to get me to go somewhere with you and you won’t say where?” Claire asked. “If I weren’t eight months pregnant, I’d think this was an excuse for a romp somewhere. But I think you know that’s not happening.”
Jamie laughed, kneeling down next to the couch. “Nah, no’ that, sadly.” He laid his hand high up on her thigh. “Though ye ken there are other ways of finding some pleasure,” he reminded her as he waggled his eyebrows and moved his hand up higher.
Claire slapped at his hand as she laughed. “Jamie, your sister is in the next room. Not to mention our daughter.”
He chuckled, moving his hand instead to rest on her stomach as he kissed her gently. “No’ to worry, I ken our potential audience.” He jumped up, extending an arm to her. “Will ye join me? We can take the car.”
“It’s that far away?” Claire asked.
“Tis further than ye’d want to walk.”
She shook her head with a sigh and smacked her hand into his.
They stood in front of her parents’ old house, still in surprisingly good shape. “You know you’ve brought me here before, right?”
“Aye, I ken that,” Jamie said, still looking up at the house. He bounced up and down on the balls of his feet. “But there’s something ye dinna ken about the place.”
“What’s that?”
“Tis for sale,” Jamie told her, turning to meet her gaze. “And...I put an offer on it.”
“I’m sorry, what?” Claire said, looking between him and the house.
“I ken I should have mentioned something earlier, but I had to jump on it. When I was up in Glasgow for work last month, I saw the sign as I was driving to Lallybroch. I stopped, stared at it for a long time, and then I called them and asked to see the place,” Jamie confessed.
“You did this all without telling me?” Claire asked him.
“Yes, and I ken that was wrong. We should decide things together. But I havena officially purchased it. Tis still just an offer,” Jamie rushed to say. “I want yer final decision before I sign anything.”
“Look, obviously this house means a lot to me,” Claire admitted, “but it’s in Scotland. I know we’re doing pretty well, but not ‘have two residences’ well.”
“I ken that too, but we’ve also talked about moving out of London,” Jamie reminded her. “Wi’ the girls and now the new bairn, it would be a good time for it.”
“And so you think we should move back up here?” Claire asked.
“We’ve talked about it.”
“I know we have. But we never came to a decision.” Claire sighed. Her heart yearned to go back in and walk the halls she used to walk with her parents. “So we have an offer on this?”
“Aye, they’ve actually accepted it,” Jamie told her. “But I said I had to talk it over wi’ my wife before I signed anything.” He watched her as she stared at the house. “Living in London is no’ what it was when we reunited there. Rupert, Hannah, and Angus all live in Edinburgh.”
“Yeah.”
“Louise took that job in Paris.”
“She did.”
“Geillis would probably follow us as an excuse to go back to Scotland,” Jamie argued.
Claire laughed. “You’re right, she probably would.”
“That really only leaves Willie, John, and Hector. And you know Willie has one foot out the door.”
“Yeah, I think he does,” Claire agreed with a sigh.
“Our days of spending the weekends closing down a pub wi’ our friends have been over for a while now,” Jamie admitted. “And we pay quite a lot on our home. The city is a grand place, but tis no’ like here. We were both raised here and enjoyed it, aye?”
Claire finally took her eyes off the house and looked over at Jamie. “Aye.” She smiled, moving to tuck herself into his side. “Yes, we certainly did.” She shook her head as she weighed all his arguments. “As much as I love London and will always love London, it would be nice to be closer to the family. And to have more space for the kids to be kids.”
“Aye, that’s just what I was thinking as well.”
“The group has dispersed so it’s not like we’d be staying for them. And we should be thinking of our family before them anyway,” Claire reasoned. “And Ellen definitely loves it up here. I don’t think she’d have any issues with the move.”
Jamie smiled, thinking of how naturally his daughter had taken to the land. It brought him such joy to see her tear across the same fields he’d done so. “We always talked about leaving the city someday, but when I saw this was becoming available, it seemed like a sign.”
Claire let out a deep breath, running a hand absentmindedly over her stomach. “I could see that.” She turned to look at Jamie. “But what about our jobs?”
“I could get transferred up here,” Jamie informed her. “I spoke wi’ my boss and it would be an easy process. There’s the office in Glasgow, as ye ken. That would be an easy commute. Plus, there would be a hospital in Glasgow I’m sure that would want ye. Ye’re a fantastic doctor.”
Claire rolled her eyes. “Laying it on a bit thick. Feeling guilty for doing all this behind my back?”
“A bit. I want ye to be on board, but I willna push ye toward something ye dinna want to do,” Jamie assured her. “Whatever we both want for our family is the most important. I can take back the offer on this and we can find something outside London if ye’d rather.”
Claire was silent for a long time as she thought through each aspect of Jamie’s plan. The fact that it was her parents’ old home, the last place she’d had a family before her children came along did make it feel like a sign. London had linked her to Uncle Lamb and when he’d passed, that was what she needed. That was what had felt like home. But now that she was a mother, she craved the idea of a link to her parents again. The idea that her children could grow up and play in the same place that their parents and aunt and uncles did gave her a ridiculous amount of joy. Lallybroch had always brought her happiness and peace. Getting to be there regularly sounded pretty perfect. She’d just never considered the option until now.
Claire turned around and looked at the road that led to Lallybroch. She saw the backyard where she used to play in the refurbished shed. There was the tree that was much easier to climb than the ones at Lallybroch. This place held so many sweet memories that she’d held close to her heart in the years after she left Scotland. Suddenly, with a kick from the baby, the decision became very easy.
“Leave the offer on the table,” she said as she walked up to the front porch. Turning around, she saw Jamie’s broad grin as he strolled towards her.
He wrapped his arms around her. “Ye mean it? Ye’re sure?”
Claire nodded. “London was our home for a while. And we both loved it and will always love it. And we can take the kids back and show them all the wonderful parts of it. But Scotland is also our home. And it’s where we should be. I didn’t really think about it until you showed me all of this.” She felt another swift kick. Claire laughed, rubbing a hand along her belly. “And I think Henry agrees. He thinks this is our home too.”
Jamie smiled, bending down to kiss her belly. “Smart lad.” He looked at her. “Ye’re sure?”
Claire wrapped her arms around his neck as best she could with her large stomach between them. “Yes I am. It just feels right.” She leaned up as Jamie leaned down and met her for a kiss.
“Well then, welcome home, Claire Beauchamp Fraser,” Jamie announced, gesturing to the house. “Apparently there’s only been one family living here since ye last did. When I looked through it, there didna seem to be too much changed. It seemed just the same.”
Claire curled into his side, staring at the house. “That sounds nice. But realistically, we’ll probably have a lot to change. You know you’ll want a nicer kitchen than the outdated one my parents had.”
Jamie laughed, wrapping his arm around her. “We can make whatever changes ye like, a nighean.”
Claire leaned up and kissed his cheek. “This is a terrible time to be making a big move,” she reminded him, looking down at her prominent belly. “But I can’t deny that it seems perfect.”
They stood there for a while longer, intermittently sharing a silence and crafting plans. Soon they turned back for Lallybroch, enjoying how quickly they got there. That night, they sat down to tell the girls the news, hoping they’d be as excited as Jamie and Claire were becoming.
