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welllpthisishappening · 3 years

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But Once a Year (5/5)

This is a trick.

It has to be. Something Pan planned, or some nonsense only possible in Neverland, because one second Emma’s sitting outside the Echo Caves and wondering how exactly things could possibly get worse, and then the world decides to take her up on the challenge. She’s not where she was. Or when she was, either.

And the future isn’t entirely what Emma expects it to be, but that might not be entirely horrible and Christmas with a husband and a family that quite clearly loves her is only kind of messing with her head. God bless us, every one.

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Rating: T Word Count: 10K — canon had to catch up, and stuff had to happen, and happily ever after requires some adjectives AN: Guys! This is a completed story! One I had absolutely no intention whatsoever of writing. For that am even more grateful than usual that you all clicked and read and said very nice things. It’s always an absolute joy to write about these two idiots falling in love. I hope your holidays were fantastic, and January is very kind to you, and I am taking suggestions as to what I should write in 2021. (Or: if I should just post a bunch of fic I’ve already written, there’s so much fic already written)

Ao3 links in the reblog, because Tumblr’s tagging system is something of a colossal joke.

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She’s got no idea where Killian went.

Especially impressive since they haven’t left the house yet, but the house is also fairly massive and there are a lot of people and some of them have magic, and most of them have weapons, and one of Emma’s knees cracks when she crouches in front of Hope.

Who is wearing pajamas that match Lucy’s, and holding a stuffed animal whose right arm appears to be holding on by a quite literal thread, and has absolutely no idea what’s going on.

It’s a strangely positive thing.

“You’re going to be ok,” Emma tells her daughter, which she hopes isn’t the lie it feels like. “Everything’s going to be ok. We’re just—we’ll be back soon, alright?” That’s not really a lie, either. Depending on how the next ten minutes or so, go. And part of Emma expects impatience — from the other adults nearby, magical or otherwise, but a quick glance over her shoulder only shows Mary Margaret wiping away tears, and Regina’s lips have all but disappeared behind her teeth, and the overall tightness of David’s jaw cannot possibly good for any of his teeth.

Taking a deep breath is an exceptional challenge.

“For presents?” Hope asks, and it takes Emma a moment to understand the question. Nodding hurts her neck. And, like, her heart.

No one turns off their Christmas tree in this future, it seems. Colors splash across one of Hope’s cheeks, what feels like several thousand emotions and at least a dozen internal organs twisting in Emma’s center and she barely manages to rasp out, “yeah, of course,” before there’s moisture in her eyes and her vision is going blurry and at the very least it’s comforting to know that one of the steps in her parent’s house creaks too.

“Emma,” Regina murmurs, and she’s nodding again. Hair brushes the hand that’s landed on her shoulder, as warm as ever, but there’s tension in the move as well and Killian’s lips don’t shift when Emma tilts her head up.

Something’s going on. More than the obvious. And she wants to ask, she does — but the worry churning in her gut moves to the center of her throat, and makes it impossible to voice questions or demand anything more than what he’s already given, and they’ve got no idea how to get her back. Except for—

Killian’s eyebrows lift. Ever so slightly, barely enough movement that it should even count, but Emma’s become something of an expert on his face in the last few days, and she can’t blink away the tears fast enough. Mourning something that’s happened and hasn’t, and absolutely needs to.

She can’t ruin this.

Plastering a wholly unnatural smile on her face, Ruby lets out a huff of air as she marches forward and scoops Hope into her arms. “For presents,” she repeats, “Mom wouldn’t miss that, would she?” Emma shakes her head. Seriously, every inch of her aches. With those pesky emotions and magic, and she cannot fathom how she manages to stand back up without falling over, but then there are fingers tangled up with hers and she’s brushing strands of hair away from Hope’s eyes, and leaning forward to kiss the bridge of her nose and—

“I love you.”

Whispers flood her ears, soft enough that for a second Emma truly believes she imagines them, but none of this has been the dream she’d convinced herself it had to be, and the sound isn’t as terrifying as it should be. Is like the excitement borne of picturesque Christmas mornings, and a ridiculous number of cookies, and magically-maintained snowmen.

Killian’s eyes widen, ever so slightly. Part two.

“Dor and I’ll stay here,” Ruby says, seemingly unconcerned with whatever’s happening between Emma’s ears, but Killian’s staring again and Emma’s barely breathing and she probably nods if the movement of her hair is any indication.

More instructions are doled out, plans Emma only half listens to while also trying to stay conscious and it’s only after the screen door slams behind them that she realize she doesn’t actually have a weapon. She’s fairly certain she won’t need it.

Because she’s absolutely positive this is going to work.

Well, she hopes at least.

“Don’t let go, ok?” she mumbles, mostly into Killian’s shirt and he kisses her hair. More than once, like he’s trying to reach a quota and that’s only kind of depressing, but then there’s magic stretching around them and inching up the back of Emma’s calves and she hopes she hears what she thinks she hears.

When he mutters “never” in her ear.

If there were any doubts that they were dealing with the disintegrating fabric of reality, they’re all immediately dismissed as soon as Emma opens her eyes. Trees bend in the middle of their trunks, broken branches littering the ground as what feels like genuine electricity crackles in the air, sending sparks that occasionally rain down like they believe they’re drops of water and allowed to do that.

Clouds that look suspiciously familiar, but lack that hint of magically-induced purple, blot out any sort of light in the sky. They’re puffier than they should be — the clouds, and also Emma’s eyes because she might be crying again, and she’s not particularly knowledgeable about meteorology. Still, she’s seen more than one curse broken and this isn’t quite the same. The lack of color dries out her mouth, although that may also be because she suddenly can’t catch her breath.

Magic tugs at her brain and her muscles, rising up in defense and something that isn’t really bravery. More like fear, at what the clouds can do and what they’ve already done, and the soft whoosh of Killian’s sword leaving its scabbard is far more comforting than it should be.

Wearing those pants with the sword belt is something Emma doesn’t want to forget. “Kinda looks like they’re eating everything in their way, doesn’t it?” she breathes. “Like, it’s—pulling everything up out of the ground, wrecking it at the foundation.”

“Not exactly ideal, is it?”

“You’re making jokes.” “If I don’t know, I’m fairly certain I’ll fall over.”

Scoffing, Emma licks her lips, and that doesn’t do anything except momentarily wet her lips, but her heart’s also trying to explode and the pop of Regina’s teleporting ability is loud enough to make both of them flinch.

“Oh shit,” Henry mutters, wielding his own sword. Both of those things are going to take Emma some time to get used to. Which she doesn’t have.

Not when tiny whirlwinds explode around her ankles, caking her jeans with leaves and dirt-filled snow, and she briefly wonders if that’s because of her or just bad timing on their arrival. Feels like an insult all the same.

“So, uh,” David says slowly, “what do we do about this, then?” Rolling her whole head seems like an entirely excessive response, but Emma supposes Regina’s never been one for subtlety and it is still kind of impressive when she does the flame thing. Fire jumps between her fingers, like one of those bouncing balls on sing-along VHS tapes, and really the answer is pretty simple. “Emma needs to leave. Weeks ago, if we’re being frank, but—” “—We’re not being frank, are we, Your Majesty?” Killian interrupts, low and a little more pirate than he’s been since Emma woke up here. Regina tilts her head. Her neck muscles don’t appear to be dealing with the same limitations Emma’s are.

“How do we do that, though?” Ella asks. “We’ve—I mean, we’ve tried just about everything haven’t we? Zelena’s spell didn’t work.” Regina hums. Looks a little smug, but with a hint of worry that’s also oddly comforting in a slightly vindictive way and there’s no warning before Tinker Bell appears in front of them. Smaller than usual, with wings that move as quickly as a hummingbirds and Emma’s eyes widen so quickly they manage to water even more and it’s easier to hear Killian’s soft laugh when he pulls her against his side.

What looks like sparkles, but may actually be pixie dust floats in the air, Regina’s sigh of impatience barely passing her lips before Tinker Bell is a full-sized person again and that full-sized person looks as terrified as the situation demands and— “Wonderland’s gone too,” she announces. “I only just got out.” Emma’s eyes are going to fall out of her face. It will be gross and undoubtedly uncomfortable. “Out. What does—what does that mean, exactly?” “What it sounds like. It was—” Shuddering, Tinker Bell wraps both arms around her middle, as if she’s trying to ensure she doesn’t fall apart either, and guilt appears to be the prevailing emotion threatening to sever Emma’s spleen at the moment. She’s only partially confident as to where her spleen even is. “Those,” Tinker Bell continues, pointing up at the clouds advancing on them, “they’re…cannibalized versions of magic.” “Oh,” Henry says, “gross.” Mary Margaret sniffles before she kisses him on the cheek. He’s holding Ella’s hand very tightly.

“It is,” Tinker Bell agrees, “because it’s all wrong. Broken, even. The opposite of what you’ve created here. Anything unified is gone, shattered from the inside out and—” “—That won’t stop, will it?” Emma asks, already knowing the answer. It’s been the same since the start, but it was so easy to fall into this start and live this life and she’s hardly noticed Regina. Lifting her hands towards the clouds like she could fight them, or stop them and her electricity metaphor had been almost accurate before.

Lightning explodes from Regina’s palms, feet a bit wider than usual while a muscle jumps in her temple, and the first brush of Killian’s thumb against Emma’s wrist makes her flinch again.

The clouds pause. For a moment.

Seem to shudder against the force of Regina’s power and strength, but there’s another crack and a branch that slams into the ground with an alarming speed, shaking the ground under yet a different pair of Emma’s boots, and, well—

That’s that, as they say.

Only they don’t ever mention the shadow-type vines that also explode from the ground. And for a breath, Emma’s not there. She’s sitting on different ground, in an entirely different realm, while her sword half hangs from the makeshift belt on her back and lights dance in front of her eyes. Blinking doesn’t do anything. Breathing heavily only makes the sound echo in her ears and air heave out of her lungs, and Emma can’t get her bearings. Is being twisted and torn until she’s certain she’ll be ripped apart. Right there, in the in-between, and—

No.

Giving in isn’t an option. She’s got people to save, and a kid to get back and a life to live. And the hand squeezing hers is tight enough to pull her back from a variety of edges. In any version of reality, she’s sure.

Head falling forward, Emma slams into something solid and that’s probably not another metaphor. Blades flash at the edge of her vision, both David and Henry moving quicker than she’s ever seen, while Mary Margaret slings arrow after arrow at something that isn’t entirely substantial and Killian’s hook moves under Emma’s chin.

At one point she might have thought that was a threat. She’s the world’s biggest idiot, obviously.

“No,” Tinker Bell replies, far later than is conversationally acceptable, honestly. “It won’t. Nothing will last if you don’t go back, Emma. It all hinges on you. That’s why Pan did this in the first place. He knew what you meant, to the whole world.” She groans. Like a goddamn hero.

“That might be a little heavy, Tink,” Killian mutters, and Emma makes another noise. Disbelief and charmed and wholly endeared, plus that other thing that she knows will make all the difference and at least eight of her knuckles crack. When she curls them into his shirt.

Patterned, naturally.

“Are you quoting things?” He nods. “You think it’s very cute.” “I’m not sure you could ever really be cute.”

“Is this honestly happening right now?” Regina snarls, sweat dotting her brow and Emma barely notices. Can’t really pull her eyes away from Killian when he’s smirking at her like that. “Flirting at the end of the world?” “Seems as good a time as any, doesn’t it?” Emma challenges. More pixie dust falls on the forest floor, shining brightly for a few prolonged seconds. That’s something of a confidence boost.

For Emma. And her feelings. And her plan, half-cocked as it may be.

“Expand on that for me,” Killian grins.

Keeping her head lifted is one of Emma’s more major successes. At least recently, and while her muscles don’t entirely appreciate it, the jut of her chin makes it easier for Killian’s fingers to ghost over the edge of her mouth and push into her hair and—

“Your eyelashes are unnaturally long,” she says, and the grin widens. “It drives me nuts.” “Does it just?” “Yeah, from like—the get, really. At first I thought it was a fairytale thing, y’know…have to be painfully attractive to be part of the story, but—” “—You end up in the book eventually.”

Heart explosion is not nearly as painful as Emma assumed it would be. If anything, it just makes her feel like she’s floating a bit and her magic gives her a buoyancy that leaves her lighter and softer and she turns into the palm cupping her cheek. “Spoilers,” she chides. “What do you—what do you think happens?” “When you go back, you mean?” Emma nods. Doesn’t really want the answer. Might actually be terrified of the answer, because the timeline is as knotted as it’s ever been and time travel is way more trouble than it’s worth. She’ll probably kick Peter Pan too, just to cover all her bases. “Will you,” she whispers, and holding Killian’s gaze is something of a rather disappointing miracle, “will you all—” “—I don’t think so.” “You don’t even know what I was going to ask.”

One side of his mouth tilts up, eyeing her with passing amusement and that other emotion and his fingers trail towards the chain hanging around her neck. “Between the vaguely twisted compliments and the actual insults, I’m not entirely sure this is going to work, love.” “What isn’t going to work?” Henry asks sharply, swinging his sword through a shadow.

Grunting, one of Regina’s knees buckles as she continues to fight against the cloud and Ella’s back pressed against hers only just manages to keep her standing. “Get on with it, already,” she hisses. “Or at least try it.”

Nerves explode under Emma’s skin, racing up her arms and threatening to drown out the magic that’s as strong as it’s ever been because the magic is clearly smarter than her, and it’s unreasonable to think she’d be able to deal with that exact shade of blue in Killian’s eyes.

“You make sure I’m alright.”

He blinks. Fair, honestly. Words keep tumbling out of Emma without much thought, but she needs him to know this and this might be the crux of everything else and she’s nodding again. “Over and over,” she continues, “when we’re on the Jolly, and I’m—” “—In the crew’s quarters doing pull-ups.” “You remember that?”

“I’m rather attracted to you, you know that right?”

Laughing with tears in her eyes is as patently absurd as it is nice, and the shadows inch closer. “Could probably do with some reminding every now and then,” Emma admits, “but I, uh—that’s what happened before, too. Sitting outside the Echo Caves and you were supposed to be asleep. Showed up anyway, to make sure I was alright. You always do that.” “Something of a habit.” “So you’ve mentioned.” Humming, there’s not really any way for Killian to get closer to her, but he certainly tries and Emma hopes she doesn’t forget that either. She’s not entirely sure how her memories will deal with everything they’ve been through in the last few weeks. And, like—her life, but that sounds kind of melodramatic. “You don’t need me to take care of you,” Killian says softly, “but it’s—making sure you’re alright is like…making sure we’re following the right course.” “Am I the star in this analogy?” “Several times over,” he replies, “and it’s easy to follow.” “Oh, what was that about backhanded insults?”

Warm air brushes her face when he exhales, nosing at the tear stains her over-abundant emotions have left behind. “I have no idea what will happen,” Killian whispers, as if he’s speaking only for Emma and she supposes that’s at least partially true. “I doubt we’ll disappear, not when it appears time’s much less of a straight line than I originally anticipated, but Her Majesty was right. Nothing’s set in stone, love. That’s half the fun.” “Sounds like a hell of a gamble too.” “Aye, but you’ve also got a pirate who’s rather willing to cheat on your behalf.” “Did you use weighted dice?” He kisses her hair. The edges of her eyes. Down the bridge of her nose and just above her mouth, which is really a very cruel tease, but if they were running out of time earlier, then they’re operating on borrowed minutes now, and Emma’s calves almost audibly object when she pushes up on her toes.

“Just sleight of hand,” he says, “it’s very impressive, I know.” “Something like that, yeah.” “This wasn’t fair to you, Swan. To—to be thrown into this, and I can’t…”

Shaking her head, she’s never actually let go of his shirt, so Emma doesn’t have an excuse for how much her fingers tremble. “No, no, no, if you apologize I will step on your foot, I swear to any God you can come up with.” “Several, actually.” “Nerd,” she insults, and it’s as far away from that as it’s possible for a four-letter word to be. Killian’s eyes have gone glossy. “This wasn’t what he thought it’d be. Pan, I mean. He—he thought he’d take me off the board, keep me locked here because I’d be so tempted to stay and I—” A tree branch falls dangerously close to her right foot. “Well, obviously I was, but…” “But?” Emma presses her lips together. Ignores the ache in her legs and the area directly around her heart, taking more pleasure than she should in the overall circumference of Killian’s eyes while her magic practically sings. Soars out of her, until the ends of her hair light and the shadows don’t retreat, but they freeze for a second and that’s all she really needs. “Seeing it all,” Emma starts, “living it, that’s why I can go back. Because I want to live it. No cheating, no advancing to Go. God, fuck—am I really making Monopoly jokes right now?”

He beams. Stares at her like she’s that star, and a few other constellations for good measure. Possibly the Sun too, but Emma’s the one who’s all too willing to orbit around the whole lot of them, and she kisses him before she can think better of it.

“You make sure I’m alright,” she repeats, “ten-thousand times over, until I end up here. And it’s just not better, babe, it’s—it’s a life, a real one. The kind I used to think was some great, big joke, but that house is so big and our kids are so good, and it’s—” Killian wipes away the tears. For the best, really. Since Emma isn’t entirely sure she can unclench her fingers. “I love it,” she breathes, “I love—”

In any other situation, she’d almost resent being interrupted. As it is, being interrupted with the press of Killian’s mouth against hers is one of the better things that’s happened to her. Like, ever. And she’s already pressed up on her toes, so really the whole thing is pretty practical.

Tilting her head, Emma’s grip threatens to rip his shirt and her spine isn’t all that pleased at the arch she’s put it in, but his hand is flat against her back, the kind of steady presence she’s sure she could build everything around. They’ve gotten better at this, she thinks — less frenzied than it was in Neverland, but somehow even better, like they’re sitting on simmer, a low heat that simply exists and isn’t as overwhelming. She’s not sweating, at least. She’s wrapped in cashmere blankets, and comfort and some other word that starts with ‘c’ because Emma’s ability to linger on the alliterative in times of heightened feeling is actually pretty impressive.

At least until Killian’s tongue swipes the seam of her mouth, and they drift a hint closer to frenzied, and somewhere in the realm of desperate and she genuinely does not notice the first band of light.

Or the second, quite frankly.

It isn’t until the colors arch over them, and several people gasp, that Emma realizes they’ve done something fairly tremendous. Beams of glistening magic curl around them, some hanging from the bend of Emma’s elbow and the curve of Killian’s hook, draping either one of their shoulders and falling off the sleeves of their respective leather jackets.

“Holy shit,” Emma breathes, fully expecting Killian’s smile and hoping for his laugh and she’s done more hoping now than she has in the first twenty-nine years of her life.

Henry clicks his tongue. “Oh you can say it, huh?” “I’m your mom, that’s how it works.” More laughter, as out of place as ever, but the light doesn’t disappear immediately and Killian’s jaw has gone slack. “Has that not happened before, then?” Emma asks him.

“You called me babe.” Regina groans again. Henry snickers, ducking his head into Ella’s shoulder, and Emma’s not sure what her parents do, but her mom is definitely crying and she’s crying and there’s something shimmering on the other side of Tinker Bell.

“Told you it’d work,” she says with a knowing smile. “She just needed to get there. And, y’know, be willing to walk away. Which doesn’t sound as romantic as it is, now that I think about it, but might be kind of in the spirit of Christmas.”

Killian rolls his eyes.

“Yeah,” Emma nods, “that’s—” She cuts herself off that time, Killian’s fingers lacing through hers so he can give her hand three quick squeezes and that number was probably random. Maybe. True Love’s goddamn Kiss.

“Falling in love with you probably isn’t very easy, is it?”

The tears fall. Drop from the corners of his eyes onto cheeks, one of which has a scar on it and Emma wants to know how that happened. Wants to learn every single thing about him, and them and collective pronouns don’t quite terrify her anymore.

“Not always,” Killian agrees, another strange way of doing it, “but I do always think it’s worth it. For everything we get.” “This?” He nods. “And then some. Because you’re the single most stubborn lass I know, and Pan’s an absolute fool.” “Call me lass again, and see if I kiss you anymore.” “I’m almost confident on that front.”

Smiling doesn’t hurt. Doesn’t affect the muscles in her face, or the overall state of her heart, and that may have something to do with its exploding tendencies from earlier, but Emma’s eyes keep flickering towards that portal and everything ahead of her, and the wave of determination that crests her consciousness doesn’t take her by surprise.

She’s going to get this all back.

Like a Christmas present, waiting under the tree to be opened, and another promise and Killian squeezes her hand again. Before kissing her once more, in a way that doesn’t feel like a farewell, but has a hint of promise and expectation and Emma hugs Henry. And her parents. Glances at Regina, and goddamn Tinker Bell, and hugging Henry again simply makes sense. “Come save me, huh?” he murmurs into her hair. “That’s the plan,” Emma promises. Twisting her neck, Killian’s not more than an inch behind her, but the shadows threaten again, making it difficult to see him and eventually she’ll argue that’s why she doesn’t entirely notice when his hand moves, darting towards her pocket and back so quickly it’s not much more than a blur, and her lips barely brush his before they’re pulling away from each other.

To get back to each other.

“I’m going to love you an absolutely ridiculous amount,” Emma promises, and Killian’s eyes brighten. Brand themselves on all those memories, and even more feelings. “More than I do now, even.” “I look forward to it.”

Bumping her chin against her chest when she nods, Emma’s next inhale is shaky at best, but her steps are sure and she doesn’t feel anything when she falls backwards, or notice the way Regina’s hand shifts ever so slightly.

Her feet slam into the ground. Ground that hasn’t exploded with glowing, vaguely evil plants yet and that’s all it takes to set her plan into motion. He hadn’t remembered, after all. And Emma can only sort of remember now.

Smoke on the water, her thoughts drift through a haze that’s far more metaphorical than she entirely appreciates, and she makes it all of eight larger-than-usual steps before those same feet land on boots and she barely stops herself before she collides with Killian.

A Killian who looks at her like he’s surprised to find her there, but not entirely opposed to it, and whatever thoughts continue to cling to the forefront of Emma’s brain know what else he wouldn’t be entirely opposed to, and that’s not bad, might even be good and great and she can’t remember why her lips feel like they’re tingling. That’s—

Strange, that’s strange. As is the number of times she blinks, and his hook flies to her waist. To keep her steady. Or something. Magnets, maybe. “Swan, are you—” “—Fine, fine,” she breathes, only just able to keep from kissing him. Hard. His lips part slightly when she keeps staring at him, eyes tracing across his face like she’s recommitting it to memory, and she supposes she is, and he was coming to find her. All over again. “You’re here though, right? This isn’t…this is real?” Hair threatens to fall into his eyes, head at an angle that Emma is sure simply exists to torment her. “Why wouldn’t it be?” “I—I don’t know,” she admits, and it only sort of sounds like a lie. Emma shakes her head. That doesn’t help, really. “Is my mom still ignoring my dad?” “Very much so. You shouldn’t be out here, you know.” “Neal’s not dead, though?” “No,” Killian says, lips forming a perfect circle on the second letter. Emma’s staring at his lips. Again, or always. Or whatever, honestly.

“Ok, ok, that’s—that’s good, well maybe not the ignoring part, but we’ll figure that out and we’re going to figure this out.” “Wasn’t a question.” “No it wasn’t.” His eyes narrow, neck remaining at that angle. “Good. It shouldn’t be.” “Awfully confident of you.” “No, no, I’m only confident in you, love.” Something flutters at the back of Emma’s brain — part memory and even more desire, and this feels like something they’ve done already, but that can’t possibly be true and those particular words in that particular order are as honest as Emma’s heard. She must have fallen asleep.

“C’mon,” Killian continues, hand reaching for hers and she doesn’t pull away. She lets his fingers tangle with hers, and every squeeze against her palm is enough to settle her pulse and her magic, and he doesn’t let go of her until they get back to camp. Neither one of them mention how she doesn’t pull away, either.

They plan. Plot, and discuss and Neal’s something of an issue — as is her mother’s pointed and unnecessary romantic advice, but Emma knows her objections fall on deaf ears, especially when that same mother keeps ignoring her father, and she’s not sure she’s ever known fear like she feels in Dark Hollow.

If asked — and Emma can’t imagine why she would be, but she’s at war with her own thoughts and some sadistic childlike-monster who’s already fucked with her more than he should be capable of — she’d argue it was because of what Killian tells her. When I win your heart plays on loop in Emma’s brain, but it’s also because, somehow, she knows he will and does, and fire bursts out of her in the middle of yet another shadow attack.

“How did you do that?” Neal asks, sounding far more surprised than he should and something in Emma’s center recoils at the tone. “Regina. She’s teaching me magic.” Not entirely a lie, not really. But Killian’s eyes snap towards her, and she’s apparently just as good at ignoring things as her mother. “She’s teaching you magic?”

“Yeah,” Emma nods, gripping the coconut in her hand a little tighter. Six months ago, that would have felt like the most absurd sentence in the world. Now it just pisses her off. “I guess she is.”

There’s more, because of course there is. Wendy Darling and Neal are something of old friends, and she’s somehow an even worse liar than Emma, but the truth means Henry’s death and she can’t breathe. Can hardly stand, but is also standing closer to Killian and she keeps calling him Killian. In her head.

His hand squeezes hers; exactly three times.

“It’ll be fine, love,” Killian murmurs. Naturally, it’s not.

Watching Henry hand over his heart is a nightmare Emma will see for the rest of her life, wholly unprepared for the way her kid drops to the ground and the strength of her ensuing magic threatens to blind her.

Regina’s not much better, honestly. Her mouth opens, but nothing comes out and then there’s magic and a wave of her hand, and—“He’s not dead yet,” she tells Emma, like that’s acceptable, but she’s got no idea what else to do and the growing feeling that she’s forgotten something very important.

Preservation spells are as freaky their name implies, it turns out.

Henry doesn’t blink, doesn’t move, but he also isn’t dead and Emma figures that’s at least one positive. While she’s attacked by a tree, and taunted by Pan and Regina’s admission leaves her reeling just a bit. That is until it turns out Peter Pan is also Gold’s father, and the absurdity of it all makes Emma want to scream and cry and they somehow save Henry’s heart.

In Pandora’s Box.

Really, the rest is a blur — adrenaline mixing with magic and an above-average amount of gasping, and Killian offers Henry the captain’s quarters. Emma doesn’t think before she walks, leading the pair of them towards the door, and there’s a shadow trapped in the sail and they’re on a flying pirate ship, so honestly her knowledge of that pirate ship’s layout should be the least of their worries, but something, something…open book.

“You want to tell me what’s going on, now?” Killian asks, finding Emma what feels like a lifetime later. Hours, actually. Most of which she’s spent leaning against the railing, while trying to breathe in as much salt air as possible and Regina’s still in the cabin with Henry.

“Aside from the obvious?” “Whatever’s got you staring so intently at the horizon.” “It’s calming,” Emma reasons, and there’s some truth to that as well. There’s also something in her back pocket, a piece of clothing that miraculously isn’t totally destroyed with mud and the after-effects of fighting for their collective lives.

“It often is, although you’re thinking so loudly, I can’t help but—” “—Do you think you’ll stay in Storybrooke?”

Killian tenses. He’s close enough that Emma can practically feel the way his muscles tighten, but there’s more to it than proximity, and it’s got to be nearly his turn at the helm. Neal can’t stay up there forever.

“If you think that would be a good idea.”

Rolling her eyes makes her head hurt. She might also be dehydrated. The knowledge that there’s a flask of rum stashed somewhere under the cot in Killian’s cabin is one of the few things keeping Emma conscious. Captain’s cabin. Semantics. She has no idea how she knows that. “That’s not really what I asked,” Emma argues. “Do you—is that something you’d like?”

She shouldn’t be as nervous as she is.

The future is suddenly blurry, and not entirely uncertain, but she fought like hell for it and now there’s this growing sense of optimism taking root in her. Like it’s the foundation for everything else, strong and certain and that’s a rather daunting change of pace for her. The certainty, not the adjective choices. Gold made it so David could come home too. They all get to go home. So, Emma doesn’t move very quickly when she turns, just presses her lips together and—

Hopes.

Pixie dust requires a certain amount of belief to work, after all.

“I would,” Killian breathes. He leans forward, or Emma leans forward, and it genuinely does not matter because there are mouths and hands and it’s over before it really begins, the rail of a flying pirate ship threatening to dig into her back. She’s never been more comfortable. “Ok,” Emma says, footsteps coming towards them, “that’s good.”

“You saved him, you know.”

“Motivation’s a funny thing like that.”

“Certainly is,” Killian agrees, “and you had that in spades. I just—” He smirks. The bastard. “Telling you I knew you would makes me a bit of a cad, doesn’t it?” “More than a bit, maybe.” He chuckles, letting his head drop closer to hers. “Why’d you know where the blankets were in that cabin?” “Far too perceptive for your own good.” “I prefer to see it as an acute observation.” “And you’re more than just a pretty face, huh?”

“Sounds suspiciously like you think I’m pretty.”

“Occasionally,” Emma says, standing on wobbly knees again and they’re dancing without music. “I don’t know, really, but we’ll get there, I think.”

Leaning back, Killian’s eyebrows shift and his thoughts practically come with cymbals, but he doesn’t press her anymore and Emma doesn’t actually believe she fell asleep. Outside the Echo Caves, but all of those thoughts feel like dreams now, and Neal doesn’t ask any questions — which is either a victory or a crushing disappointment, depending on which way you look at it, but Emma can’t bring herself to leave the railing, even when the wind picks up and goosebumps prickle her arms and the something in her back pocket is a tiny slip of paper.

Torn at the edges, like the person who grabbed it was pressed for time and flush with determination and she’s never actually seen his handwriting before. It doesn’t make an ounce of difference. Swooping letters linger on the looseleaf, no matter how many times Emma blinks, the words the same and she tries very hard not to rip it. Holding it as tightly as she is makes that easier said than done.

Still, it doesn’t change.

I love you.

As clear as the tears that return to her eyes will allow, and Emma’s not surprised to find him already looking in her direction. She smiles, and goes below deck.

They don’t make it very long before something else gets fucked up.

They barely make it like—two weeks. Pan isn’t dead, and Henry’s not Henry and the whole thing is a disaster that frequently ends with Emma slumped against the nearest wall she can find, the hand gripping hers squeezing at regular intervals, like Killian is trying to remind her of something, but she might just be hoarding every touch and every feeling and it figures.

Standing at the town line, Emma’s not sure how she’s going to get in that car and drive away from this town and these people and her mother kisses her forehead. Softly and almost reverently, and David’s hand finds the back of her head, holding her as tightly as he had in Neverland and Emma knows he’d like to do that forever, but that won’t be possible in five minutes and she’s not going to remember.

Any of them. At any point.

She’s still not sure why the timing of it all seems so important.

“That’s quite a vessel you captain there, Swan.”

Smiling is the only way she stops herself from kicking him, or possibly kissing him and she’s not prepared for what Killian says next. If she ever gets to remember this, that will seem vaguely ridiculous. All things considered.

“There’s not a day that will go by that I won’t think of you.” He means it. Emma knows that, too. As much as she knows she should have said something — a string of words that’s still a little overwhelming, but the sheet of paper basically lives in her jacket pocket now, and for someone who feels as if she keeps bouncing around time, or at least realms, she also continues to run out of it.

“Good,” she says, and one side of his mouth moves. Tugs up while he stares at her, and struggles to step back and everything disappears. Behind a cloud of purple smoke, and a line that’s brushed away as easily as if it had never been there at all, and Emma forgets.

Most of it, at least.

Some guy knocks on her door, knows her name, and immediately tries to kiss her. It’s not the strangest thing Emma’s ever encountered, but that’s because bail bond’s a weird gig, and he keeps showing up. Gives her a note with handwriting that looks suspiciously familiar, and proves even more than that and her hand shakes. While pulling a weather-stained piece of paper from the folds of her wallet, and she’s got no rational reason for keeping it. Not when she’s got no idea why she has it in the first place, but every time she considers throwing it away, something tugs between her ribs and flutters at the back of her brain and the swoop on the top of his ‘o’ is exactly the same.

She doesn’t mention that before she drinks the potion. And she only balks slightly at the word potion , so that’s another victory and— “Killian,” she breathes, memories flying back. Some arrive quicker than others, while a few hang in the shadows and she knows there’s more to the sheet of paper than she’s willing to admit. Magic fights with her, trying to piece together things that don’t entirely make sense, and she can remember things that don’t make sense. Pirate ships, and flashing swords, and a house with enough windows that it likely sets a record.