Ellen was very thrilled at the prospect of being minutes away from her cousins instead of hours. Lucy didn’t seem to really know what it all meant, but was smiling nonetheless. Claire held her youngest daughter on her lap as she watched Jamie hold their eldest and share in the excitement of the upcoming move.
Jenny and Ian were also quite thrilled at the idea of having them so close. Their children were already inseparable during their visits. They all shared the same joy at the idea of their children living out a similar happy childhood as their own. The Frasers and the Murrays must have been destined to spend their childhoods on those lands.
It was three months later that they finally moved into the house. Wrapping up their lives in London while also welcoming a new baby and trying to pack up had been chaotic. And in that time, Claire and Jamie never gave up on trying to convince John and Hector that they should move to Scotland.
Jamie had moved up to Scotland two weeks before the big day due to the transfer. He’d taken the girls with him and entrusted them to Jenny and Ian. Claire had finished up packing away their lives when not nursing and changing Henry. She felt capable of undergoing it all by herself, but she couldn’t deny her relief and happiness when Jamie surprised her two days before the movers were due to arrive.
They spent their last night in the house they’d welcomed all their children. The first place that had been only theirs. They’d moved in there when Claire was expecting Ellen. It had been a happy place. Though they were excited to move back to Scotland, it was a bittersweet moment.
It felt strange to Claire to be unpacking all her new things in her old house. She felt she’d misremembered certain things in the almost thirty years since she’d lived there. But the feeling of contentment remained. And that was all that mattered.
The girls were discovering the shed, one Jamie had made sure was still in good condition before letting them loose in, while Henry napped. Claire was down to her last box to unpack. It had only taken a couple of weeks, which seemed like an impressive undertaking with three small children. Claire had decided to wait to look for jobs until she was ready to go back to work. And at the moment, she was enjoying the time with her children, even if that just meant unpacking while they ran around and played. Jamie walked in the door from work and Claire held the last box up victoriously.
“We did it!” she cried, waving the box over her head. “We’re officially moved in!”
Jamie walked over and wrapped his arms around her, meeting her for a kiss. “I believe ye beat all our other records.”
She laughed, kissing him again. “Yes, I believe I did. I’m amazing.”
Jamie beamed at her, a smile on his face. “I’ve always thought so.” Claire shook her head, wrapping herself tighter around him. “What’s this?” Jamie asked, spotting something over her shoulder. She turned around to see him looking at the housewarming gift Jenny had dropped off earlier in the day.
“It’s from Jenny.”
Jamie smiled as he stared at it, wonderful memories clearly coming to mind. It was a frame that held two pictures. The first was the picture Claire had found when she’d moved to London of Jamie and Claire sitting on the fence as children. The second was the picture Jenny had insisted they take sitting on the same fence, their three children with them.
“Tis perfect,” Jamie commented, seeming a bit choked up.
“It is.” Claire hugged him tighter before Henry started waking, drawing her attention. She brought the baby back over, holding him between them.
Jamie bent down to kiss his son’s head. He then kissed Claire’s forehead. “We’ll be happy here, aye?”
The girls raced in, running past their parents for the kitchen. Claire laughed, looking around at the family they had and the life they’d built. She leaned in close to Jamie. “I think you should know by now, we’ll be happy wherever we’re together.” She kissed him softly. “You and me.”
“And the bairns.”
Claire laughed. “Exactly. Our family.”
Jamie leaned his forehead against hers. “Tis all we need.”
#Outlander#outlander fanfiction#outlander fanfic#my writing#if after all these years you'd like to meet#can't believe i finished this one#thanks so much for reading
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Session 15: Burn the Temple, Topple the Thorns
We may have stretched the bounds of simple country hospitality too far.
Underground, Valeria and Clem consider a pressing question: are there any doors they can go through where they DON’T have to talk to the smug hobbit man? Good cave walls make good neighbors.
Investigating around can’t hurt, right? Clem picks a door at random - maybe all the cheesecaves are connected, like one big Cheesecave Factory - and peers in with her darkvision.
Not the next one over, but the one after that, since. Maybe they’re connected. Clem peers into the gloom of the cave with her darkvision, and can make out some lumpy outlines. As she creeps in, the ground under her feet feels disturbingly soft.
“Should I get the light?” asks Valeria. Clem nods. Valeria lights up A-Luxor. As the little floating beetle fills the cave with light, they see there is a carpet of fungus on the ground. Up against one wall, half-formed, a large, vaguely humanoid figure is growing out of this patch of fungus.
Valeria is like, “That’s horrifying. I was gonna just leave and shut the door? But we have to do something about that.” Clem agrees. Maybe they should set it on fire. As the half-formed creature stirs in the sudden light, she glimpses a small barrel someone has wedged into a nearby pillar. Oh, huh, there’s a length of fuse coming out of it. What on earth could this be?
We could sit here and wonder why this thing is rigged to explode, but the fungus creature is moving and growing in the light. The misshapen lump where a head would be pulls free and turns toward the two adventurers. With a massive effort, a big clublike arm tears away from the wall and slugs Valeria.
The other arm and legs don’t look fully formed, and Clem wastes no time hacking at the weak points with her sword. The body is soft and incomplete; there’s something fleshy underneath, but if there was ever a person in there, it’s long gone. It’s almost dead – this thing would have been a real monster if it had finished growing, but as it is it’s weak and unprepared. Valeria chops its bulbous head off, and it slops to the ground with a sickening flop. The thing lurches over and falls.
As it does so, a red splotch appears in the mottled green blanket of fungus over the walls, spreading rapidly outward.
Clem doesn’t like the look of that. “…should we run?”
Valeria shrugs. “We probably shouldn’t stay overnight. Maybe we just leave and close the door?”
The spreading red patch reaches a bulbous puffball mushroom bulging out of the corner, which turns a pulsing red and begins to emit an earsplitting, high pitched scream.
Oops.
-
Gral and Shoshana are skedaddling, because the temple worshippers have started gathering up torches and particularly sharp farm implements - you know, good old-fashioned angry mob stuff. Luckily, Gral and Shosha have enough warning to get well away before they come pouring out, making a beeline for the inn, so the spellcasters scoot back to the meeting place without detection. Rebecca’s hiding in the bushes right where she said she’d be.
“I got your friends to the safehouse, they’re fine,” she reassures them, with full dramatic irony.
They head a ways through the valley, but it’s not long before the torches in the distance make a sudden sharp turn and start heading down road we’ve been going down.
“Rebecca, they don’t know where the safehouse is, right?”
“No!”
“Because they’re coming right for us. They couldn’t have seen us, could they?”
The mob hasn’t even gotten to the inn yet; they can’t have already discovered we’re gone.
They hear a rustling from the wheat field.
They fuckin’ book it.
-
The awful sound echoes through the room. As similar screaming starts to emerge from the adjacent caves as well, the door that Rebecca had originally indicated flies open, and a bunch of figures hurry out, pulling on bags and cloaks.
“What the hell happened?” someone shouts. “Are those the people Rebecca was bringing?!”
“Quickly! Zis place is burned. Set off ze charges.” A Demish voice begins snapping orders. Torches light up as figures of all shapes and sizes start running toward cave doors.
A short silhouette glares up at the tanks. “Oh. I see. Bonjour.”
Clem audibly sighs.
Henri has no time for this. “You have no idea what you’ve done here, do you?” he hisses. “Before you begin with ze noble indignant speech, now is not ze time. Run! Stay out of ze fields!”