And a hand slipping a sheet of paper into her back pocket.

“Miss me?”

It’s a joke. A bad one, at that. Especially coupled with a smile that barely reaches his eyes, but Emma finds herself nodding all the same and he doesn’t stumble backwards when she launches herself at him, hugging as tightly as she can.

The paper goes back in her wallet before they leave for Storybrooke.

She’s going to leave. Get back in her car and go back to New York, and raise Henry like a normal kid, but Emma can’t shake the feeling that there’s something inherently wrong with that plan, and it doesn’t have anything to do with wicked witches or newborn brothers, but maybe deja vu for something she hasn’t lived yet, and Killian’s eyebrows fly into his hairline. When she does the unthinkable.

“Come with us, then.” “You’re not serious,” he challenges.

“Like a heart attack, maybe. I just…none of this is safe, and New York was, I mean…you could be part of—” “False memories, based on magical nonsense.”

Shoulders slumping, Emma can’t come up with an argument to that. Only kind of wants to, but she’s not in the book, and Henry doesn’t want to leave. The dreams she keeps having make sleep something of a pipe dream. And she’s something of a mess, but Killian’s a much better dancer than she expected him to be.

And she’s not surprised to find him rounding the corner of Regina’s dungeon, although it’s nice to be saved, even when she’s perfectly capable of doing it herself. But then his arms threaten to crack several of her ribs ten minutes later, and Emma has a few theories about that. None of which she voices, far too busy memorizing the way his thumb feels when it brushes her cheek, and her mother’s not dead.

Doesn’t remember her, but time travel beggars can’t be choosers. Another burst of deja vu rattles through her, and there’s no magic to jump in her veins, but Killian glances her direction all the same and the wand is heavy in her hand. One that’s magical again, a portal home because it is home and you trade your ship for me isn’t much more than a whisper on warmer-than-usual wind. He doesn’t blink when he answers. She’ll think about that for quite some time.

After she stops thinking about how good they are at kissing, because they are exceptional at kissing and it’s very simple. To fall into this head first, the feeling and the emotion and Killian chuckles when Emma’s magic begins to thrum under her skin.

She tells her parents about Neal.

About what he did, and how he did it and their eyes widen so often she wonders if they’ll get stuck like that. Killian’s hand doesn’t leave her shoulder.

They announce the change two days later. Prince Neal is Prince Leo and he’s still as cute as ever, with a tendency to spit up on whoever holds him.

“Are you alright?” “You’ve asked me that like ten times.” Nodding, Killian doesn’t move and Emma can’t imagine what kind of damage this is doing to his knees, but he doesn’t seem inclined to stand up either and she’s finally starting to get some feeling back in her toes. Fingers, too. Which makes it easier to drag the tips of them over his cheek, and his eyelids fluttering shut is a jolt of confidence she’s going to cling to. “And yet,” he drawls, “I’m still very curious.”

“I’m fine,” Emma says, not for the first time and she knows it won’t be the last. He shifts the blanket draped across her legs, tucking it under her side like—“A mother hen pirate.” “That’s rude, love.” “You’re going to give yourself a coronary.” “I don’t know what that means.” Laughing softly, her lips are still a bit chilly when she presses them to Killian’s skin. Warm, like always. Some joke about her own personal sun, and something else about walls made of ice and she doesn’t think before she mumbles, “you want to lay down, or something?” “Your father might challenge me to a duel.” “Not confident in your own sword skills?” “I’m very confident in my skills, but—” “—C’mon,” Emma interrupts, ignoring Killian’s protest when she pulls her arms out of the mountain of fabric covering her, “you’re warm, anyway.”

She realizes she loves him before she says it.

Well before, honestly. And she wonders why that feels inevitable, almost like it’s already happened, somehow but that’s—well, that’s impossible. She should rid that word from her vocabulary. And the inevitability of telling Killian everything she’s feeling isn’t totally surprising, either. Has been coming on so gradually that don’t you know, Emma, it’s you doesn’t knock her entirely off course. Might right her, actually. Direct her back towards some star or something else nautical and decidedly sentimental, and she cannot rationalize how quiet she is when he falls.

Dies, really.

This alternate version of him that still managed to rescue her, and she couldn’t save him and that’s not right. Two-way streets operate in both directions, but she didn’t tell him and everything feels like it stops. Not long enough. Time refuses to linger the way Emma needs it to, lungs threatening to disintegrate, and this isn’t real, can’t possibly be real and Henry’s pulling on her sleeve, telling her they have to go. He’s right. They’ve got to get out of here. Fix it, and give Emma more time, and she doesn’t spend any of it thinking before she rushes up the loft stairs and clings to him tightly enough that they fall over.

That will feel poetic later.

Standing in the center of Main Street, with a dagger in her hand and magic in the air and it’s familiar all over again, another burst of deja vu, and the exact opposite. Wrong, on a fundamental sort of level that she still can’t ignore and she closes her eyes. Thinks of what could be, or what she hopes will still happen, and then she tilts her head up and meets eyes that are far too blue to be fair and it’s easy to give voice to the words she hadn’t before.

That’s nice, she supposes.

Being as consistently confused by her own thoughts is one of Emma’s biggest pet peeves. “I love you.”

“Getting more and more difficult not to tell him. Isn’t it, dearie?” Sighing, Emma doesn’t bother glancing up from the half-finished dream catcher in her hands and Killian’s not going to be happy that he fell asleep. He likes to think he can protect her better while he’s conscious. As if he could protect her from her own mind.

“Do you even remember it?” Rumplestilskin continues, and it’s not really him. She has to keep reminding herself that. “Can see into your thoughts, y’know. And I don’t think you do.” “Shut up.” He doesn’t, of course. “The Queen did something. Changed something, somehow. Can feel the dregs of her magic, clinging to your memories and—” He leans forward. “—So can you, can’t you? Wonder why those scenes that appear behind your eyes every time you blink, feel so real. All that fairy tale fodder, and another thing you’ll miss out on. Strange how that version of your personal prince charming never mentioned what happens to you, isn’t it? Almost as if he’s keeping secrets. Maybe that’s a sign.” “Shut up.” She doesn’t mean to say anything. Responding only ever eggs the apparition on, and Emma’s head feels as if it will split in two. It might help if it did.

Every one of Rumplestilskin’s teeth is on display when he smiles. Like a goddamn crocodile.

“You could likely get your memories back. If you wanted. All that power surging through your veins. Or maybe,” he continues slowly, “part of what you’re feeling isn’t anything more than fate."

"No, that’s not true."

"Sure of that? Absolutely positive? Anything is possible, after all."

And the idea takes Emma by sudden and overwhelming surprise, part of her hating even the thought, but her feet are already moving and she might be running if the stretch of her legs is any sign, and Merlin doesn’t look up. When she slams open his door.

“You know, don’t you?” “Everything you’ve forgotten?” he asks lightly. “Yes, I do.” “What do I do about it?” “Would you like to do something about it?” “Did Regina do something to my memories?” Emma presses, leaning against the door as soon as it shuts behind her. One of his shoulders lifts. “He—the voice in my head…keeps taunting me about it, and I don’t—is any of that possible? That life?” Finally lifting his gaze, Merlin looks exactly as he did in that movie theater Emma only half believes she actually remembers, and time travel continues to be one of her least favorite things. “Depends,” he replies, “on you, and your next question.”

“I shouldn’t know. Right? Shouldn’t remember, I—he was looking at the house. The one I remember us living in sometimes, and I don’t…it’s impossible. To get back to that.” “He already told you it wasn’t,” Merlin argues.

I’ll never stop fighting for us.

Emma licks her lips. Coming up with anything else to say is difficult, and she’s still holding the goddamn dreamcatcher. That makes it easier. To give into instinct, and she’s broken. At her most basic level. Ripped apart and stitched back with pieces that don’t entirely belong to her, and remembering any of it feels like a cruel trick.

Lifting her arm, the whole thing only takes a few moments. Nothing more than a soft pull, and what feels like a soap bubble popping.

“Feel better?” Merlin asks, gaze dropping back to his table and his task and Emma nearly growls at him.

“What are you talking about?” “That’s what I thought. It won’t all disappear, though. Magic’s got a way of leaving a mark, especially magic like that.”

She leaves before he can make any other cryptic announcements, and Dark Ones don’t really need sleep. Emma sits on the bed for the rest of the night.

Dreams happen occasionally.

In the few days between — after the blade broke apart in her hand, and the decision that she won’t take this lying down, fuck whatever the world says about death and Dark Ones — visions start to creep into Emma’s subconscious. Sometimes they aren’t good, are a startling reminder of how it felt to fall to the ground, and the exact way dew soaked through her jeans, or how cold he was when his hand fell away from hers. And then sometimes they’re…not that.

They’re bright, and laughter rings out in the space Emma can’t quite define. Like it’s somewhere she’s been before, lived in even. Happily so. Scents hang in the air, a mix of salt and sweet and there’s almost always an arm curled around her waist, whispers in her ear and the steady press of kisses along her neck. Soft footsteps echo down carpeted hallways, and there’s garland wrapped around the staircase railing. Lining their ridiculous number of windows, and draped across branches of a tree.

For Christmas.

Emma isn’t sure how she knows that, but the snow outside is a good clue and it’s that — the growing desire to make this dream something closer to a reality, and no one questions her decision. To go to the Underworld. The same way she doesn’t second guess her steps as she races towards Killian, blood on his cheeks and nothing at the end of his left arm and he’s heavier than she remembered. Slumped against her chest with his breath in her ear, and it’s not quite the same as the dream, but they’ll get there.

They’ll get there.

Emma repeats the phrase — over and over, stumbling down a path she’s only passably confident will lead them outside, and he squeezes her hand. Three times.

Sometimes they dance.

In the kitchen. In the living room. She’s got this habit of hoarding records, and Killian’s far more interested in antiquing than he’d ever be willing to admit. Emma makes pirate jokes about it.

If only because it inevitably guarantees that spark in his eyes.

The one that makes her shiver, and reminds her of something she can’t quite remember and—she gasps, a hand spinning her on the kitchen floor. Away from the sink of dirty dishes and anything remotely responsible.

“I’m going to get your shirt all wet,” Emma grumbles, but that doesn’t appear to concern him very much. Or at all.

“Good.” “Good?” “Was that confusing?” Killian challenges, metal already working under the hem of her shirt. There are flowers on it.

“You think you’re very funny.” “I think I’ve got fantastic rhythm, and I can hear you thinking from across the room. What’s got your magic so loud?” Without stopping, Emma’s magic responds in kind — a symphony of possibility, and the growing sense of want that sits like a nearly-comfortable weight in the pit of her stomach, and sometimes she tells him. About the dreams, and the scenes that feel like she’s lived them before, and Killian never tells her she’s crazy. Even when Emma wonders if she might be. Instead, there’s simply this look of his own want, crinkling the skin near his eyes and she kisses away the pinch between his brow. Which makes it easier for her to ask— “Why this one?”

“Excuse me?” “This house,” Emma clarifies, and the conversation’s a little late. They’ve been here for years. Watched Henry grow up, and taught him how to use a sword, and watched movies until they could quote them back without a single mistake. So, really she should have figured it out before, but Emma’s had her suspicions. It’s only now that she’s greedy enough to ask about them.

“You know why.” “Would love to hear you say it.” “Pirate,” Killian accuses, without any insult and Emma giggles when he pulls her back to his chest. “And I—well, it’d be nice, don’t you think?” “Yeah, it would,” Emma says. The agreement tumbles out of her with ease, partially because of that aforementioned greed and the memories she can’t shake and Merlin said something to her. About magic’s tendency to leave something behind.

There’s a sheet of paper still hidden in her wallet.

“So,” she continues, “great big house, with lots of rooms and—” “—It’s your choice, Swan.” “That’s not how it works, and you know it. A combined team of planning and feeling and—” He dips her, she tries very hard not to giggle again. Fails miserably. “—Self-proclaimed rhythm. We just…this isn’t just about me, this is an us thing.” The music doesn’t stop. They only kind of do, Killian leaning back with a glint in his eyes that’s different than it normally is and Emma’s not sure when she started breathing through her mouth, but it’s drying out her lips and that’s not the first time she’s said that.

She doesn’t think so, at least.

“I’m a rather large fan of that string of words,” Killian says. “And you.” “Seems like a requirement of marriage.” “And parenting?” “Yeah?” “Yeah.”

Kissing him is really the only reasonable option. And Emma considers herself fairly reasonable, although her magic nearly makes a light bulb explode a few hours later and it’s difficult to be annoyed by the smug look on Killian’s face when he’s not wearing any clothing.

“What about Regina?”

Half a dozen heads snap towards Emma, some of them sporting bemused expressions, while others wear flat out disbelief and she doesn’t blink. Her fingers tighten, under the table where she’s gripping Killian’s hand and she can’t seem to get comfortable.

There’s way more of her than she’s used to, and the books claim she’s in some stage called nesting. Which Killian uses as an excuse to make Swan jokes at every opportunity. It might be driving her insane.

So, Emma will use that as an excuse. “What do you mean, Your Highness?” Grumpy asks her, and Killian can’t quite mask his laugh. Even with his teeth pressed distractingly into his lower lip.

“I mean,” Emma starts, “that if we’re going to combine all the realms, maybe having Regina in charge might not be the worst idea. She’s got queenly experience.” “Wow,” Regina says slowly, “that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.” “No it is not!” “Top five, at least.” “You’re ruining this.”

Scrunching her nose is not a normal Regina reaction, but Emma figures it makes sense considering the circumstances and it’s a lot of responsibility. Uniting all the realms is a pretty daunting prospect, that will require enough of her own magic that Killian’s already freaking out just a bit, and somehow Emma can’t bring herself to be frustrated with that. Endeared, maybe.

And absolutely certain this will work.

She doesn’t know why. She looks at the slip of paper in her wallet, like four times a day.

“You’re sure?” Regina asks, Emma nods. “Alright, then I’d uh—it’d be my honor.”

They buy too many gifts. Hope is a baby. One who won’t have any memory of her first Christmas in this absolutely massive house, with a tree that Anton gave them a discount on.

“For milestones,” he reasoned, and Emma resolutely refuses to admit that she cried. But Killian brings it up more than once, and that gets her to roll her eyes and smile against his mouth when he ducks his head to kiss her and Snow White went above and beyond this year. Decorations line Main Street, cookies shared from every business and every person and all those people keep smiling. At her, and them and their kid is way cuter than her brother was.

Emma doesn’t mention that.

Killian does, at least when he whispers it to her while Leo tears apart another paper-covered box, and Hope gurgles in the crook of his arm. And Emma figures this is as good a time as any. To tug the folded envelope out of her pocket, flipping her wrist at the expectant and slightly confused look on Killian’s face. “What’s this?” “A gift,” Emma snarks, barely twisting out of the way to avoid him nipping at her nose. Like some twisted and very attractive Jack Frost. There’s some silver in his hair now.

He uses his hook to open it.

Emma clicks her tongue. So as not to push into his mouth. That might scar the kid.

“I don’t—” Killian says, pulling the scrap of paper out of. He holds it like it’s precious, and it is for Emma, but she also doesn’t entirely understand it and it’s kind of a selfish gift. “This is my hand writing. Why…I don’t remember writing this.” “And I don’t know when I got it. But I have it.” “I can see that.” “No, no, you don’t understand. It’s—I’ve had that for as long as I can remember. Since before New York, at least.” Killian’s eyes flash. To her and possibly through her, and Emma’s shrug is half-hearted at best. “Memories don’t always stick in this town,” he reasons, but it sounds like an excuse. For something she still doesn’t entirely understand.

“Yeah, I know. But it’s been there. Was in my wallet, and I had it in Camelot, babe. Used to pull it out sometimes, when you were—” “—Dead?” “God bless us, every one.” His laugh lacks any real amusement. It’s not very festive. “I’m going to ask you something,” Emma says, fully prepared for the way his lips curl.

“Eventually you’ll bypass the proclamations, Your Highness.” “Why do you squeeze my hand? You do it all the time.” “Do I?” Blotches of pink appear on his cheeks and he might want to lie, but his ears can’t and that’s not as weird a sentence as it should be. “Only three times, you realize?” “Don’t insult me like that.” That laugh is better. Purer, more like him and Emma’s magic flickers when he kisses her cheek. He’s constantly kissing her cheek. And her hair. Temple. Anywhere he can reach, like he’s always looking for a reminder and proof, until Emma knows she depends on it just as much as he does.

“Made it easier,” he says, “saying it without actually using words.” “And the words were…” He doesn’t really glare — that’s against the rules at Christmas, Emma’s sure, but his head lolls and his lips quirk and magic jumps. In her. To him. Whatever, really. “I love you,” Killian says, easy as some other cliche and Hope squirms between them. When they start kissing.

To suggest that what happens next happens suddenly, also makes it seem like Emma is paying attention to anything outside the little bubble of family and feeling, and neither one of those things is true. So she can’t say that. Her mother can.

Gasping and yelping, and there’s color everywhere — rivaling the lights that hang all over, because no one does holidays and milestones better than Her Royal Highness Snow White of Storybrooke. Emma curses.

Like a goddamn princess.

Remembering something that hasn’t technically happened yet threatens to make Emma topple over, but she’s really good at standing now and Killian’s arm is around her anyway. That helps. Perpetually.

“What the hell was that?” David demands, with as little grace as any of them can exude.

Emma shakes her head, refusing to blink. Despite the moisture there, and the feelings and she remembers. Has this whole time, kind of. The semantics probably aren’t important, at least not as much as the light is and was and will be.

Perpetually.

She doesn’t answer. Not her dad, anyway.

“I love you,” Emma tells Killian instead, and it takes some time to explain it all later. True Love and its somewhat inconsistent if not equally wonderful tendencies, and while that future in the past may not happen exactly as it had, this is somehow better and Emma was right.

They got here, eventually.

#cs ff #captain swan #captain swan ff #cs fic #captain swan fic #but once a year #festive fic a thon 2k20 #agh sorry for the incoming reblog but i'd like this to work

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obsessionsposts · 4 years

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*+:｡𝓕𝓸𝓻𝓮𝓿𝓮𝓻𝓶𝓸𝓻𝓮 ｡+* = 𝓓𝓮𝓬𝓪𝓭𝓮𝓷𝓬𝓮

Pairing: Yandere William Afton X Detective!Fem!Reader

Yandere type :Sadistic,Possessive,Delusional

Archetype: Sociopathic serial killer.

Warnings: Dark themes, Children deaths, Implied Child abuse, Major Character death, Gore, Non-con, Age Gap, Murders, Unhealthy relationship, Supernatural stuff, Angst, Dehumanization, tortures, Manipulation, Suicide, Depression, Delusional / unhinged serial killer,Unethical experimentation,spoliers for the novels so beware.

Recommend song to listen to: Sister location-Menu theme.

Notes: All Characters belongs to Scott Cawthon(Apart from yourselves,ofc). Second, Ima follow the novels so there might be spoilers and I will alter some of it.

Taglist: @storybookstalker , @fandomtrashgoddess, who wants to be tagged hit me up. ^_^

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𝓐𝓯𝓽𝓮𝓻 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓼𝓾𝓬𝓬𝓮𝓼𝓼 𝓸𝓯 𝓕𝓻𝓮𝓭𝓫𝓮𝓪𝓻' 𝓼 𝓕𝓪𝓶𝓲𝓵𝔂 𝓭𝓲𝓷𝓮𝓻, 𝓪 𝓬𝓱𝓪𝓲𝓷 𝓸𝓯 𝓻𝓮𝓼𝓽𝓪𝓾𝓻𝓪𝓷𝓽𝓼 𝓫𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓷𝓪𝓶𝓮 𝓸𝓯 𝓕𝓪𝔃𝓫𝓮𝓪𝓻 𝓱𝓪𝓼 𝓸𝓹𝓮𝓷𝓮𝓭. 𝓐 𝔂𝓸𝓾𝓷𝓰 𝓭𝓮𝓽𝓮𝓬𝓽𝓲𝓿𝓮 𝓭𝓮𝓬𝓲𝓭𝓮𝓭 𝓽𝓸 𝓹𝓪𝔂 𝓪 𝓿𝓲𝓼𝓲𝓽 𝓽𝓸 𝓪 𝓬𝓵𝓸𝓼𝓮 𝓯𝓻𝓲𝓮𝓷𝓭 𝓸𝓯 𝓱𝓮𝓻𝓼, 𝓾𝓷𝓪𝔀𝓪𝓻𝓮 𝓸𝓯 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓮𝓿𝓲𝓵𝓼 𝓽𝓱𝓪𝓽 𝓵𝓾𝓻𝓴𝓼 𝓪𝓻𝓸𝓾𝓷𝓭. 𝓨𝓮𝓽, 𝔀𝓱𝓪𝓽 𝓼𝓱𝓮 𝓭𝓲𝓭𝓷'𝓽 𝓮𝔁𝓹𝓮𝓬𝓽 𝓲𝓼 𝓯𝓸𝓻 𝓱𝓮𝓻 𝓼𝓽𝓪𝔂 𝓽𝓸 𝓫𝓮 𝓹𝓻𝓸𝓵𝓸𝓷𝓰𝓮𝓭 𝓪𝓯𝓽𝓮𝓻 𝓪 𝓼𝓮𝓻𝓲𝓮𝓼 𝓸𝓯 𝓬𝓱𝓲𝓵𝓭𝓻𝓮𝓷 𝔀𝓮𝓷𝓽 𝓶𝓲𝓼𝓼𝓲𝓷𝓰. 𝓗𝓪𝓻𝓭 -𝓷𝓸𝓼𝓮𝓭, 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝔀𝓸𝓷'𝓽 𝓵𝓮𝓪𝓿𝓮 𝓾𝓷𝓽𝓲𝓵 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝓼𝓸𝓵𝓿𝓮𝓭 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓬𝓪𝓼𝓮𝓼 𝓮𝓿𝓮𝓷 𝓲𝓯 𝓲𝓽 𝓬𝓸𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓭 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝔂𝓸𝓾𝓻 𝓵𝓲𝓯𝓮.

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July 13th, 2033.

Once, a place of joy for children to gather and celebrate their happiest day. Now, it's an antithesis of what it used to stand for.

It became an attraction, a horror attraction, for the brave to dwell in. If they're lucky enough to survive the night, they may uncover the secrets which tarnished the restaurant.

The walls were decorated by cracks resembling spider webs, and dust covering its exteriors. The checkered floor were shabby with dirt and grime. Some rooms, held what's left over of the beloved mascots of the past.

However, there is one room sealed from the public eyes. That's the safe room, where a lone chartreuse rabbit is hunched against a grey wall.

...

"̷͔͂A̷͚̓ẖ̶̔h̴͙̓h̶͌͜h̴͖̔h̵̳̄h̴͉͗,̸͕͒ ̴̩͝d̵̛̤a̵̺͋m̷͉̈́n̴̺̑ ̵͓̀ţ̸̒h̵̓ͅo̸̓ͅs̸̱̚ë̶͖́ ̴̟̀k̶̨͘i̵̝͊d̸͚͝s̸̢̿.̵̪̋ ̴͚̀T̶̀͜h̸͖̚ê̴͇y̷͙͂ ̶̨̉ṯ̴̾h̴̭͌ȉ̴͚n̶̯͝k̶̩̓ ̸̺͊I̸̖̒ ̴̤͗a̸̭͐m̵͔͘ ̷̬͊ṱ̸̓o̷̺͛ ̴̫͝b̴̘̐l̸̜͑a̸̩͊m̷͎̾e̶̼͘,̷͙̄ ̵͈͒w̴̗͗ḧ̸̟e̴̤͋n̸̼͛ ̷̢̆ť̶̫ḫ̵́e̷̳͛i̵̱̇r̴͖̀ ̵̭͆ń̶̠a̵̮͊i̶̱͗v̵̤̾e̷̛͉t̸͎͠e̵̱̓ ̴̘̆a̸̜̚n̶̢̅d̸͙̈ ̸͈̃i̷̲̚d̴̜́ì̵̤o̵͉̐č̷̖y̷̯͘ ̷̤̐b̴͓̐ř̴̗o̴͍̿u̷̝͌g̶̢͑h̶̜͘t̵͓̂ ̸͕͂t̸̯͝h̷̟̿è̷̮m̵̖͒ ̸̪̈́t̵̗͝h̶̯̐e̵̞̿i̴͉͂ṛ̴̋ ̶͉́d̷̘̀ë̴́ͅm̷̹̈ǐ̸̖s̶̗̑e̶̮̽.̷̼͐ ̶̫̚H̶̛͙a̴̰̒h̷̰͝a̷̢͑h̸̫͗a̷͈͆h̷͇̏a̶͎̎,̷͙̓ ̴̭̄b̷̝̎u̸̳͛t̴̪̅ ̶̘̊Ĭ̶ͅ ̷̥̓m̶̳̈ụ̷̏s̴̥̀t̸͈́ ̴̥̊ǎ̵͈d̴͓͠m̶͚̌i̸͎̅ṱ̷̈́ ̸̫̊s̷̳̀é̴͚e̶̹͋ȋ̵͇ǹ̵̠g̴̗͊ ̷̠̎ṱ̶̅h̴̯̒e̴̻͠m̸̡̕ ̵̯̃ĉ̵̞r̸̥̾y̸̟̏ï̵͇n̷̛̻ğ̷̤ ̶͚͑f̷͎̍o̴̧͛r̷̫͐ ̵̪̓h̶͔̀ę̶̓l̵̗̈́p̶͖̉ ̶̥̽a̸̞̋ǹ̶̻d̸͚́ ̸̖̃d̸̺̈́r̵͇͌o̴͎̔w̶̬̒n̶̩͆i̸̤̎n̵̰̊ğ̵̩ ̶̩̇i̴͖͂n̵̫̎ ̶̈́ͅt̷͖͘h̵̝̿e̷̜̎ȋ̵̝ṙ̴̺ ̶͎̋ṕ̴͈ǫ̸̔o̸̥̍l̷̠̏ ̷͍̒ō̷̝f̸̲̌ ̸̨̆b̶̦̍ĺ̸̟ȏ̵̬ȏ̷̝d̶̻̐ ̸͉͆i̸̭͂s̶̠͠ ̸̻̃a̷̞͆m̷̳̈́u̴̳̎s̶͚̆i̵̳͛n̷̪̊g̵͎̋.̸͙̈́"̴̢̆ , the decaying rabbit cackled as he remembered how he was killed by his petty victims, especially by that golden bear.

"̴́̄͜"̵̫̃N̵̟͂o̵̫̔͝ń̷͖e̸͔͚̐̅t̶̤̽̓h̸̪͝é̵͇̎l̷͚̩̀e̵̡̝͘s̸̡͊͋s̶̰̈,̶̲̎͝ ̶͚̓͌t̴͍͋h̶͎͂̾a̵̡̛t̴̮̊ ̴̛͎d̸͙͉͝͝ő̵̰̲̍e̶͇̞͠ś̸̳̫n̶͍̖̓'̸̝̇̀t̴̺̐ ̴̛̲̗̕m̴̬̼͘a̴̤̍ť̶̫t̸̯̣̍̓ḙ̷͚̚ȓ̷̠̲̾ ̴̫͙͠ń̷͈̬̄ỏ̸̜̒ẃ̸̢̢.̵͇͒̉ ̶̨͘W̴͋͑͜h̵̜̪͐̓a̵̡̜͒t̸̞͔͑ ̴̳̍́m̴͔̊a̷͖̋ṯ̸̅t̴̬̉ė̵͎̳r̵̀͜s̸̻̉̓ ̵̞̄į̸̆s̶̨̭̈́ ̵͔̑̿ț̴̛̏h̸̠̖̆a̶͈̎̇t̷̘̓ ̸̭̅Ì̷̗͠ ̴̭̇̏w̶̝͗i̸̜̹̇̍l̸̺̼̿l̷̤̓̂ ̴̞̥̈̉g̸͓͑͜ȋ̴̮̫̎v̶͔͋͝e̶̥̒ ̶̘̐ÿ̸͈́ơ̴̪͈̔u̸̗͗̾ ̵̧̋a̶̙̰͒̓ ̴̺̣̇̐ẃ̷̞͜a̴̺̓r̵̨̤̒̆m̸̭̍ ̵̪̻̿w̶̖̟͆͌ȇ̸̺l̵̖͛c̷̭̩̾o̵̝̕m̷̫̣̒e̸͖͈͋,̴̤̪͒ ̶̞́̉M̴͙̔͗i̴̩̓̆c̸̳̆h̸̠͠ḛ̶͆a̸͍͇̍l̶͓̮͂.̵͚́͝ ̶͕̀A̸̝͑ș̷̱͝ ̴̣̫̇͠f̸̘͘ͅo̵̧̙͌̐r̴̨̀ ̵́͊͜y̸̟̓͘ò̵̪̓ȗ̵̟̻,̴̛̞̍ ̶̩̀m̵̝͛ỹ̷̖̗͆ ̵̰͂̿d̸̛̦̪e̴͚͙̓a̵̛̲̥ŕ̶̯̘ ̷̡͇̑(̶͍̐͆Y̵̧͝/̸̗͚͌̈́n̴̰̆)̸̙͠ ̴̩͈͝i̶̮̻͠s̴̡̙̉͠ ̶͚̋t̵̩̚ẖ̴̨̔ä̶͉́t̸͍̱̐̾ ̵̼͔̇̓d̷̞͕͌e̵̠̲̎̅a̸̛̲t̶͖͇̔͛h̷̛͔̙̆ ̶͎̇̀w̵̫̑ö̸̡́̔n̴̟̕'̵͎̈t̶̢̂ ̵̱͔͒̉h̸͙̜̽͝ọ̵̈́͝l̴̩̤̆d̸̬͛͜ ̴̮̄̉m̷̞̥̀ë̷̟ ̶̼͋̈ͅb̴̟͓͌ạ̸̓c̷͕̒k̷̪̙̈ ̷̺̂f̷̥̱͆r̵̪̹͘͠o̷̢͂m̸͇̋͒ ̴̨̼͠t̵̰͍̊a̵̗̓̿k̴͓̻͐͠î̵͍̑n̴̳̚ͅg̵̱̾̅ ̸̹͔̋y̴̗̚o̴̦̅̐û̷̹ ̵͉͔̈a̷̠͌g̷͉̞̒̀a̷̛̠̒ị̵̉̚n̴̯̦̈́.̶͉̆͂", Springtrap rasped and gurgled as blood began to seep in his alveolis. The spring locks attached to his golden suit began to convulse, thus crushing his entrails even more; Painting the ground with his blood.

"A well-deserved fate for a demon that leeches on the suffering of the innocent.", A whisper was heard as the beast screams, while it was impaled and crushed by metal rods.

The only thing that distracts him from that excruciating agony of being springtrapped, is the sweet memory of his intractable pet.

He recalls the first time he met her, an intriguing detective who was paying a visit to his subservient co-owner.

He remembers her with clarity, as she walked past those brown gateways to greet her friend with a heartening embrace. He was envious of the relationship Henry shared with her. Irked, the blonde had the thing he desired more so than his own wife as he progressively 'watched' her.

However, Afton sadistically simpered at the thought of stealing another cherished person from him. Just like how he took poor little Charlie out of the picture.

William-at that time- was vigilant enough not to reveal his surprise to Det.(L/n). A sinister grin covered his visage, as he isolated her and began to disclose his secret to her. Only to see her pretty little countenance, twists into an enticing expression of fear and a lovely tint of determination.

Oh, how did he miss seeing the fear reside in her enrapturing pupils?

And, how much did he adore the mind games between him and her? Quite an intimate activity they both share, in his perspective.

But nothing surpasses the time, when he tormented her in the safe room at the first location. Her tears cascaded from her face, as he burrowed himself deep inside her moreish core.

As life goes, nothing good ever last. That nuisance he called Charlie and her bandwagon kept on chasing him. Until, they cornered him and he became the thing he and Henry created.

A twist of an irony, he presumes. At this point, Springtrap didn't care. Nor, was he ever capable of doing so to begin with.

The two regrets he had in his mind is never killing that damned pest he called his son, and letting his pet escape. A shame, really! He had a gift to give her, a gift that he worked day and night on to make it ideal.

However, a ring called from far away.

It appears to be, there is a curious guest.