They don’t need telling twice. Valeria and Clem charge back down the path to meet up with the spellcasters.
Gral and Shoshana hear screaming, and see their allies abandoning all stealth and clattering towards them.
Behind them, the hills explode in cascading showers of soil and flame.
Rebecca’s aghast. “They’ve been using them for months now! What happened!”
Clem humphs. “I guess this is what happens when you build a safehouse among FUNGAL ALARMS.”
“But there was a system! They had a thingthat let them turn one off every night! There was a system!”
Clem wisely chooses to omit some details. “…seems like a flawed system.”
Rebecca does not have time to unpack this right now. “What did Henri say to do?”
“Run.”
“Where?”
“THAT WAS NOT INDICATED.”
She swears. “The cultists are coming this way – we don’t have a lot of time. I know some places we could try to hide. My dad, though - he’s back at the inn, I don’t know if he’s safe-”
There are too many of the cultists between us and the inn, though, so she leads us away from the awakening wheat fields to the thicker, less-tamed trees by the river. We find the densest brush we can, Minor Image up some extra shrubbery, and hunker down.
We can clearly see the cultists’ movements by the burning lights of their torches. They reach the destroyed caves and start to fan out, breaking into 2- or 3-person search parties, soon joined by silhouettes that emerge from the wheat fields. For the time being, our hiding place seems to go unnoticed.
What’s our plan now? Hunker and wait out the night? Now that the search parties are more scattered, we could make moves back to town, Trollsburg, or even Sturmhearst, or to cross the river.
Rebecca wants to check on her father, but she’s gonna follow our lead. We’re worried that even her tentative safety has been compromised; after this, the cultists might not bother hiding during the day anymore.
As we bicker, Shoshana surveys the area. Pretty much the only place the cultists aren’t searching is the temple itself.
...hey.
Temple’s empty.
What if we burned down the temple while everyone was out?
It’s alarming how quickly the group agrees to arson.
(In deference to previous campaigns: If we find any big fancy chairs, we will knock them over, as well.)
Rebecca does not want to be there while we burn down the temple, understandably. We direct her to Trollsburg, which the townsfolk should leave alone – tell Dr. Kjeller we sent her. She slips off into the night, and we shift from defense to offense.
As we roll stealth, Shoshana crits and everyone can see the change come over her. She now has a target, and the part of her that belongs to the Hunt…goes on the hunt. Her posture changes, ever so subtly. The way she peers into the darkness makes her eyes seem even more inhuman, gleaming in the darkness. And the shadows curl around her just a little bit more.
We sneak back to the temple, the predator’s instinct guiding us deftly around our pursuers.
It appears that the temple is not wholly unguarded. There’s three people Gral can see backlit against the windows, and none of them are Zelig. Hans and Franz still have bits of the floorboard peeled up. They’ve revealed more of the fungal carpet underneath, and they’re examining it and discussing what they see in hushed tones. The fungus is a riot of shifting colors; it’s almost like they’re reading it. There’s a third man there, a farmer, and soon enough Hans and Frans tell the third guy something and he immediately runs off.
“All the plants are informants for them,” Gral realizes aloud. “They’re getting info here. They know where everyone in the valley is.”
“Oh, good thing we’re gonna burn it then.”
Valeria goes ahead and casts Aid, because this is likely to get hairy, and Shoshana turns back to the party and grins a fanged grin.
“Firesong taught me this one,” she says, and hucks a Fireball through the window.
Subtle? No. Satisfying? Oh, yes.
Hans and Franz, coughing in the smoke, pick themselves off the ground and dive for weapons. It’s obvious the blast has done some heavy damage to them. (And to their clothes. Scantily clad buff men, hell yeah.)
Hans bursts out of the door, swinging a heavy fencepost with nails pounded through it, clobbering the first Clem he sees. We thought he was buff this morning, but he’s grown impossibly more swole. A button pops off his overalls as his inflated muscles bulge out of them.
The temple begins to fill with smoke as the fire catches. We hear that awful alarm-mushroom screaming again.
Shoshana cackles and Fireballs the place again.
Valeria pulls out her trident with a flourish and forks Hans right in his big unnaturally round pectoral, Rack’s vines curling around him. We’ve leveled up and she gets two attacks now, so she pops him again, and Hans crumples to the ground – we’re not sure he’s DEAD dead, but he’s out of the fight.
Franz levels his big-ass crossbow at the madly cackling witch in the window. HAHAHAHHAAHAHA-oh shit. She gets blown out the window, along with 2/3 of her HP in one shot.
Clem takes a cue from Shoshana and gets WAY too into this, cackling and swinging in with her big ol’ sword. These fellas have ogre stats, but she’s a veteran badass and cleaves Franz right in two. An on-the-spot medicine check from the medic reveals that…those are definitely not fully human insides. Ew.
She flexes over his corpse in a final show of superiority. She got these muscles WITHOUT juicin’, thank you very much.
The two halves of Franz fall heavily, crashing through the weakening floorboards and revealing a cavernous space underneath the burning temple structure. The fungal carpet is very on fire. (In Shoshana’s opinion it could stand to be MORE on fire, though.)
Alarms are coming from both the temple and the carpet. Gral listens for anything else, but he can’t hear whether the townsfolk are coming over the roar of the growing blaze. Maybe we jump down there and investigate? Or do we dip out?
Screw it. There’s a tempting hole, full of danger.
Clem rips off both her sleeves and uses one as a smoke facemask.
We gotta make sure this thing burns for good. We jump in the curse hole, because of course we do. It’s more of a basement than a cave, really. The flames from the floor above illuminate some crates and shelves and boxes – normal basement stuff. (Shoshana rolls a nat 1 perception, and so is too busy cackling at fire like a terrible arson goblin.)
One side looks like the shrine to Guile, hidden as shrines to Guile always are. There’s also an empty throne for Oberok, per tradition. It falls over.
On the other side, though, there’s storage - tables stacked up for banquets, picnic tables, chairs. One big chair has been dragged out, and an imposing figure sits, staring at us impassively. Rose vines have grown out from the chair, wrapping around his heavily armored limbs.
His armor gleams with polish, though leaves poke through the seams, and his closed helmet is sculpted to fit the face of a dragonborn. It clangs as he jerkily stands to his full height.
“Marius?” Valeria gasps.
The rose-bound knight draws a trident and turns to us. The vines behind him start to wriggle and writhe as he moves.
His purple cloak of office is missing. Valeria feels it hang heavy about her shoulders.
His mouth moves as if he’s about to speak, and silent rose petals fall softly out.
Shoshana doesn’t trust this. She casts Mirror Image, the flickering fire-shadow playing games with her figure. Marius’ head tilts as he focuses in on her, the thrower of the fireballs, so the squishy sorceress dives behind her bulkier friends for extra cover. Gral follows suit and dashes the other way, spreading out the party. The knight that might be Kyr Marius hefts a mighty trident and hurls it, nailing Clem. Vines burst forth from his gauntlet and snatch the trident as it hits true, snapping it back to his hand.
Marius had a magic gauntlet that did that, but he would do it with Rack’s glowing ethereal rose vines, not these squirming physical ones. Valeria, hesitating, hopes that if he’s using his same fighting style, there might be something left of her beloved mentor inside this growth-encrusted enemy.
Clem second winds, in preparation for Doing Something Stupid, and charges Marius directly. Bracing himself against her blow, Marius reaches out to one side and fires a blast of vines at Gral, who finds himself bound in foliage but manages to resist being dragged into sword range.
As Valeria and Clem rush to engage, the knight’s faceplate opens to reveal a familiar silver face, webbed over by the delicate tendrils of roots and sprouts. He breathes not a cloud of cold, as Valeria would expect, but a barrage of toxic spores and razor-sharp seeds. Rose vines climb through the cellar floor at Valeria’s feet, tangling and impeding her movements, but only seeming to aid the knight’s passage as he glides effortlessly to where Gral is held in place by vines.
Valeria had hoped to be able to cut the vines away to disconnect Marius from the Growth’s control, but as he moves away from his makeshift throne we can see most of the plants under his armor are untethered, growing out of his body. As she moves to tear Gral free with her claws, bits of charred ceiling begin to rain down around us.
Oh, right, the building’s on fire.
Shoshana pew-pews over a few spare pews, but her spells bounce off his armor, and Gral’s fear effects are just as ineffective.
Kyr Marius draws his sword, long-thorned vines growing from out of his gauntlet to wrap around it, a warped mirror-image of how Valeria’s smites manifest. He moves swiftly, pinning Gral with his trident and plunging in his sword for the killing blow - luckily only destroying Gral’s illusory duplicate, but brutally efficient nonetheless. Whatever this knight is, it’s certainly retained the veteran paladin’s skill.
Valeria bites the bullet and abandons her hesitation, imposing herself like a protective wall between her mentor and her friend. Nose-to-nose with him, his faceplate hanging open, she can see just how much the Growth has infested the once-mighty paladin. Tiny sprouts creep out from under his silver scales, thorns nesting side-by-side with his fangs and a riot of green plant matter all down his snarling throat. His eyes are gone, vibrant roses blooming in the empty sockets.
This...this is not a living dragonborn knight, by any metric. Kyr Marius is gone, and has been for a long time.
Turns out the Growth can’t really corrupt paladins much, but it can certainly make use of them.
Another chunk of the ceiling falls in, narrowly missing Shoshana. She lobs another Chromatic Orb at Marius, but again it breaks harmlessly on his armor.
The vines across the floor continue to expand around the party, blooming into roses with long, deadly thorns.
Marius swings in at Valeria. She catches it on the Eyegis, which blinks back at him. Marius does not blink back at it, his flower eyes entirely impassive.
Gral throws a Faerie Fire. Marius cannot get out of the way, but he crosses his arms in a defensive stance as vines cocoon him, absorbing the Faerie Fire, and he bursts free unmarked. He focuses in on Gral, raining blows down, an implacable, inevitable executioner.
Valeria interposes herself again, forcing Marius to take his attention off the bard. His sickly green vines wrestle with her glowing, translucent ones as her mighty Smite meets his swinging blade.
It’s eerie how little he reacts to Valeria’s sword tearing into him, an unstoppable automaton of plant.
One more Chromatic Orb fails. Shoshana, in frustration and fear at seeing her friends get clobbered, dashes forwards toward the melee.
Marius raises a wall of thorns around himself, finally acting in defense even as his face shows no pain. He looks like he might be preparing to heal himself.
Luckily, Gral’s got a way of dealing with walls. He strikes a minor key and passes through the thorn wall, zipping behind Marius and nocking one of his Heart-Seeking Bolts. The advantage granted allows Gral to bury it into a crack in the silver armor for a whopping 20 damage. Marius retaliates, whirling to hurl his trident, but it barely damages the half-solid orc.
Clementine tires of this fight. She charges through the wall of thorns – damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead – and swings in brutally for three hits, three maneuvers. 43 damage on a SINGLE TURN. Frickin’ Battlemasters!
Just as the vine-encrusted knight is distracted by Gral, Clem drives her greatsword straight into his chest, and SUPLEXES HIM INTO THE GROUND. He crashes to the ground, Clem’s full weight driving the blade in to the hilt.
Marius briefly tries to move. We can see through his damaged armor that it’s more like the vines are moving him than he is moving himself. But there’s just not enough knight left for the vines. He slumps with a spore-heavy gasp, his weapons clattering to the ground.
Kyr Marius of the Order of the Rose is dead. But we suspect he has been for a very, very long time.
We look to Valeria. She kneels by the body, solemnly collecting his weapons and his magic gauntlet, but laying his engraved dagger upon his chest, the one Flynn found in the hands of a fungus creature far down the river.
As Valeria kneels and offers a prayer to Rack, giving Marius what last rites she can, the rest of us take our last chance to case the basement before we flee the blaze.
We find mushrooms and fire. Whatever symbols and tools the cultists had were either made of ephemeral plants or upstairs and on fire. We kick over the rose-entwined chair, though. Fuck that chair.
Valeria stands, finishing her achingly brief farewell. There’s nothing left for us here, and the fire is threatening to overwhelm the temple.
The plants’ screeching has stopped; the puffball mushroom alarms seem to have burned. The room is full of thick, choking smoke and leaping flames, but it’s a small room and we’re PCs. We charge at top speed out through the collapsing walls, escaping with only moderate burns seconds before the roof falls in and the temple collapses entirely.
As we cough the smoke out of our lungs, we’re immediately on the defense - surely the villagers will have noticed their temple going up in flames, and we’re gonna need to dodge pitchforks.
Or...are we? The torchlights are still speckled across the valley. There are villagers on the road up to the temple, but they’ve collapsed to the ground, their torches flickering where they’ve fallen in the dirt. We cautiously approach and realize they are writhing and moaning in awful pain, as if they’re experiencing the fire firsthand.
“Good,” Valeria whispers viciously. It’s hard to tell whether there’s a trace of Hunt in her voice or simply raw, bitter grief.
Clem does a quick medical once-over of the nearest fallen farmer. Judging by this guy, the cultists aren’t quite fully human - there’s fungal growth under the skin, though not to the bulging extent of Hans and Franz. The feel of the growths isn’t quite like human muscles; they’re lumpy, like clay slapped onto a human figure by clumsy hands, tumors rather than integrated, natural growth.
Other than that there’s nothing physically wrong with them to be causing such pain, though they seem absolutely furious - Clem’s patient spits and tries to claw at Clem’s throat, but is too weak to do much more than twitch.
Valeria’s heard stories about this kind of thing. In her lessons about demonic cults, she’s heard of groups that form a pseudo-hive mind with their dark master. When the paladins would strike down the creature, the followers are struck down with sympathetic psychic pain. In especially entangled cases, usually the cults’ high priests, the mental blow is enough to kill them. Most followers just suffer incredible pain as the link to is severed, but physically will recover fully.
We don’t know if they’ll still be cultists when they wake up. The entity’s control will be severed, but they’ll still be the same people who willingly joined up in the first place.
If they won’t be down for good, we gotta get the hell out of here, stat. We book it to the inn to see what’s become of our guide Rebecca and her dad Aaron. At the inn, a battered-looking Aaron is pulling himself together as Rebecca helps him to his feet. Surrounding them are a few of the cultists, knocked out by the psychic feedback.