One, so foolish to come here just to die uncovering the ghosts of the past. Or, for a silly monetary gain. He is unconcerned about the reasoning, as long as he is able to suffice his insatiable thirst of blood. He can feel it, the urge to coil his rusted hands around the night guard and crush their puny skull into bloody mesh.

"T̵̡͕̏̄ȟ̶̰̯̓o̸̹͑s̵̹͚̈́e̸͔̅̚ ̴̪̎ć̵̪̬u̸͔̦̓r̶̯͈͘s̴̠͛́e̸͈͆̕d̷̮̉̕ ̷̼̟͌͐c̸̡̪͆̅h̸̎ͅį̴̍̐l̷̞̙̈̔d̴̨̝̎r̵̯̂͠ĕ̴̪̝̀ņ̵̃ ̶̙̀́t̵̗́̉h̶͇͂��i̵̢͕̅͒n̵̞̗̾͑k̸͇̈̌ ̷̞̃͝Í̶͚'̷͕̓̕m̴̯͈͆͘ ̸͈̀d̸͔̔ȇ̵̹̽͜ḁ̸̡̒̓d̵̟̈́,̶̜̞̈́̄ ̸̝̳͆͛b̶̞͙̚ư̵͕̣̇ẗ̷̜́̕ ̵̩̠́̂ṱ̸̩̈́ĥ̷̯ę̶͖̆y̸̛̙̏ͅ'̷̜̒ͅr̸͖͂ê̷̯̖̈́ ̵̲͛ ̵̩̄̌i̵͚̦̔g̷͕̓n̷̜͖̉̊ỏ̸̲͘ṟ̷͓̓̄a̶̰̚n̵͓̝͗̚t̶̨̀͛ ̵̯̀ť̸̖̹͗o̶̼͚͛ ̶͚̉t̵̻͝h̷̭̳́̑e̵͕̬͒ ̶̭͘f̵̺̓ả̷͜c̵̭͗͘ţ̸́ ̴͉̫͊͑Į̵̈́͗ ̵̣̋̏ạ̴̔l̴͖̉̎w̵̜͌ä̴̲́ý̸͙̞s̸̙̆̀ ̷̓ͅç̶̥͛ó̷̳m̸̥͐̏ḙ̷͍̆ ̴͖̔͘b̸̨͍̀͠a̷̛̱̞c̷̗͒k̴͔̀.̷̳͖͝ ̵͉̂F̸̱́̂͜o̷̧̘̅̾r̴͓͔̔͝ ̷̮̓n̸̖͌̓ó̷͔̑ẃ̵̱̀ͅ,̵͉͚̊ ̶͍̚͝I̵̪̪̔ ̷̖̎w̵͕̠̃̿i̵̯͝l̴̪͌l̸̜̄ ̶̣̆̍l̶̫̀͝è̴̮̭a̴̰̎v̷̨̟̒e̴̟̥̍ ̴̜͈̓̏ả̸̤ ̶̘̈́m̶̙̱͌́e̸͈̒̈m̸̢̄̈́ȍ̷̡ï̸̥͈r̷̢̮̔ ̸̨͆t̶͕̞̏o̸͆̎͜ ̴̳̤́ȓ̵̗͐ḛ̵͌͂m̷̬͗͛i̵̗̒n̴̗̓̋ď̵̠̉ͅ ̷̨͔͝t̸̛̞h̵͚͠ë̷̟́m̴͖͋͆ ̴̜̖̂̌o̴̼̣͘f̸̥̔ ̴͓͍̈́̈́t̵̥̀ͅh̴̻̀͗ė̸̝͉͒ȉ̷̺̠r̴̼̀ ̷̯̔̾Ŏ̸̞̙'̷͓̱̚l̴̺̘̈́̓ ̶̯͗̈́f̴̩̏̽r̵̢̆ǐ̶͖ë̷̬͍́͘n̵͊̎ͅd̶̞̦͒.̴͎͝ ̵̨̢́̈́Ä̸̡̱f̸̙̌̌t̵̻̆̇͜ę̶͍͑r̵͎̮̒w̷̻͎͐a̸̹̓́r̷̛͉̖d̷̪͑ŝ̴̜̭͒,̵͇̬́ ̸̜͒͂Ì̶ͅ ̶̻͑̿ŵ̷̩͕i̵͖̫͑l̷͔̠̃l̵̜͋̄ ̷̝̔s̵͚̱̄e̸̩͌ẽ̴̘̎ḱ̶̞ ̵̦̣͒y̶̲̓͊o̵̫̲͂u̵̥̽̑ ̷̟́m̷̟̆̍ỷ̸̯̀͜ ̴͎̯̓̓ḻ̷̳̏ȕ̵̧͔͗v̶̡̄ ̵̗̉̆a̸͉̺͌͊n̴̫͝d̶̮͎̍ ̵͓̓̽y̷̼̚̚ò̴̹͍ù̵̗͜ ̶̫̓̈́ẃ̶̼̌í̵̯̄l̴͈͋̅l̶͍̼̒ ̶̢̈́w̸̫̑o̷̧͒͝r̷̙̻͐s̶̼̖͑̀h̷̚͜ḯ̵̜p̶͔̫̆ ̸͇̾͘m̶̰͕̏e̴̙̒ ̶͎̎͂a̵̟̐̀s̶̞̲̋ ̷͖͎̓͝Î̵͕̣͑ ̷̙̤͑̚d̵̨̍̀e̵̪͎͌̈́ĺ̴̜̆i̷͉͝v̴̞̻́̕e̴̝͓̅͆ṛ̴̾ ̸̢̏͌y̵͑̓͜ô̵̳̙u̷͇͛̇͜r̸̩̲͝ ̷̔̂͜g̶͎̙̒͗i̸͙̽͆f̵͉͆̓t̶̜̕", With an eternal grin carved into his face, he begins his hunt for his prey. Stomping through the halls, with bloodlust coursing through his wires and vessels.

A/n: Viola! Finished with the prologue. By writing this story, I don't and never will condone the actions of William afton. This is dark (based on the warnings), so reader discretion is advised. Otherwise, buckle up.

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere imagines #yandere fandoms #yancore #yandere fnaf #yandere William Afton #tw: violence #tw: death #tw: gore #tw: implied assault #tw: implied noncon

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immortalcoelacanth · 4 years

Text

HLVRAI Oneshot: Degrade

Once again based on the Abscond AU by @godros and this one does require a small bit of context so I’d totally recommend checking it out if you haven’t already! Quick note that this one is Tommy centric but there is bits of shipping here and there so keep an eye out for it ;)

Word count: 1475

Summary: Gordon wasn’t the only one breaking down.

After interacting with Tommy, most assumed that he… was not the sharpest tool in the shed. He was often perceived as being very naïve, lacking awareness of what was going on in the world around him. Others felt that he wanted to act like a foolish child and insulted him behind his back.

These people usually did not last long in Black Mesa, not showing up for work the next day after muttering their insults. None of the staff questioned it or knew better than to question it.

Overall, few held Tommy’s intelligence in high regard, and as such it was also thought that his observations skills were just as bad if not worse.

Something which was far from the truth.

Tommy typically allowed his emotions to take center stage in controlling his reactions, instinctively responding to things rather than thinking it out first. It was why he was always so emotional, easily saddened by negative events or cheered up when a good thing happened.

Like getting a Beyblade or drinking soda!

Being able to talk to his friends also made him very happy, so when Benrey had approached the Science Team and told them all that Gordon was back, Tommy was ecstatic!

Mr. Freeman was back after having been gone for so long! It had been depressing waiting to see what their friend would do, when he would free them from this place. Tommy had noticed how much quieter Dr. Coomer was, and how Bubby’s angered shouting was a shadow of what it used to be, and then there was Benrey…

Sad, lonely Benrey who seemed to count every second Gordon was gone for. Tommy had noticed the tallies that Benrey kept on the wall, occasionally adding one more, and tried to ask what they were.

He had gotten no answer.

It had been heartbreaking to watch the hope slowly dwindle in the group, Tommy himself had been relying on Sunkist to keep him upbeat, but now everything was better! The Science Team was whole again! Everyone was happy! They could have fun and explore!

Except… after some time passed Tommy noticed that things were not okay.

It started with small things, tiny details that no one really paid attention to other than him. Noticing that Gordon grew frustrated with his hair, how the tie never seemed to work and hold it up properly. Benrey seemed to enjoy this development, taking the opportunity to occasionally mess with Gordon’s hair and annoy him, while Dr. Coomer suggested several tips to keep his hair neat and orderly.

Only Tommy wondered why the hair tie no longer worked despite appearing to be perfectly fine.

From there things only grew worse, watching Gordon stumble and bump into obstacles that he should have been able to easily avoid, seeing how often the man rubbed his eyes and blinked, like they were blurry. It was only after he tripped over some rubble, a fair-sized chunk of concrete and fell to the ground, that Tommy decided to voice his concerns.

“Uh, M-Mr. Freeman?” He began, watching as Dr. Coomer quickly looked Gordon over to make sure he was not hurt. “Are… are you okay?”

“I’m fine!” Was the oddly cheerful reply, Gordon messing with his glasses before smiling up at Tommy. Dr. Coomer helped him get to his feet while Bubby and Benrey watched from off to the side.

“You’re more of a deadweight than I remembered!” Bubby snarked as Benrey let out a sigh and lazily smiled.

“damn bro your middle name must be… uh, two-left-feet or somethin’.”

“Benrey, don’t you dare-”

“gaydon two-left feetman.”

“Benrey sometimes I want to strangle you.”

With Gordon back on his… feet, Dr. Coomer rejoined Bubby just in time to hear the other scientist sigh. “Damn, this ship is gonna hit more icebergs than the Titanic!”

Fortunately, Benrey and Gordon failed to hear that remark while Tommy silently wondered what such a thing was supposed to mean. After failing to answer his own questions, he decided to ask once more if their friend was alright.

“Mr. Freeman are… are you sure you’re okay? You looked kinda…” Tommy paused as he tried to figure out how to word the next part. “Distracted?”

“I was just thinking about things and didn’t notice that rubble, it’s okay Tommy.” Gordon said while offering him a reassuring smile.

“thinkin’ about finally sending me a friend request?”

“No Benrey! I don’t even have a Playstation!”

“laaaaaaame.”

While the typical banter was certainly reassuring and helped Tommy calm down, there was no shaking the quiet voice in the back of his mind that continued to insist that something was not right, that something bad was going to happen to Gordon. It put him on edge kept him that way as they explored the desolate map, chatting and joking about things.

If only Tommy had listened to that voice and voiced his concerns, perhaps things would have turned out differently.

Gordon’s condition grew worse, eyesight deteriorating to the point of where Dr. Coomer and even Bubby were trying to convince him to take a break, sit down and relax as they figured out how to help. Benrey seemed to be in denial, still joking and occasional talking about random topics. Tommy had practically glued himself to Gordon’s side at this point, hovering over the man and trying to see if he could help in any way.

“M-Mr. Freeman c-can I get you a… a soda?” His words were starting to fracture a bit due to the stress, but Tommy did his best to keep himself together for his friend. “There-there might be a m-machine somewhere. I could always, uh, g-go and-”

Gordon shook his head, cutting off Tommy’s rambling. “Nah, I’m okay. You don’t need to worry about me.”

He smiled, a small, pained smile, and Tommy worried all the more.

Both Benrey and Gordon insisted on moving forward despite there being no real reason to and the objections from the rest of the Science Team. Unfortunately, their concerns were paid no mind as the two continued to press forward, forcing the rest of the group to follow and make sure nothing else happened.

Not that any of them thought they could stop whatever was happening.

“You’re both a bunch of fucking morons if you think any of this is going to turn out okay!” Bubby had cursed while pointing at the duo in denial, fortunately without a gun in his hands. “I thought Gordon was supposed to be smart!”

“what? i’m not smart?”

“Of course not! You think Playstation is great when everyone knows that PC is the best for playing games!”

“but-but how am i supposed to… uh… how do i get playstation plus then, huh? i want my free games.”

“It’s called pirating-”

“That’s illegal!” Tommy wailed. “That-that’s stealing!”

“It’s only stealing if you get caught.”

This good mood was fleeting as soon enough the Science Team found themselves encountering another hurdle.

Gordon’s hand glitching and twitching as the skin it was made of faded away and was replaced by a blocky texture, becoming nothing more than a projection of what it had previously been.

The group all stared in shock and horror, and even Benrey seemed to be at a loss for words. And then pure, absolute, chaos broke out.

Dr. Coomer rushed to Gordon’s side as the man sank to the ground, clearly in shock as he tried to touch the phantom hand, resulting in his fingers passing through it. Bubby started cursing and yelling, not at anyone in particular, however Tommy had a feeling that some of his insults were addressed to two people in particular, and Benrey…

Benrey looked… guilty. Eyes looking at everything except Gordon while standing as far from the group as possible yet still being close enough to see what was going on.

“Mr. Freeman?” Tommy whimpered, causing Gordon’s glitchy eyes to fixate on him. “We-we should go b-back. You need to g-go back. You… you can’t-”

He smiled that empty smile, one that seemed so unconcerned with himself, and reached out to pat Tommy’s shoulder. His phantom hand phased through it, and Tommy flinched sharply. While no words were said, the unsettling interaction was more than enough to convey several worrying things to Tommy.

Why did Gordon seem so unconcerned with his own safety? It was… scary to see him acting like this! Maybe it was the shock? He hoped it was.

Naturally, this put their exploring to an end for now. No one disagreed with that decision thanks to a quick glare from Dr. Coomer, and how gloomy Benrey had become. As the group sat in silence and got some rest, Tommy curled up and pressed his face into his knees so no one could see his tears.

They had enough problems to deal with, they did not need another.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

I had to contribute a bit of angst to this AU, it’s in my nature! Also to my followers Also I apologize once more for the change in the focus of the content I’m putting out!

I hope you all enjoyed reading!

- ImmortalCoelacanth

#my story #fanfiction #hlvrai #hlvrai tommy #hlvrai gordon #hlvrai dr. coomer #hlvrai bubby #hlvrai benrey #abscond au #gordon is a stubborn idiot #tommy is sad #benrey realizes he fucked up

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psychemeanscure · 4 years

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PART 2.2 {I’m guessing you already notice spanish terms along your way. And yes I admit, I’m currently obsessed of SYJ’s fluency from the language. So yeah! Might as well apply it with Eunyoung tho. Lol! Happy reading :)}

“What was that for?!”

A slap coming from her made him snap back from reality. “Uh. Hi? Welcome back to earth?” unconcerned from what she did, he was answered by her sarcastic words when all he could do is groan. “I guess your back. Where were you, anyway?” her proceeding sarcasm once again. Just like that, his defeating groan turned into a teasing smirk. “Nothing, just reminiscing our old times.” And she knows she had been refuted. “Whatever.” So she decides for a white flag instead, while he’s thrilled with success.

“But seriously, I still wonder though on what makes you choose me out of all trouble shooters in town. Why is that, eh?” makes her think otherwise as well. Why is it actually? Seems she has explaining things to do. “Quantum physics. Familiar with that, Jang.” He knew it. There she is again with her scientific counters, and he had already enough that only a puffing sound can save him.

“Fine. Give it to me.” As if a sleepy remark from him instead, then after her blasé laugh “Relax. This isn’t going to cause you headache.” As her ensuing litany follows. “To make it simple, practically it’s a physics that explains how everything works the best description we have of our nature that make up matter and forces which interacts, underlies how it works and why others work as they do.” Waiting for a clearer response, his depressing face begun to appear. “So?” he’s in his peak of boredom, and he mean it.

“So, in short...” she intended to cut her words only to see the already impatient Jang Taeyoung in front of her. Truth be told, she’s actually hesitating though. But whatever, she better just handles the consequences later. “Thoughts will create our reality. I guess matter and forces led me to you. Considering…” her proceeding hesitations again, while for him was an ultimate awe that in an instant, his sly behavior instigates to work as he slowly pushes himself closer to her.

“Considering what Eunyoung-ah? Considering I’m one reckless of a troublemaker. Is that what you’re saying?” And she felt it. She always did. The moment he begins to tilt his suspecting head to caressing her shoulder. She knew he’ll try to tame her again. He always did. But who is he lying? As if she’ll give in. She will never be.

Giving him the same force. She speaks. “Right. And considering how much trouble you cause me do.” Her firm reply indeed. But just like that, she had to gasp unprepared by his sudden linking with her waist as he pressed her much closer to him, her hands are as well not helping as it unintentionally placed by his shoulders leaving no space between them.

She was about to retort, only to find out he already did. “Get your hands off me or am I going to pull off all my stocks on your Casino Hotel?” that alone silenced her. “Your kind of reasoning were getting obvious over time that only I, can only decipher.” As he shamelessly takes her chin up by his free hand making their faces only inches apart from each other. “Seems like your tactics begins to wither Eunyoung-ah. What happened?”

This has to stop! Her thoughts said it so, before she’ll fully drown flabbergasted. But her inner seems hard to cooperate. “And you must have forgotten whom you are dealing with, Taeyoung-ah.” Snapping back indeed, as she successfully pushes herself to composure and had him countered. He finally let go at last. Smirking with satisfaction. “You’re a hell of a stubborn still, Eunyoung-ah. But don’t get me wrong. I will always find my ways.” And she knew what it meant.

“Oh! And by the way. Tell my dear Amilia how much I missed her, and I can’t wait to see her very soon.”

The last thing he mentioned from afar, after walking out of her vicinity, hands in tacked in pockets, whistling with arrogance. “Joder rascal.” Her only fuming curses instead, unheard by him of course.

#ko mun yeong #seo ye ji #kim soo hyun #psycho but it's okay #it's okay not to be okay #jang tae young #sung eun young #realkoreanmovie #by quantum physics #nightlife ventures #moon gang tae #hyunji #seo yea ji #itsokaynottobeokay #quantum physics

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grayyxv · 4 years

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An Analysis of Portgas D. Ace

Alright I decided to do this since people actually enjoyed the analysis i did for Kid. Also, i find myself relating to him more and more recently. So, I thought: why not do an analysis of him?

Ace is undoubtedly one of my favorite characters in all of one piece so this might segway to become a "Why is Ace such a good character?" post.

Before I begin, just a disclaimer; I am aware that not everyone will agree with what I say so just make sure you understand that this is just my opinion. im just a psychology student so im just using whatever crap i learnt into analyzing this.

* This post might contain spoilers *

Here we go.

I think we can all agree that Ace is definitely one of the most loved characters in one piece. He has a shit ton of fans so i dont even NEED to convince you on why you should like him. But of course, there are fans that like him only because of his appearance or because of his abilities. So, id like to offer a different perspective- the same goes with my Kid post. Im just here to kind of breakdown the reasons why Ace is such an amazing character such that we can all appreciate him even more.

1. Background

Let us take a look at his background shall we? I think this is a very important part of Ace's character as all his choices and decisions stems from how he was raised during his childhood.

In the recent chapters of one piece, they showed a panel of Roger saying how he wanted a son. But we all know how that went. He was dead so he couldnt take care of Ace. Instead, taking care of Ace became Garp's responsibility, then it shifted to Dadan's responsibility.

Dadan was Ace' primary caretaker. While she provided and place for him to stay & food to eat, she isn't really shown spending time with him. She cared for him, that's for sure. But did she meet his emotional needs? I dont think so. Spending time with a chuld is very importsnt for their growth. But Dadan did not do that. It's evident that Ace displays the insecure-avoidant attachment style as he is unconcerned about his caregiver. This led him to develop trust issues as he got a bit older.

Another reason that could explain his behaviour in his childhood is that no one tried to address the relationship between him and Gol D. Roger. No one took time to acknowledge Ace's feelings about Roger. Everyone around him had said that he was an amazing man, but no one understood Ace when he said that Roger wasn't as great of a father. This led him to resent Roger even more- as well as the people who praised him.

Sabo's 'death' really affected Ace. Sabo was the first person who accepted Ace and I guess Ace must've grieved over him. (I mean, he does have a tattoo in memory of Sabo) But, Sabo was the reason why Ace decided to become stronger. So that he could fight for whoever he cared about.

2. Love

This is arguably the main theme in Ace's character.

His whole character arc revolves around acceptance and his goal in life was simply to find someone that could love him for who he was- not because he was the son of Roger. As explained above, he had attachment issues as he wasn't really shown any love as a kid. The firet person to accept him was Sabo then eventually, Luffy. It's unclear how Sabo and Ace met but, Sabo was definitely the first person to help Ace open up his heart. This is purely hypothetical but I think Ace saw similarities between himself and Sabo which eventually led them to becoming friends. On the other hand, he took a long time before he accepted Luffy. Luffy was an interesting child because he was so persistent in getting Ace's attention and acceptance. I'm sure Ace must have felt confused as to why someone would try so hard to even be accepted by him. Was it because he was Roger's son? Or did Luffy really want to befriend Ace because of who he was? When they became sworn brothers, it had meant that Ace was going to sacrifice everything for Sabo and Luffy. They followed different paths but Ace never stopped caring for them.

Moving on to the point where he first joined the Whiteheard pirates, this is when he experienced what it was like to have a family. Over time, they taught him about how a family should be like. They showed him unconditional love and sheltered him from those who would try to harm him. In return, he does the same for them. This was when Ace had found his purpose. His purpose was to protect those he cared about and those who cared about him.

3. Marineford

This is where Ace's character really was at its peak. We see that everything that we have understood about Ace makes sense as they are reflected in his actions. Him going after Blackbeard after he killed Thatch, then getting captured. But, this is where we learn that Ace is still struggling with his issues. He doesn't want to be saved because there's a part of him that thinks that no one cares about him. He thinks that nobody would bother risking their lives for him so, he didn't ask for any help as he didn't want to ne disappointed when no one came. At the same time, part of him clung on to that hope that he could be saved. That maybe just one person would come and rescue him.

As an audience, his conflicting emotions really impacted me because his feelings are all too real. What do i mean? This is kind of personal but, if you have ever struggled with mental illness you'll understand Ace's feelings. I've dealt with depression all my life and I could really relate to his feelings. Sometimes I wonder if I'm worth the effort, if there is any point in me living. Does anyone really care about me? Even if you don't have a mental health condition, surely you must have had times where you were in despair. That is when you wonder to yourself if there is any point in clinging onto hope. If there is anyonr that could save you from this situation. I think this side of Ace's character is so well written because it reflects reality.

The most heartbreaking scene is when Ace protects Luffy from Akainu. Some people argue that Ace's death was his own fault as he shouldn't have gotten agitated when Akainu insulted Whitebeard. But, you need to understand Whitebeard's relationship to Ace. To Ace, Whitebeard was the man that gave him everything a father would have. He was there for Ace physically and emotionally. He literally was the one who gave Ace the confidence and strength to fight for who he loves. So, I think that his actions and choices in that scene is perfectly valid. It fits his character.

Finally, Ace's death and his last words.

"Thank you for loving me."

This fucking broke my heart.

Everything about Ace's character is coming in full circle. His past, his choices, everything had been leading to this moment where he would die protecting the one he loved. He had finally achieved his goal in life- which was to find someone who could love him. He must've felt so fucking happy when he saw how so many people were willing to fight to save him. He finally attainted the happiness he had been searching for so, so long.

Then, he died.

This is going to segway a little but I really, really couldn't accept his death because he didn't deserve to die. Don't get me wrong, I do know how important his death is for the story and Luffy's character but I still can't accept that he couldn't live out the rest of his days happily. Also, the fact that he never got to see Sabo again just fucking breaks my heart because Sabo was the first person in his LIFE to accept him. (that is why i ship them lmao)

Anyways.

In summary, I think the reason why everyone loves Ace so much was because they could see themselves in his position. We can understand his conflicting feelings, his fears and worries because they are a reflection of reality. We desire for the same thing as he does: Love and acceptance. Which is why, we root for him. In times of despair, he clings on to hope- much like how we do in real life.

With that said, like how Ace deserves all the love in the world, you do too.

You deserve better.

TLDR; i love this man so, so much

#one piece #portgas d ace #portgas d. ace #sabo #asl #asl brothers #monkey d. luffy #luffy #whitebeard pirates

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treh-co · 4 years

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A Hard Place To Stay

Words: 4750 Chapters: 1/1 Characters: Michael Jones, Gavin Free, others mentioned Pairings: Gavin Free/Michael Jones, Lindsay Tuggey Jones/Michael Jones (Mentioned) TW: Description of depressive symptoms, reckless driving, mentions of violence Other Tags: FAHC Universe, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Making Out

"How about you, then?"

"How about what?"

"Do you think you'd be happy?" Gavin pressed, the flecks of yellow in his irises burning like sparks. "If we hadn't met?"

Michael can't always solve his problems with pipe bombs or expletives. Gavin can be helpful, in his own way.

Read On AO3

Since Michael had reached Los Santos and met the Fakes, his life had been pretty good. It wasn’t perfect, but hell, whose was? When he looked at what he had, now- a team, a roof over his head, a job that he loved and money in his pockets- he really couldn't complain. Most of the time, his life was great.

That being said? Some days fucking sucked.

It wasn't really that surprising. He'd always been like this, ever since he was a kid. He just got mad sometimes. Real fuckin pissed, for no good reason whatsoever. It wasn't like a new place, a new alias, and a few thousand bucks would just fix everything. His own fucked-up brain was bound to catch up with him, eventually.

No, what was confusing was that all of it- his job, his friends, his new life- almost made it worse. Not to say that he was upset about the situation itself. Far from it, actually. But it was just frustrating, in a way his old life hadn't been. He supposed that was because it just made sense, back then. He was in his twenties, shit-broke, stuck in a dead-end gig as an electrician with no plans, no aspirations, barely any friends. His life fucking sucked, so of course he'd be pissed about it. That was par for the course.

Now, though, his life wasn't shit. He was happy- or at least, he should be. He had everything he'd ever wanted. All the excitement and spontaneity he could handle, money and cool cars and a group of people he loved, who loved him back. Fuck's sake, he got to shoot people, blow shit up, and cause mayhem with his best friends for a living. He should be the happiest goddamn person on earth.

But some days, he just wasn't. Some days, like today, he was laying in a fuming pile on his bed, paralyzed by how much he hated everything in the world, losing his mind with anger over absolutely nothing. And that was the real kicker, when he thought about it. The fact that he could fix everything, make his life as amazing as it could be, and the universe would still find a way to kick him in the balls. Even now, he couldn't just be happy. Because that'd just be too easy, wouldn't it?

Almost on cue, his mental hurricane of self-loathing and miserable introspection was rudely interrupted by the sound of his bedroom door- which he could swear he’d locked- being thrown open. The carelessness and lack of warning told Michael who it was before any grating, British syllable could even make it to his ears.

"Michael!" Gavin called, chipper and sunny, and Michael could swear he'd never been so close to strangling the other boy in his life.

"Fuck off," he groaned, turning onto his side, refusing to give Gavin the satisfaction of full acknowledgment. He heard an offended squawk from behind him, and hoped that Gavin would take the hint and leave it at that.

If only he should be so lucky.

Instead, he heard the door close again, followed by a quiet click! The ceiling light flicked on, and Michael practically hissed.

"Goddamn it!" he shouted, grabbing a pillow and chucking it blindly towards the other side of the room, pulling the other one up to cover his face. "Turn the fucking lights back off, asshole!"

Of course, Gavin ignored him. In less than five seconds, Michael heard a hup, and the mattress dipped beneath the sudden weight of Gavin landing full-body beside him. He hit the blankets with a grunt, which dissolved into a small laugh. Another time, Michael might have found the other boy's antics amusing- maybe even cute. At the moment, he wanted nothing more than to throw him out and slam the door in his face.

"I'm gonna kill you," he growled. "I'm actually gonna fucking kill you."

"What?" Gavin put on his playing-dumb voice, and Michael could feel him sitting up and leaning over his shoulder to try to meet his eyes. "Why would you say that, Michael?"

"Because I mean it, dumbass!" Michael snapped, throwing the pillow off his head and whacking Gavin in the face with it, receiving a shocked yelp in response. "Would it kill you to not be so goddamn obnoxious for once in your stupid fucking life?!"

Gavin frowned as he rescued his sunglasses from where they'd fallen on the mattress in Michael's pillow-based assault, replacing them on his head, but he only shrugged at the other boy's berating. "Probably."

Michael groaned, falling back down onto the bed, too exasperated to bother yelling anymore. He knew when he was fighting a losing battle.

"Would you just leave me alone? Please?"

"No!" It was apparently Gavin's turn to be irate. He pushed himself up onto his knees, crossing his arms and glaring down stubbornly at Michael. "You've been alone all day, Michael. You've hardly left your room all weekend!"

"I'm brooding," Michael replied tiredly, muffled as he turned to press his face into the mattress. "Let me brood."

"Absolutely not!"

Suddenly, Michael could feel Gavin's weight leaving the bed. There was a tugging on his leg, and before Michael could finish the instinctive string of expletives he was shouting in response, Gavin had pulled the sweatpants Michael was wearing off of him completely, dropping them on the floor.

"What the fuck, Gavin?!"

"Get dressed!" the brit demanded, looking rather proud of himself. "We're going out!"

"Like hell we are, asshole!" Michael snapped.

Gavin rolled his eyes and returned to the bed, seemingly unconcerned with any potential retaliation Michael might have in mind.

"Come on, Micool," Gavin whined, butchering his name in that way he knew only he could get away with. "You've been locked up in here for ages! I can't stand to see you all mopey anymore."

"You mean, you got bored," Michael said dryly. Gavin shrugged.

"Well- yeah, okay, that's part of it," he admitted. "But I'm also right! You can't stay in your room forever! You need fresh air, and sun!"

Michael glanced at the window. "The sun went down, like, an hour ago."

"...Just fresh air, then!" Resorting to drastic measures, Gavin threw himself onto Michael's shoulder, putting on the best puppy-dog eyes he could manage. "Please Michael? Just for a little while?"

Michael humored Gavin's staring contest for about three seconds, weighing his options. Then he slumped back against the headboard and sighed.

"If I do, will you leave me alone when we get back?"

Gavin nodded vigorously, already lighting up with the knowledge that he'd won. Michael pinched the bridge of his nose. He already regretted this.

"Fine."

After he finally managed to get Gavin out of his room, Michael begrudgingly threw on some clothes- he considered locking Gavin out and going back to bed, but knowing him, he'd just find Trevor and convince the younger boy to pick the lock for him. Trevor was concerningly easy to talk into things like that. So, against his better judgement, Michael simply got changed and made his way to the front room of the penthouse, where Gavin was already waiting for him. The other boy was perched on the edge of the kitchen counter, kicking his feet and staring down at his phone. He looked up and smiled when he heard Michael walk in.

"There you are! Thought you were gonna stand me up, boi."

"Yeah, whatever," Michael crossed his arms. "Where are we even going?"

"Don't know!" Gavin chirped happily, and Michael had to catch the keyring that Gavin flung at him without warning. "It's up to you!"

Michael glowered at him. "Seriously? All that to get me outside, and you didn't even think of something to do?"

"Would you have been happy with anything I picked?" Gavin replied pointedly.

"Whatever," Michael scoffed, choosing to ignore the fact that Gavin was probably right. "Let's just get this shit over with."

To Gavin's credit, the act of offering Michael access to his personal garage was a surprisingly generous one. They took the elevator down, and Michael took a moment to assess his options. The room was filled top to bottom with an array of gaudy vehicles, from chrome to neons to his signature gold. Michael felt like he'd get a headache just from standing in the room; eventually, he decided that a red 9F Cabrio was one of the least offensive items in the collection. Gavin didn't try to hide his disappointment in the decision, but climbed into the passenger seat regardless, on the condition that they pull the top down immediately.

"Won't you mess up your hair?" Michael pointed out as he pulled the car out of the garage.

Gavin shrugged. "Who cares?"

Michael thought about bringing up the fact that Gavin spent about fifteen minutes every morning just on his hair, gelling and combing it into some specific array of spikes that only he understood the purpose of, but then decided that it was probably pointless. He'd never met someone who managed to simultaneously care so much and yet so little about their appearance. It was almost impressive.