As Valeria rushes to Lay on Hands, Rebecca frets. “You’re back - what the hell did you do tonight?!” The, the temple’s on fire, and they were hurting my dad-”
“Oh, I did most of this to myself,” Aaron interrupts. “It was my cover story, I was gonna tell ‘em the four of you had broken out, grabbed Rebecca and run across the river. But they weren’t especially interested in listening.”
Valeria nods as she heals him, but doesn’t trust herself to talk. Gral takes over instead. “They’re disabled for now, no time to talk. Let’s get to Trollsburg.”
“Trollsburg? That thing Zelig was building?”
“Yeah. For now, it should be safe - nobody’s gonna try attacking a whole settlement of trolls. We’ll see how much damage the cult actually took in the morning.”
We hustle down to the river. Behind us, slowly, the lights from the search parties begin to move again, disorganized and scattered. Most head directly for the temple, the fire still blazing starkly against the night sky.
At the bridge, the massive overgrown troll Kjell is shouting in pain on the bank. “Ugh, what’s...happening...” he moans, clutching at his side. He doesn’t seem to be knocked for as much of a loop as the cultists, but something’s definitely not right.
Valeria approaches cautiously and gives him a Curing Disease worth of Lay on Hands. There’s a flash of anger in his eyes as if he’s about to unthinkingly strike her, but she calms him for long enough to take the cure, and it seems to soothe his pain.
The big troll rubs at his side exhaustedly. “Uh, thank you, shiny lady. That, that was – I dunno, that was somethin’ nasty. It started around the same time as the big fire. Woke me up! Woss goin’ on?”
Shoshana tries to give him a brief rundown. “I don’t want to alarm you, but the fungus we were talking about earlier, I think it might have started to infect you-”
“An infection?! I should wake up the phee-zee-ologist then!” Seems he’s already managed that; trolls do not suffer quietly, and three trolls are coming down the hill to see what all the yelling’s about. In the light of A-Luxor, we can see Dr. Kjeller in the lead, wielding the crude glaive he calls his amputatin’ stick.
“Hey, uh, woss goin’ on out here?! Did you folks have somethin’ to do with that there fire?”
“Uh, yyyyyes?” Gral admits, trying to figure out how to simplify the situation for trolls. “The danger was in the church. Many of the villagers were trying to trick you. Whatever Kjell got, they were trying to infect you all with it.”
Kjell sees the doctor and interrupts. “When the temple started burnin’ it hurt right here – “
“Where?”
He points to a spot on his abdomen, and Dr. Kjeller immediately swings his doctorin’ stick, expertly cutting out the bit pointed to. Man, troll regeneration makes surgery easy.
The Doc pulls out an extra-large jeweler’s loop and crams it into his eye as he pulls apart the hunk of flesh with his claws. “Yeup, that’s a fungus all right. This was growin’ inside you? Does it still hurt?”
“Uh, yes?” Kjell points to the bleeding hole in his stomach.
“That’ll pass, you’re a healthy troll. What happened in dat spot? I need yer medical history. Let me find your chart.” He listens to Kjell’s abdomen. “Arright, chartbeat sounds good.”
Clem, in all her medical knowledge, has no idea what a “chart” is, but the Doc was damn sure not listening to the heart area. Dr. Kjeller cheerfully neglects to explain.
“Yep, that’ll grow back soon enough. Don’t worry about it,” he tells the larger troll, who seems to be recovering quickly. “What happened there?”
“I remember I got hurt at one point? A beastie from the wood attacked me. Hit me with some kinda acid, an’ it didn’t grow back like normal. But that nice lady Zelig came by and healed me with magics. A real nice lady, she was.”
“So...Zelig is the one spreading the illness,” we tell the trolls. They’re pretty well convinced, given the hunk o’junkus in Kjell’s gut.
“All the villagers are behind this?”
“Some of them. Maybe most? It’s hard to tell. They can look like normal villagers,” Gral explains. “They’ve been infected a lot more than Kjell was; they can’t think straight. We’ve brought two who are okay.”
Kjell brightens at the sight of the innkeeper’s daughter. “Oh, I know Rebecca! She used ta bring me rabbits! Hiya, Aaron!”
“Hi, Kjell,” the innkeeper smiles tiredly.
“How’s the leg?”
He blinks. “That was 12 years ago?”
“...So, is it better, then? You humans don’t heal.”
“We do, just slower!”
“Dat sounds real inconvenient,” the troll says, his gaping wound already starting to close.
Dr. Kjeller clears his throat. “Well. I tink we are going to have a discussion. You folks are welcome to wait in my house. This is a very important business that must be discussed, but it is troll business.”
That seems reasonable. Shoshana raises a hand. “Can we pass out?”
“If you deem it medically necessary. Would you like me to carry you, so you may pass out earlier?”
“Um, no, that’s okay.”
He says something similar to “gather round” in a guttural language vaguely like Old Valdian, and the trolls gather and begin a heated discussion.
As all 12 trolls hurry over and join the discussion, Rebecca whispers, “Are we gonna be safe here?”
Gral gets Rebecca up to speed on what we know about the trolls, and how except for Kjell they all seem to be unaffected by the Growth. We’re as safe as we’re gonna get in this valley, at least for now.
“Great, I’m gonna fall asleep now,” she tells us. “It’s been a day.”
We start our rest but keep watches. About an hour or two later, Dr Kjeller returns to the house. “We have reached an accord,” he tells us solemnly. “We intend to leave.
“There are still many villagers, and we can see ‘em massing on the other side of the river. We trolls do not wish war. Now, we are pretty mad - lotsa folks had some thoughts about waging war against these people who tried to trick us. We don’t appreciate dat. But we must consider the eyeballs.
“If a group of trolls is invited to a place, and then attacks dat place and wipes it out, that would be very bad eyeballs. Bad for public troll families. No, not eyeballs, what was the word dat guy used? Optics. Yes, the eyeballs would be very bad.
“In da morning, we intend to depart from this place. Without the town, the moot can’t happen. There’s just not enough food. Well, there is, but now we can’t trust it. I will keep an eye on poor Kjell, he’ll travel with me a bit. He has a good heart, and a good chart. His dart I’m a little worried about, sounds like dat lady might have made it extra big to impress all us other trolls. I wish to keep him under observation; dunno what other conditions may happen if dat lady isn’t boosting him with her evil magics.
We will travel south in the morning. This area is dangerous...but we are twelve trolls. Once we are a ways from the valley, we will disperse. Kjell will stay with me and serve as my assistant and bodyguard. You see, sometimes I do an autopsy but lotsa creatures want to feed on the body so I need someone to stand there and guard it. Y’know, a body guard.”
The party considers our options. We’re missing one last plant for our spell, but the trolls will probably be willing to stop briefly for some flower-pickin’. It’s not like we’re gonna run into trouble with a frickin’ CR 25 encounter as our escort. Also, we need to stop by Sturmhearst - we should at least let Flynn and Fiona know what’s up.
We go back to the trolls, and realize Kjell is crying. “I must demolish my bridge,” he explains. “We must stop them from following us.” He built that bridge with his own hands; it’s a sad occasion. As the crew of trolls help him break it down, he gathers a bunch of the stones into a backpack.
“There there, Kjell,” says the doctor. “Remember, a troll’s home is not da bridge they live under. Your home is where your hearts is. Or you can do what I do.” He pulls off his hat and reaches inside, pulling out a toy-sized stone bridge. “A troll may live under a bridge, but a bridge does not need to cross a river.”