Michael took the first couple of minutes on the road to get accustomed to the car. He didn't have one like this; fancy sports cars were for people like Geoff, Gavin, and Jeremy. People who either loved cars, or loved expensive, flashy shit. Michael wasn't either of those. He didn't care about price tags or convoluted specs. If it had an engine and wouldn't explode if he touched it, he'd take it. That being said, he could still appreciate a nice car when he drove it, and this one was definitely not bad to handle. The turn and acceleration were smooth, and Michael found himself testing it, pushing faster or making quicker turns, seeing how much the car could handle. He didn't bother with conversation, and thankfully, Gavin didn't seem interested in making any, either. That was another strange thing about Gavin; the boy could ramble about nothing for hours on end, but he could also go for nearly a day without speaking a word, if he felt like it. He was a mess of tangled-up contradictions wrapped into the shape of a man. But then, Michael thought, maybe that was what he liked about him. He was weird, sure, but in an exciting, interesting way. He never knew what to expect out of Gavin. The more he thought about it, the more Michael realized that it was one of his favorite things.

Not that he'd ever tell him that- Gavin's ego was inflated enough.

"Where are we going, Michael?" he asked eventually, when they began to approach the county line. It was well into the night, but the sky still glowed with the city lights that pushed up from beneath it, warding off the cosmos with an artificial pulse.

"I don't know yet," he replied. "Where the wind fuckin' takes us, I guess."

"How romantic," Gavin cooed. Michael snorted and punched him in the arm.

"Dumbass."

True to his word, Michael drove them around aimlessly for another few minutes, weaving through back streets and intersections, until every street melted into each other, a monotonous blur of neon and grime. Despite the late hour, the streets were predictably crowded. If New York was the city that never sleeps, Los Santos was its coked-up insomniac cousin.

It wasn't until they were nearing the freeway that Gavin suddenly gasped and grabbed Michael's arm. Michael recognized the glint in his green eyes.

"Oh, god- you have an idea, don't you?"

"The best idea," Gavin agreed, with a manic kind of grin that always preceded his idiotic schemes. Michael cocked an eyebrow.

Often, when Gavin had ‘ideas’, Michael could shut them down by refusing to hear him out. He found that the other boy often considered the attention he’d get for certain stunts the most worthwhile factor. But whether he was too tired to care or just itching for something stupid and exciting, Michael decided to humor him, at least for tonight.

"Care to explain?"

"I bet a thousand that you can't make it to Mount Chiliad by eleven."

Michael glanced down at the dash clock. 10:48.

"That's stupid," He told Gavin. "We'd have to go, like, twice the speed limit, non-stop to make it to Blaine County in time."

"Oh, I'm sorry," Gavin rolled his eyes. "I forgot, I'm driving with Michael 'Road Safety' Jones. Wouldn't want a ticket, now, would we?"

"Alright, motherfucker- y'know what?"

Gavin always seemed to know what would push Michael's buttons in just the right way to make him do what he wanted. This was just another instance; before he could let himself think twice, Michael had his foot to the gas, and they were speeding through Little Seoul in a beeline for La Puerta freeway. He knew he was just giving Gavin what he wanted, but the shocked yelp he got out of the brit at his sudden acceleration was compensation enough.

From that point, the ride became a non-verbal affair. The rush of the wind and the roar of the engine was more than enough to drown out any attempts at speech, nevermind the addition of angry onlooker's horns and the squeals of tires and brakes. They tore across the county line like a missile on track to a target, ready to explode. Michael let the adrenaline consume his thoughts; the buzzing at his fingertips, the blood pounding in his ears, his heartbeat slamming into his bones. He knew every route to Mount Chiliad like the back of his hand on this point; he could make it there in his sleep.

With such a familiar route, Michael found his attention straying from the road. As they merged onto the Senora freeway, he caught a glimpse of the inner city from the distance, and suddenly, his earlier thoughts were clawing their way back into his mind. He thought about the people they were passing, the people they left behind in the city.

Thousands of people, just like him- except they weren't like him. They didn’t blow off steam with potentially deadly joy rides down the freeway. They didn't need to cause trouble, cause a scene everywhere they went, spread pain and death and fear through every person they saw just to feel something. They were normal. So how the fuck was he different? Why couldn't he be like them? Why couldn't this be enough? It wasn't fair, he thought, feeling not unlike a petulant child- it wasn't fucking fair. The frustration, confusion, rage- it was all just too much, and all at once Michael- Michael just screamed.

It was low, at first; unsure. But then it was like the dam had snapped. A flood of everything, every thought and feeling he'd been shoving down for days, months, years, spilled out between his teeth. He cried it all out with all the air in his chest, like an exorcism, a purge, until his lungs begged for release and he could taste copper in his throat, letting the noise fall and fade on the deaf ears of a thousand distant lives.

When he stopped to breathe, he suddenly remembered that Gavin was there. He turned to the passenger seat. He wasn't sure what reaction he'd expected- maybe confusion, or even fear. But what he got was a wide, toothy grin. Before he could ask, Gavin was climbing out of his seat, unbothered by the neck-breaking speed with which they were hurtling down the highway. He sat himself on the edge of the side door, holding the headrest of the passenger seat for balance, and stuck one arm out into the open air. Michael watched him, almost awed; the wind lashed at his sandy blonde hair, tugged at the ends of his button-up blouse, and the rapidly passing street lights flickered in his eyes, tiny yellow sparks dancing in the dark of his pupil and the pale green of his iris. He'd never looked more at home; more alive.

And then, like Michael, Gavin screamed. With one hand reaching up into the sky, he filled his chest with air, and let it out in a full-body shout. No words, all meaning- not angry, like Michael's, but visceral with something that he couldn't put a name to. He almost wished he was better at that, at naming and detecting emotion, if only to decipher the sounds Gavin was hurling at the moon.

It was like that exchange had been some agreement between the two of them. Without coordination, they began to take turns screaming from the car as they tore across the county line, rivaling the sirens of police cars they'd lose with ease and the horns of bystanders who had to lurch out of the way. They must've carried on like that for miles, all the way to the mountain. What Michael would've paid to see themselves in that moment- whooping and hollering, howling like a pair of rabid wolves. A twin set of burning supernovas, ready to self-destruct and take this whole damn city down with them. Screaming into the night sky like they were daring the stars to scream back.

By the time they reached the mountain, they'd both begun to come down from the thrill, breathless and hoarse. As Michael eased off the gas to weave more carefully along the unpaved mountain path, Gavin fell back into his seat, gazing up at the sky in what looked like tired contentment. With the roar of the engine calmed to a steady purr, they let an easy silence settle in the space between them. Michael didn't even bother trying to reach the higher peaks of the mountain; a sports car could hardly make it halfway. Instead, he found a substantial cliff a short ways up, parking haphazardly near the base. As soon as the car came to a stop, Gavin was swinging the door open and climbing out. Michael waited, watching him as he sauntered off the path and into the thick grass between it and the edge of the cliffside, finding a clear spot and then promptly dropping like dead weight. Michael couldn't help the easy laugh that bubbled from his chest. He shut off the engine, finally leaving the car and moving to join him.

"Was that what you had in mind?" he asked, sitting beside Gavin in the grass. It was slightly damp, with late-night dew that was just beginning to settle. The smell of wet foliage grew stronger as the stench of burnt gasoline began to fade beneath it. The contrast was stark, but far from unwelcome. It always made him think of home, for some reason- springs and summers back in Jersey, late nights and early mornings in their tiny backyard. But the grass felt different, here. He wasn’t sure if that was good or bad.

"No," Gavin laughed, breathy and light, propping himself up on his elbows. "That was much better." Gazing down at Gavin, Michael suddenly had an idea.

"Yeah?" he asked, leaning down. "How about this?"

Without further warning, he flipped over to straddle Gavin's waist. In a second, he had the smaller man's shoulders pinned down onto the grass, and their lips were locked together in a rough, deep kiss. Gavin hadn't expected this, but he fell into it with ease, pushing himself up against Michael so their bodies were flush, like a puzzle piece slotting into place.

This wasn't the first time they'd done this- it certainly wouldn't be the last. If Michael was honest, he wasn't really sure what he and Gavin were. They'd never discussed it. But Lindsay knew, and she didn't mind, and Gavin and Michael certainly didn't have any complaints with this unspoken arrangement. So, for the time being, they skipped the words and definitions. The feeling of Gavin's lips against his, his bare skin beneath Michael's wandering palms; that was all he needed to know.

They broke apart after a moment, just to catch their breath. Michael was sure he must look as smug as he felt.

"So?" Gavin hesitated for a moment. Michael felt a little proud at his ability to leave Gavin, of all people, speechless. Then the other boy’s brain seemed to catch up, and he snickered.

"I don't know," he said. "It'd probably be better if you weren't getting grass stains all over my favorite blouse."

Michael rolled his eyes. "You're such a fuckin' diva."

But neither of them could help the laughter that passed between their parted mouths as Michael leaned back down. They readjusted; Michael sitting back again, finding a nearby rock to rest against, while Gavin climbed on top. Michael's hands found a home in the dip of Gavin’s waist, and Gavin tangled his fingers through Michael's hair, his nails scraping over the scalp. They kissed and touched, exploring their bodies, but neither moved to undress. Surprisingly, Michael was grateful.

It wasn't that he didn't find Gavin sexy. Far from it. But tonight- he just couldn't do it tonight. He supposed there were some people that made themselves feel better with sex, but it never worked with him. If anything, it made him feel worse. He wasn't sure if Gavin knew that, or if he could just tell that Michael wasn't interested in going further, but either way, he didn't protest the lack of escalation. No, Michael thought; he didn't need sex. He just needed this- this was enough. The warmth of another body, the feeling of Gavin's heartbeats falling in time with his own. Enough sensation to distract, to lose himself between soft, swollen lips, steady fingertips, the smell of expensive cologne and the taste of gas-station gum. Contradictions, he was reminded- always contradictions. He grazed his teeth over Gavin's neck, relishing the feeling of wrapping his mouth around the delicate skin just above his collarbone- the feeling of control, of biting without breaking, of bruising just light enough to leave his mark on the other boy's body, not enough to make him hurt. Because that was really what it came down to, wasn't it? Control. He couldn't control how he felt, or how it affected him. But he could control this.

Gavin was the most complicated person Michael knew- but goddamn if loving him wasn't the easiest thing in the world.

They might've stayed like that for minutes or hours, Michael couldn't tell, and he didn't have it in him to care. When they finally had their fill of each other's breath, they laid back down in the grass, gazing up at the stars side by side, like some cheesy movie. They weren't far enough from the city to fully escape the light pollution, but it was enough to make a difference. He didn't think either of them knew much about the stars, really- but it was still nice to look at. A sea of white pin-pricks floating in endless black.

"Makes you feel small, doesn't it?" Gavin said, without turning away from the sky.

"What, space?" Michael frowned. "I guess."

"I mean- think about it! Millions of stars, light years worth of space, and here we are, tiny little things on a tiny little rock, in the middle of a tiny galaxy that's just one in a billion."

"Wasn't this whole thing supposed to make me feel better?" Michael drawled. Gavin laughed, sounding a little sheepish.

"Right, sorry..."

Michael reached up and picked a piece of grass out of the dirt, twirling it between his fingers. He could feel Gavin looking at him when he spoke again.

"So- what were you so upset about, anyway?" he asked. Michael sighed. He'd been hoping that Gavin would just let it be, but he supposed he should have known better.

"I don't know, man- a lot of shit," he said. He took a moment to think, and Gavin let him, waiting quietly for Michael to continue. "It's just... do you ever think about how your life would be different if you weren't... like this?"

"If I wasn't 'like this'?" Gavin repeated, sounding confused. "What's that mean?"

"I mean, like," Michael struggled to put his thoughts into words. "We're not normal, y'know? Normal people don't kill other people and blow shit up and rob banks for fun. We're fucked up, right?"

Gavin hummed like he hadn't considered that before. "Yeah, I guess you're right."

"I guess I just can't stop thinking, lately, like... what if I was normal? What if I didn't choose this kind of life? What if I'd stayed in Jersey, stayed with my family, had a normal job?"

Would I have finally been happy?

He couldn't finish the question out loud, for some reason. It echoed against his skull.

Gavin was quiet for a long moment. Michael spared a glance in his direction. His eyes were narrowed, brow furrowed. He looked like he was thinking hard.

"...Well, I think that would be rubbish, wouldn't it?"

Michael was caught off guard by how sure Gavin's response was. "What?"

Gavin shrugged. "I dunno, I just... I think about what my life would've been like if I hadn't been the way I am, and I probably would have stayed in England. I never would've moved here, I never would've met Geoff. I never would've met you," he flicked his gaze towards Michael pointedly, meeting his eyes, smiling. "And that sounds like a pretty sorry alternative to this, doesn't it?"

Michael could feel a flush building in his cheeks. He hoped the night was too dark for Gavin to pick it out.

"You sound so fuckin' cheesy right now," he said, ignoring the question. Gavin laughed.

"How about you, then?"

"How about what?"

"Do you think you'd be happy?" Gavin pressed, the flecks of yellow in his irises burning like sparks. "If we hadn't met?"

"How would I know, genius?" Michael shot back.

"Don't you'd think there'd be, like, an empty space? Like there was something missing?"

Michael scoffed. "I don't fuckin' know, dude. There's literally no way to tell something like that."

Gavin frowned. He pushed himself up slightly on his elbows, staring at Michael like he was solving a puzzle. "Well... are you happy now?"

Michael paused, sitting up as well. "Am I happy?"

"Yeah, I mean..." Gavin pursed his lips, then averted his eyes, as if he was embarrassed. "Are you happy? Here, with me?"

Michael stared at Gavin for a long moment. He thought about the night to this point, then about his life since he'd met Gavin. He thought about Jersey, about his family, and then about the gang, about all their heists and the fuck ups and successes in between. He thought about street lights and neon and the smell of wet grass. Finally, he sighed, and he reached out to take Gavin's hand in his own. Like a reflex, Gavin moved to hold it back, intertwining their fingers with ease. He followed the path of veins in Michael's hand with his thumb without looking. He'd done it so many times, he could trace them in his sleep.

"To be honest, Gavin?" Michael said, quiet and a little rough. "I don't know. I don't know if I'm happy. I don't know if I ever have been, and I sure as hell don't know if I ever will be."

He saw Gavin's face fall in his peripheral, but he didn't let go of his hand. Instead, he brought it upwards, pressing Gavin's knuckles to his lips.

"...But I think," he continued, glancing back up to meet green, yellow-flecked eyes. "I think I could be. And I'm gonna try."

Gavin blinked, as if processing Michael's words. Then, he smiled, small but warm, his eyes glowing with something earnest and bright.

"Good enough for me," he said, as if it was the most simple thing in the world, and then he laid back down. Michael hesitated, but then followed suit. And that's where they spent the rest of the night- side by side in the grass, fingers intertwined, staring up at the sky.

Michael thought hard about Gavin’s words. He glanced to the side, caught a glimpse of the other boy- silent and content, staring up at the cosmos with a smile on his face. Good enough, he’d said. Laying in the wet grass, Michael realized- maybe he had a point. He wasn’t sure if he was happy. He wasn't sure if he would ever be truly, undoubtedly happy. But maybe- maybe that was okay.

Maybe this was good enough.

#imagine writing a fic. wild #fahc #fake ah crew #mavin #fahc gavin #fahc michael #ghost writes

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sasorikigai · 3 years

Note

Can we learn more details about your take on modern Raiden?

Random Inbox Shenanigans || anonymous || always accepting!

Raiden Ishikawa is serves as a Director of Alliances (a direct parallel to his canonical position of being a prominent Protector of Earthrealm, for his elemental conception was to serve as the Thunder God who would serve the realm), who oversees numerous factions that protect the Earthrealm; Special Forces and the White Lotus Society being two of the most significant ones he is directly involved in. He shares the same personality with canonical Raiden in regard that he is kind and compassionate, rather approachable and benevolent, yet he could be extremely aloof and impenetrable sometimes, lacking social construct of building relationships; specifically romantic and sexual.

He has wide and expansive circles of acquaintances, camaraderies, subordinates that utterly respect him not only as the ‘big boss,’ but of an exceedingly and remarkably talented field agent. Raiden, as he had started from the inexperienced agent-in-training, to climb over the ranks, had experienced unparalleled traumas, as the world hurt him in a way he doesn’t intend to recover from, lest he resiliently believes so as he repressed his emotions behind his iron professionalism. Each drop of blood, each pulled muscle, each immeasurable amount of grief still reminds him that he has loved, even the things he does not know, he had loved, and he still loves.