It’s probably very touching, if you’re a troll. Anyway, we’re going the heck to bed, and awkwardly trying to be stoic as Valeria cries quietly during her evening prayers.
In the morning, we can see a group of enraged villagers standing guard on the other side of the river, fuming impotently. But they wisely choose not to pick a fight.
We stay by the bank long enough to find a nice patch of Norbert’s Wort for our spell, and then make tracks to the annex. We enter the Sturmhearst camp around noon; trolls are hardly fast-moving. The trolls are wary of the annex proper; they’re well aware of what those flamethrowers can do. They’re just gonna go have a lovely picnic and we can catch up later.
Professor Ulmus greets us. “Welcome back! What’s that commotion out there, sounds like a pack of trolls stomping through.”
SO, ABOUT THAT.
We give her, Flynn, and Fiona a rundown and let them know the villagers are now incredibly hostile.
Flynn stands, reaching to buckle on his sword. “Sounds like we must set out immediately and defeat this evi!l”
“The...one we burned in the temple basement?”
“Aw, you’ve already defeated the evil? Is there any evil left to defeat? I’ve been off my game.”
Shoshana sighs. “So, I hesitate to tell you this, but I know your sister will pick you up and carry you in the opposite direction if you do anything stupid.” Fiona nods, and Shoshana explains that Zelig the evil ex-druid is still up and about, and she’ll be surrounded by cultists.
“Hmm. Well, I’m up for some heroics, but an entire town of cultists? I’m probably not up for quite that much heroics yet. Are you intending to stick around and hunt her down?”
“No, we were thinking we’d head for Mornheim and get our ritual done.”
“Yes, I’d rather this cult did not besiege my campus to get at you; it would be disruptive to our experiments,” Professor Ulmus snarks dryly. As we explain the trolls’ plans, though, a change comes over her and she interrupts us excitedly.
“Wait, Dr. Kjeller is here? I’ve been a fan of his work for quite some time. He wrote a paper – well, a sheepskin – on troll regenerative physiology – one of the best resources we have. His notes are succinct and, well, rudimentary, but there’s more insight there than anyone at Sturmhearst has ever provided! This could be key to my work!”
Uh, sure? We lead her over to trolls and she instantly begins an enthusiastic if baffling conversation with Dr Kjeller. As thet’re excitedly talking, Shoshana feels something tugging at her skirt. It is a squirrel, exhibiting troubling un-squirrel-like behavior. It chitters, tugs again pointedly, and runs into bushes.
Sure, what the hell. She gives a quick heads up to the team and hustles into the woods after the squirrel. Predictably, it takes her right to our grumpy druid friend, perched on a tree stump. “What the hell did you kids get up to last night All my sources are going crazy! I’ve got reports from every bird in the valley, chittering my ear off saying explosions, the temple burned down - hell, half the sources I have are saying other half are compromised! Ya kicked up a hornets nest! And then burned it down!!”
Shoshana gives him the summary, and tells him she might have figured out where the Mother Tree’s last guardian went. He nods at her description of Zelig. “Yup, that’s her. Explains why she abandoned her post, I guess. That’s another one fallen. At least it was the shroomheads this time.”
“As opposed to?”
“I’ve heard some stories. The more sociable ones, the shroom heads get em. My kind are pretty susceptible to that, you can imagine. It’s a pretty lonely life, doin’ what we do, and that whole sense of bein’ part of something greater – that’s not too far from what we do normally. And we like helpin’ things grow. Doin’ our thing and getting to be with people, that’s a hard offer to resist. But ya don’t have to worry ‘bout me, I don’t like people.
“Other types go in with the wolf guys. They go all dark and weird. They get like - y’know, I’ve seen a wolf bring down a deer midstride, yada yada the circle of life, that’s how nature be. So it can be hard to tell how many are just acceptin’ that cycle, and how many are, uh, takin’ a more active role in it, if ya get my drift.
“Still. Knowing she was behind it – I wasn’t gonna speak ill of another druid till I had proof, but it’s somethin’ else to hear it for real.” He shakes his head. “Anyway, you burned the central colony right after they all re-upped their connection; that’s gonna hurt a lot. They deserved it, probably. Anyway, Zelig’s operation in this area’s blown to shit. Dunno if she’ll stick around, maybe she’ll decide it’s time to seek more fertile pastures, as it were. I gotta stick around and guard the Mother Tree, so I’ll keep an eye out.
Not gonna lie, this was a mess. But it was more their mess than my mess, so I do owe ya one. My name’s Zalman. You can reach out to me with a message spell or somethin’, and I won’t just tell you to go fuck yourself, I’ll see what I can do. I got a lot of work to do here – you’ve given me a chance to reclaim the place.”
Shoshana shrugs uncomfortably. “Eh, my talents seem to be more for destroying than for fixing.”
“Then destroy the right thing! It goes against everything us druids stand for, but maybe we need a little fire.”
“Well, after a forest fire things regrow, right?”
“No, WE do that! It’s like a druid convention! Anyway. If you see the old bastard or his wife, treat ‘em as respectfully as you can, but tell ‘em I’d like a word. Where have they been in all this?!” He walks away grumbling, turning into a badger mid-grumble. He’s still kind of grumbling in badger.
She gets back to the annex just as Drs. Ulmus and Kjeller are saying their goodbyes.
“Thank you, Doctor! I look forward to corresponding!”
“I, too, look forward to the core of our spondence.”
As Ulmus fruitlessly tries to find out a nomadic troll’s address, Shoshana sidles up to Valeria. “You okay? I dunno if you want us to leave it alone, or to say something...”
Valeria twists her claws into her cloak, fiddling with the fabric and not meeting the sorcerer’s eyes. “...Thanks.”
The paladin is retreating into Stoic Hero Is Not Allowed To Have Feelings mode, so she’s not gonna talk about it, but she will allow a shoulder bonk of solidarity, and maybe even a light side hug.
We roll against taint as we trek out of the Growth’s domain. We all scrape by, Valeria turning down a deal from the Growth as she does.
#session recap#the growth#bad herzfeld#valeria argent#gral omokk'duu#clem haxan#shoshana bat chaya#professor ulmus#flynn fairgold#fiona fairgold#dr kjeller#druid devito#the cursewood
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Tedgens Change of Scene One-shot. Man I’ve been super inspired recently.
Ted really wished Paul didn’t force him to go out to bars. Ted only agreed because jazz night sounds rad. Ted knew this was the bar that Emma is working at this week and paul just wanted someone to go with him so paul didn’t look weird.
Ted expected to be abandoned within the first minutes. Listening to music and getting drunk alone, isn’t that bad. That’s what he usually does on the weekends just home alone.
Ted met up with paul in front of the bar. Paul was a little late. Punctuality has never been a strong point for paul.
“Hey man how are you?” Paul patted Ted in the back. He knew that paul didn’t care about Ted’s overall misery. Just pleasantries.
“Let’s get some booze.” Ted pushed the door open to the bar.
It was pretty small, it felt like half the room was being taken up by this fancy piano. There was a little stage with a small little jazz band. There were a couple tables in the middle of the floor with people sitting at them. Ted headed straight for the bar.
“A whiskey on the rocks, please.” Ted sat down on the bar stool paul sat down next to him.
“A gin and tonic.” Paul called to the bartender. Paul looked around the joint. He was looking for Emma.
“So when are you going to ask Emma out?” Ted turned to paul. Paul went red. He really needs to man up and just fucking ask her already.
“I uhhh.” Paul tried to find something to say. The bartender set the drinks in front of the two men. Paul immediately started drinking. That’s a good way to avoid the current conversation.
“Ok how you doing folks?” There’s Emma! She was standing on the stage talking into the microphone. The people in the bar were not very enthusiastic. “Our next performer is going to sing a little tune called Change of scene. Give it up for Henry Hidgens.” Emma clapped awkwardly as she walked of the stage and in the direction of paul. She smiled at paul.
Ted did not want to be next to them while they’re flirting with each other. Ted focused on the stage and tune out the two lovebirds sitting next to him.
A man in a tightish black turtleneck walked on to the stage. Oh he’s attractive. Ted would have no problem watching him. That jaw line, damn.
The performer nodded at the pianist. They started playing a slow jazzy tune. The singer looked really in the moment. The look in the singers eye was piercing.
“I’m craving adventure” oh god his voice. Chills went up Ted’s spine. The singers eyes scanned the room. They fell on Ted.
“If you know what I mean,” the singer didn’t look away. Ted could feel his heart rate speeding up.
“You know what I mean.” The singer winked. Ted’s face started to heat up. The singer smiled slightly. Oh god he had a beautiful smile. The singer went back to scanning the room.
“Maybe I need a change of scene.” The performers voices was deep and smooth. The hair on Ted’s arm stood on its end. Ted didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t look away. Ted took a sip of his drink and continued to watch.
“My man is a bore.
A little too squeaky clean.” He was so into it. The singer was clearly very passionate.
“He’s just an extra
And I’m the star of the screen.” He was way too talented for this fucking bar. Ted was completely enamored with him.
“Maybe I need a change of scene.” The look in his eyes, Ted couldn’t explain it. It was just beautiful, really.
“Mr. Director I need to make a change,
I need a better partner to show of my range.” His voice almost completely changed. It was so powerful.
“So hurry up, let’s get this show in the can,
So I can find myself a leading man.” His eyes fell on Ted again. Ted’s heart skipped a beat. Ted didn’t know what to do in this situation.
“I need another change of scene
Another change of pace,
Another heavy-handed pivot I’ll make with grace.” Ted didn’t know a human being could sound like that.
“I need a prince, who can handle a queen.” He was still looking at Ted. Ted couldn’t help but feel like he was singing at him, but like that’s not true.
“I think I need a change of scene.” The singer closed his eyes as he finished the song. “Thank you.” He stepped away from the microphone. Ted reallized he was clapping really loud but holy shit. He deserved it.
“Hey Ted you should go introduce yourself.” Emma patted Ted’s shoulder. Ted had forgotten paul and Emma were there. “He’s a really nice guy.” Emma smiled like she was all buddy buddy with Ted.
He was going to introduce himself. Not because Emma told him to! Because he wanted to tell him how spectacular his performance was. The singer had walked off the stage and in the direction of the bar. Ted walked up to him.
“Hi my name’s Ted.” Ted put his hand out for the singer to shake. He wasn’t nervous for say. But he was really trying not freak out.
“Henry.” He smiled. Henry shook his hand lightly. Ted’s skin tingled at the touch.
“You were amazing.” I mean duh. He was even handsomer up close. The jawline and the cheek bones and the lips and the eyes. Wow he is out of Ted’s league.
“Why thank you.” Henry smiled again. Wow.
“Can I buy you a drink?” Ted didn’t know any other way to keep this conversation going.
“You may.” Henry took a seat at the bar. Ted sat next to him. Ted didn’t want to look away from him, but that’s creepy so he forced himself to look away. Henry nodded to the bartender. The bartender put a fancy looking drink in front of Henry.
“How did you learn to sing like that?” Ted didn’t know what else to say. He just was completely amazed by Henry.
“Lots of practice.” Henry turned to him and smiled. Wow Ted did not know what to do.
“That was a beautiful song.” Maybe Ted just really enjoyed Henry singing it.
“It is. I’m glad someone enjoyed it.” Henry looked down at his drink.
“I don’t think anyone could not enjoy your performance.” Ted leaned against the bar. It was a bad attempt at flirting but he’s putting himself out there.
“You’re sweet.” Henry looked back up. “It’s written for a female. ‘Just because you’re gay doesn’t mean you have to sing a woman’s song’” Henry spoke in a mocking voice. He chuckled sadly.
“Well fuck other people’s opinions.” Ted chuckled a little. Henry’s face got a little brighter.
“I couldn’t agree more.” Henry looked Ted in the eye and smiled. Ted’s face heated up. “Sorry for singing at you. You just caught my eye.”
What does that mean? Caught his eye like caught his eye or like caught his eye, caught his eye?
“Well I’m not complaining.” Ted tilted his head and smiled. Ted glanced down at Henry’s lips.
“Oh.” Henry smiled. He leaned in slightly. Ted’s heartrate was all over the place.
Henry kissed Ted quickly. Ted didn’t know what the fuck was happening. An attractive talented man just kissed Ted. Holy shit. Henry pulled away and took another sip of his drink, finishing it off.
“Do you want to get out of here?” Henry asked putting money on the counter.
All Ted could do was nod. Holy shit what is happening? Ted was either super drunk or dreaming.
Henry grabbed Ted’s hand and pulled him to the door of the bar. No, this is real. Ted you lucky bastard.
“Bye paul I’ll see you at work.” Ted called out to paul as he walked out the bar. He really didn’t see paul’s reaction but who cares.
How anyone so attractive with that much talent could have any interest in Ted, was just insane.
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Hidden Gems of the Silver Screen (And, to a Lesser Extent, the Telly)
It can’t have escaped your notice that the majority of my more recent posts (and fuck knows I’m not posting regularly at the moment) are about movies and TV. The reason for that is pretty simple: 2019 has, surprisingly, yielded some great movies and TV... and also some really torrid shite. On the one hand, films like Ma, Brightburn and The Perfection continue to breathe new life into the horror genre. On the other hand, sci-fi as a cinematic and televised thing continues to ignore its actual audience in favour of sniffing its own farts in a sound-proof chamber designed specifically for next-level virtue-signalling. One thing I will say about the dreck of 2019 is that it’s interesting dreck, at least so far. Another Life, for example, isn’t just bad: it’s mind-bogglingly, fascinatingly bad, as though someone set out to make the worst TV series imaginable and accidentally created a portal to another dimension made entirely of crap.
With all the amazingly wonderful and transifxingly terrible visual media on offer lately, it’s easy to forget that there’s a rich repository of films and TV series from just a few years ago that you’ve probably never watched. You see if you, like me, are a snooty, card-carrying member of the elitist intelligentsia, you probably missed films and TV series that looked dumb as soup on the surface on the grounds that they weren’t worth your time. Luckily for you, I’ve dived nose-first into the detritus of our dying culture, so you don’t have to, and I’ve ferreted out the diamonds from the pig-swill. Without further ado, I’d therefore like to present my list Easily Overlooked Gems.
1. Mandy
The phrase “Nicholas Cage stars in a sword-and-sorcery rape/revenge thriller” does not inspire confidence. It’s therefore easy to ignore Mandy and the promptly forget it ever existed. Which is a shame, because it’s kind of a work of genius. The plot is exactly what you’d expect: a cult kidnaps, rapes and kills Cage’s girlfriend, Mandy, and Cage sets out on a mission of revenge culminating in a blood-bath. The nature of the revenge quest is what puts a sting in the film’s tail- or tale, if you’re feeling puntastic. You see, a lot of the bad guys exist in a constant hallucinatory haze after taking a drug that sent them mad after one dose. In order to fight on their level, Cage has to take a dose too. As a result, the world around him slowly but surely transforms into a nightmare landscape that looks like a cross between a D&D illustration and the cover of a heavy metal album and his grubby, personal mission of fury takes on the unmistakable resonance of a Conan-esque hero’s quest. By the end of the film, you have to wonder if Cage has actually slipped into some sort of alternate dimension or if he’s just lost his game-pieces completely. In places, it’s nearly as painful to watch as Landmine Goes Click (crikey, there’s one for the history buffs) but it looks and feels like Beyond the Black Rainbow. Worth your attention just because of how weird it is. I give it a solid four-out-five decapitated rapists.
2. Baby Driver
Nothing about Baby Driver suggested it would be a good film: the way it was advertised as a car-chase movie trying to be cute; the stupid title; the fact that it came and went through cinemas like a fart in the night. Which is a shame, because it’s secretly brilliant. It’s a highly stylised crime film populated with the archest archetypes money can buy (to the point where some of the dialogue has a weirdly beat-poetic feel to it). It’s saturated colour palette and off-beat affect actually have something of a full-colour Jim Jarmusch flick about them. The hook, of course, is that the lead character (only ever referred to as Baby, because he’s got a punchably youthful face) has tinnitus and therefore has to listen to music constantly to drown at the buzzing in his head. The practical upshot of this is that a) every single scene is overlayed with surprisingly great and situationally appropriate music and b) he goes through life like he’s always dancing, so his way of moving lends to the film’s easy-going sense of flow. It also explains where his preternatural driving skills come from (I mean, not really, but within the context of the plot): he’s used to sliding effortlessly into patterns and rhythms because of the music thing. All of this could make a terrible film, of course, but execution is everything and, to everyone’s surprise, especially mine, this flick was executed with an astonishing level of panache. I rate it ten out of ten grizzly motor way pile ups.
3. Nightflyers
It’s not just films that get overlooked as the tide of culture washes back and forth, like a great big sea of effluent. TV series also vanish unduly into the dustbin of history. Case in point, the criminally underappreciated Nighrflyers: Netflix pre-Another Life sci-fi offering that was actually good. It’s a pretty classic set-up: a group of mismatched wing-nuts on a spaceship, all of whom have secrets that that will threaten to tear them apart while they try to make contact with an alien life-form. What elevates Nightflyers is just how fuck-uped the cast are. There’s an angry British psychic whose spent his whole life in captivity in case he goes full Scanners on somebody’s head, a guy who only ever appears as a hologram for reasons too twisted to explain here, his evil mother whose uploaded her mind to the ship’s computer and gone batshit crazy, a genetic superbeing and a hacker who can send her mind into computers via a dodgy implant and who may or may not be drifting out of touch with the human condition. It’s great. 6 and half billion out of 7 billion monkeys, boiling in the void.
4. Hardcore Henry
No, I don’t know who thought that title was a good idea either, but the point is that Hardcore Henry has no motherfucking right to kick as much arse as it does. It was clearly made on a budget that would embarrass a Youtube shampoo commercial, but it just flat-out rocks. Shot entirely in first-person, it follows the adventures of a mute cyborg as he seeks revenge against the bastard psychic entrepreneur who first built him then tried to kill him. Along the way, his main ally is a dude who keeps dying and coming back to life in a series of identical bodies but with radically different personalities and haircuts (this is eventually explained, but I’m not going to spoil it for you). It’s premise is demented, it’s surprisingly well-choreographed and its soundtrack is an aphrodisiac for your ears. Also, Tim Roth is in it, so that’s just yer seal of quality right there. It came out to a lot of fanfare and many, many cinema trailers back in the day and was then promptly forgotten about as soon as it launched. So I’m dragging it kicking and screaming back into the limelight. It’s on Netflix right now, so go watch it. I rate it a solid 11 out of 15 creepy duplicates of Tim Roth.
5. Upgrade
Another lesser-known film about a cyborg. Unlike Henry, however, this cyborg’s life doesn’t so much ‘rock’ as ‘suck balls’. He gets crippled and then ends up with a sentient computer chip in his head that allows him to remote-control his own body despite not having a working spine anymore. Naturally, his experimental tech attracts the attention of some unsavoury characters and he and his brain-chip have to work together to figure out what’s going on, often through a series of ultra-violent, gory fight-scenes that horrify the protagonist himself. Of course, all might be well, except that the head-chip is a homicidal little shit that clearly has its own agenda. I give it at least 0000 0111 out of 0000 1001 painstakingly restored vintage kill-bots.
6. The Tick
The Tick isn’t as overlooked as everything else on this list, especially since there have been a couple of previous televised incarnations of the franchise to lay the groundwork. However, I still feel like the modern iteration doesn’t quite get the love it deserves, so I’m throwing it out here. Following the adventures a mad, amnesiac and possibly stupid superhero and his neurotic sidekick, The Tick explores a world where superheroes aren’t the paragons of good from classic comics, the corrupt psychotics of The Boys or Watchmen, or the eternally struggling, walking moral life-lessons of modern cinema. Instead, they’re just ordinary people operating at various levels of competence/incompetence and mental illness and working within a bureaucratic, wildly inefficient framework. That might not sound like a recipe for a successful TV series, but it really is. Drawing out the mundane, human side of heroes and villains against the backdrop of cataclysmic, civilisation-threatening events makes for infinitely compelling and very, very funny viewing. It’s kind of doing for the superhero genre what Futurama did for sci-fi a few years back. It’s also where the phrase and/or popular song ‘seven billion monkeys boiling in the void’ comes from. My rating is four out of five sapient, homosexual boats (which will make sense when you watch it).
7. The Void
Amid the high-budget horror extravaganzas of recent years, it’s easy to forget about the void, which feels like the best story H.P. Lovecraft never wrote and looks like David Chronenberg tried to adapt a Heironimous Bosch painting... in the ‘80s. The actual plot concerns a group of people getting trapped in a hospital by murderous cultists and discovering dark secrets and, arguably, a whole other dimension in its basement. You’re not exactly there for the plot though: The Void is a mood-piece and an exercise in visual FX craftsmanship. You’re there to drink in the atmosphere and see what each new cosmic horror looks like. I am delighted to award it ten out of ten unspeakable whisperers in the darkness. That’s enough for two barbershop quartets, an emcee and a supporting act.
8. Happy Death Day
It’s Groundhog Day but as a horror film starring a really annoying lass in her late teens has to keep dying horribly until she learns to stop being such a terrible person... and also kill her murderer with a little help from her newly-minted, non-cunty friend. There’s a sequel that I haven’t seen yet, but the original is a low-key, oft-overlooked delight. I give it 9 out of 11 suspiciously similar corpses.
#Secret Diary of a Fat Admirer#films#tv shows#movies#Mandy#Baby Driver#Nightflyers#The Tick#The Void#Tick#happy death day#Upgrade
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