Although Raiden Ishikawa’s concept of love may not be the socially accepted ones and easily accepted from not only his peers, but mostly his subordinates, including all the connections he has with my other muses (mentioned below), he still goes through all the human emotions, and even when he appears to be unconcerning and aloof at times, with hardened expression of his nonchalance, his exceptional understanding and sympathy towards those who service and sacrifice the public towards the sustenance and survivality of the Earthrealm is nonpareil as an inner welling of reverence and appreciation reflects in the eyes of the man who has suffered in diabolical proportions. Although he has not stepped away from being the most active agent in the field (Hanzo Hasashi takes that title), he often does consult and occasionally accompany Hanzo from the sidelines, offering insight and alternatives. While emotional and sympathetic, Raiden often lets his rationalism and objectivity rule over,

A direct superior of Commander Hanzo Hasashi, who commands the Tactical Retrieval Unit of the squadron (consider this as a shinobi-related tactical team who are comprised of the most elite in the SF, as they work to retrieve hostages and also protecting valuable artifacts and objects, such as Kamidogu and Shinnok’s Amulet) and employing Special Crime Profiler/Investigator Kuai Liang to not only access the villains’ profiling, but helping Raiden’s subordinates with the intelligence work, as his brother, Dr. Shinjiro Ishikawa, his twin younger brother, is a liaison psychiatrist and a special agent at times, having treated both Hanzo and Kuai at their post toilsome, depressive times, and still serve not only as one of the most closest friends, but someone who will constantly offer guidance, and vice versa.

#✗ obsessive cathartic (headcanon)#✗ the almighty might of lighted twister (raiden)#(pending modern raiden tag)#✗ an innocuous unknown (anonymous messages)#(I will probs add more to this as I think of more)#Anonymous

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musashi · 4 years

Text

OK MIRRORVERSE AU TEAM ROCKET MASTERPOST!!!!!!!!!! dont ask me abt anyone else i write spacecraft club only

Mirror World Rules:

The mirror world exists as a parallel dimension to the main canon, the barrier between the two thinning in Kalos’s Reflecting Cave. Characters in the mirror world have personalities that run directly opposite to their main world counterparts, but major events and friendships appear to be unchanged. Dynamics might shift or be drastically altered, but major events still happen.

Mirror Team Rocket are known heroes of justice who fight evildoers. In passing one day, they encounter an incredibly timid/anxious boy and his pikachu just starting out on their journey. They become attached to the pair, and elect to keep an eye on them to make sure nothing bad happens. From that day forward, they follow Ash and Pikachu around like second parents, their mostly silent guardian angels.

As a team, MTR’s biggest, most defining trait is a distaste for villainy. Much like how Regular TR doesn’t mind throwing away villainy for the greater good, sometimes, MTR doesn’t mind breaking rules for the greater good. They’re more like Robin Hoods, a LOT more like their namesake.

As individuals, things are a little more complex!

Jessie:

A softhearted girl who collects loving foster homes like she collects pokémon. She was born to Jane Miyamoto, a single mother who was the pride of Team Rocket and voted Biggest Helicopter Parent 1997. When Jane disappeared on a mission one day, Jessie quickly fell into a depression that lasted most of her young life, struggling through her adolescence to cope properly and live the life of a normal kid. She realizes eventually that she can’t just sit around any longer, and joins Team Rocket in the hopes that she can act as a protector to others living lonely lives.

STRENGTH: Super non-judgmental, is unconcerned with outward beauty.

WEAKNESS: Easy to manipulate. Doesn’t listen to her instincts, viewing many genuinely bad people as misunderstood.

STRENGTH: Patient and understanding, a de-escalator.

WEAKNESS: Tolerant to a fault. A bit of a doormat, has trouble saying no.

STRENGTH: Values friendship and other pleasures over romantic love.

WEAKNESS: Incredibly dense. Blind to romance and afraid of commitment in relationships.

STRENGTH: Single-minded, excellent focus.

WEAKNESS: Tunnel vision.

STRENGTH: Prepared for trouble. Has a plan for when things go wrong.

WEAKNESS: Pessimistic. Tends to assume the worst, and get lost in anxious thoughts.

STRENGTH: Soft-spoken, polite, inviting, and kind.

WEAKNESS: Timid and sensitive. Poor self-confidence.

James:

The only son of two philanthropists, handed a perfect life. A sprawling estate, a family who loves him, a doting fiancee, and the whole world beneath his feet to explore. Full of rebellious energy with nothing to rebel against, James always felt as though something was missing, and set out young to find his calling. Inspired by his parents to always give back, he joined Team Rocket to travel the world fighting evil.

STRENGTH: Fiery personality, quick to self-advocate

WEAKNESS: Hair-trigger temper. Has trouble taking a step back.

STRENGTH: Charges forward, fearlessly.

WEAKNESS: Like Jessie, is a little careless & unaware of his surroundings

STRENGTH: Chases structure. Is always looking to build plans on a strong foundation. Likes to be told what to do.

WEAKNESS: Is afraid of spontaneity. Freezes up when presented with the freedom to choose.

STRENGTH: Idealistic, hopeless romantic. Literally the perfect man.

WEAKNESS: Obsessed with settling down and getting married. Comes on WAY too strong.

STRENGTH: Incredible confidence, assertive and bold.

WEAKNESS: Indestructible pride. Has trouble admitting when he’s wrong.

STRENGTH: Self-prioritizing. Considers himself his own #1.

WEAKNESS: Selfish. Has to make an effort to care for others & make sacrifices.

STRENGTH: Optimist! Always looking on the bright side.

WEAKNESS: Has trouble realizing when things are really bad, and tends to bury his own feelings & disregard the feelings of others.

STRENGTH: Certain of his inward strength.

WEAKNESS: Insecure about his looks.

Meowth

An orphaned meowth who grew up on the city streets. Since he was a kitten, Meowth’s had the personality of a refined gentleman, and never entirely fit in with a crowd of his own. In his heyday, he fell head over heels for Meowzie, another meowth who lived a charmed enough life to have a human trainer but rejected it entirely to run with his pack when the sun set. His attempts to impress her with his smooth tongue all failed, his cadence sounding far too much like the human one she was intent to ignore. Heartbroken at Meowzie viewing him as nothing more than a snob, he seethed a simple I’ll show you human and learned to walk and talk in the same breath that he swore off trite things like romance forever.

STRENGTH: Easygoing, fulfilled.

WEAKNESS: Has trouble finding motivation, lackadaisical. Believes he’s above learning anything new.

STRENGTH: Honest.

WEAKNESS: TOO honest. Doesn’t sugarcoat. Can’t lie even when he needs to.

STRENGTH: Realistic in his worldview. Easily keeps a levelhead, doesn’t get lost in his daydreams.

WEAKNESS: Cynical. Has trouble understanding why anyone would want to daydream.

STRENGTH: Independent. Doesn’t rely on anyone’s approval.

WEAKNESS: Greedy. Unwilling to please, at times.

STRENGTH: Like Jessie, cannot be bothered/distracted by the appeal of romance.

WEAKNESS: CAN be distracted in that he’s utterly repulsed by it.

STRENGTH: Isn’t often prone to jealousy/envy. Satisfied and secure with where he is.

WEAKNESS: Seems a little cold and detached. It’s not uncommon for his friends to wonder if he truly cares for them.

STRENGTH: Unashamed of his eccentricities.

WEAKNESS: Boisterous and a little snobby.

Wobbuffet:

Too much of a handful for his OT, but Jessie thinks he’s perfect. A stern firecracker who’s always the first to jump into the fray, despite the fact that he can’t actually throw a punch at anyone. The metaphorical rage-filled chihuahua foaming at the mouth at Jessie’s heel. Don’t fuck with Wobbuffet. If you fuck with Wobbuffet, you’ve lost already.

#mirrorverse au #wendy writing #ok now thats out of the way i can maybe actually start writing stuff with them #wordy wendy

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musette22 · 4 years

Note

Hey! For the future prompts: Bucky liking more feminine thing or liking to wear makeup maybe? And Steve being a supportive and loving boyfriend to him

Illuminations On A Rainy Day

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Bucky Barnes (Stucky)

Word count: 5.4k

Warnings: Mostly fluff but eventual smut. Since the smut is explicit, 18+ only please! Addition warnings for slight feminization and makeup use.

A/N: This is my first time writing anything like this, so I hope it’s what you had in mind, anon! I loved writing it ❤️

Summary:

Bucky bites his bottom lip, trying to find the right words to explain this to Steve but coming up short. “Sometimes I just like to feel – pretty. You know?”

Steve looks very serious when he says, “You look plenty pretty to me, Buck. Always have.”

And Bucky knows he means it. He can see it in Steve’s eyes every time he looks at him.

“I know,” he says softly. “But I just like making myself look nice. There’s something about the process, the pampering, the grooming… I can’t really explain it, I just know it makes me feel… good. About myself.”

“Okay,” Steve nods. “That’s great, Buck. You should do whatever makes you feel good.”

Read on AO3

Bucky Barnes isn’t vain, exactly. He just enjoys taking care of his appearance, that’s all. Back in the thirties, that meant making sure his work shirts were ironed, his shoes were shining, and his hair was slicked back with pomade. Today, in 2016, his hair is too long to slick back, but that’s okay. He’s not the same Bucky anymore, anyway.

Of course, for a long time after escaping Hydra’s clutches and returning to Steve; his best friend and the absolute love of his life, Bucky didn’t take care of himself at all, let alone of his appearance. During the long and arduous process of recovery, which most likely is never going to be fully completed, Steve even had to remind Bucky to eat and take showers. To his credit, he never once grumbled about it. In fact, over the past two years, Steve displayed levels of patience Bucky never would’ve dreamed he was capable of, based on the scattered memories he had of the perpetually sickly and prickly firecracker he lived with back in the thirties.

But with time, lots of therapy and a little help from Wanda, Bucky had slowly started to become more aware of himself again. Started to realize (even if he didn’t always believe it quite yet) that what had happened wasn’t his fault, and that he was worthy of the second chance he was given. So, eventually, he started treating it as one, too. He began to do the things he’d always wanted to when he was a young man growing up in the Depression and times of war, but hadn’t been able to due to lack of funds or rigid, intolerant social norms. The most important of those things, of course, was openly being with Steve. This entailed announcing to the team and eventually the rest of the world that they were together, holding hands when they go for a coffee run, and giving Steve a good luck kiss before missions.

In addition, Bucky also got a cat, bought himself a heated blanket even though he didn’t really need it in the Tower where the heat was always perfectly regulated, and started indulging in frequent movie marathons from the comfort of his own couch.

More importantly, Bucky also slowly but surely began to enjoy taking long showers and baths again. He used fragrant bath salts and shower oils and bought specialist products to make his shoulder-length hair soft and shiny, with just the right amount of volume. If he shaves, he likes to use a nice aftershave after, but more often than not he chooses to keep a short beard – a designer stubble, as Nat calls it. He couldn’t have a beard back in the day, but he’s found he likes the way it looks on him (just as he likes the way his stubble makes Steve’s pale skin look after Bucky’s been loving on him for a little too long).

About once a month, Bucky, Nat and Wanda treat themselves to a spa day. The three of them have struck up a friendship which, based on the similarities in their backgrounds and history, was more or less inevitable. Spa days are heaven, since Bucky doesn’t only like to take care of himself, but also very much enjoys being taken care of. After a day of being pampered senseless in the spa, he returns home to Steve all loose and relaxed, smelling like massage oils and with silky soft skin, which Steve appreciates possibly even more than Bucky does.

Today was a spa day. The three of them have just gotten dressed and are getting ready to head home. Wanda sits down in front of the dressing room mirror to put on her makeup, and Bucky, towelling dry his hair before putting in some argan oil, watches her as she re-applies her smoky eye.

After a minute or two, their eyes catch in the mirror.

“Would you like to try?” Wanda asks.

Bucky blinks. “Try?”

Wanda shakes the little tube of eyeliner at him by way of explanation.

“Oh,” he breathes, eyes widening.

Would he like to try some makeup? He’s never really thought about it before, but now that Wanda’s offering, he finds that he’s… not unamenable to the idea. Still, part of him wonders if wearing black eye makeup will make him look too much like the Soldier, decked out in war paint. He’s about to decline the offer when Natasha, who as always seems to be able to read Bucky’s mind, speaks up.

“You’re not him anymore, Bucky.”

Bucky gnaws on his bottom lip for a moment. “I know,” he says finally.

“You’ve made incredible progress. A bit of eyeliner isn’t going to undo that.”

“I know,” he repeats. He straightens his shoulders. “Alright, let me try it.”

Wanda gives him a soft smile, turning towards him as he settles on the chair next to her. “Okay,” she says. “Sit still, please.”

Unconsciously, Bucky holds his breath as Wanda fusses over him. It doesn’t take as long as he imagined, and when she tells him she’s all done, he slowly, with no small amount of apprehension, turns towards the mirror.

That’s – not bad at all.

Bucky leans a little closer, turning his head this way and that, inspecting his reflection from different angles. Finally, he decides that he likes it. A lot. The dark outline makes the slate blue of his eyes pop, makes his eyes somehow look bigger. He smiles at Wanda.

“It looks nice,” she says, brushing a lock of hair off his face. “Should we try mascara, too?”

Emboldened by the unexpected success, Bucky replies, “Sure. Why not.”

It’s hard to keep your eyes open while someone is more or less poking at them with a brush, as Bucky finds out, but fortunately Wanda is quick and efficient and manages to apply the mascara with minimal casualties. When Bucky looks in the mirror next, he’s actually shocked by how long is eyelashes are. Who’d have known?

“I look –” Bucky starts.

“Yes?” Wanda asks, an amused glint in her eye.

“…pretty?”

“You do. Very pretty.”

Nat stands up then, swinging her bag over her shoulder. “Alright, guys. I’m meeting Fury in forty minutes. Let’s get going.”

“Like this?” Bucky splutters. “Shouldn’t I take it off first?”

Natasha shrugs, unconcerned. “You could, if you want. Do you?”

Bucky swallows, considers the question. He darts a glance in the mirror again, fascinated by his reflection. He still looks like himself, only nicer.

“No,” he says finally. “I don’t.”

“Great. Let’s go then.”

***

Despite his earlier burst of confidence, Bucky feels himself growing nervous as soon as he steps through the door of their apartment. The light in the living room is on, indicating that Steve is home. For a moment, Bucky contemplates making a dash for the bathroom so he can scrub off the makeup before facing Steve, but then he shakes himself. He’s faced hairier situations than these (boy, has he ever) and besides, Steve would never laugh in his face. At worst, he’ll be a little confused, and if he doesn’t seem to like it then Bucky will just save the makeup stuff for the days he hangs out with the girls. No big deal.

He takes a deep, bracing breath, and steps into the living room.

Steve is stretched out on the couch, sketchpad in his lap, dressed in a pair of loose, grey sweats and a dark blue hoodie. He looks up when Bucky walks in.

“Hey, Buck,” he says, already smiling. “How was the spa?”

Bucky doesn’t reply, just stops at the end of the couch, nervously waiting for Steve’s reaction.

After a few moments of silence, a little frown forms between Steve’s eyebrows, and Bucky holds his breath.

“What is…” Steve mutters, looking at him intently, and then his eyes widen. “Oh.”

“Hi,” Bucky says finally, fiddling with the hem of his sweatshirt. His voice comes out a little weaker than he’d like. He clears his throat.

Slowly, Steve gets up off the couch. He walks over, just as slowly, and it’s only when he comes to a halt right in front of him that Bucky remembers to breathe.

Lifting his hands, he cradling Bucky’s face between his big palms.

“Oh, Buck,” he says softly, his thumbs caressing Bucky’s cheekbones. “You look…”

“– ridiculous?” Bucky interrupts, the word little more than a whisper.

Steve frowns a little. “I was gonna say nice. You look real nice, baby.”

“Oh.” From one moment to the next, Bucky deflates, his shoulders relaxing as he leans forward, into Steve’s touch. “You really think so?”

“I do,” Steve smiles, with those laughter lines that Bucky loves so much. “You have such pretty eyes, Buck.”

Bucky looks into Steve’s sky blue ones, searching for even the slightest trace of insincerity, of Steve telling him what he wants to hear just because he wants Bucky to be happy, but finds none. There’s just love there, and maybe, definitely, a little bit of adoration.

“Thanks,” Bucky mutters, relieved. He closes his eyes as Steve leans in and kisses him, ever so carefully.

Bucky hums into it, tries to follow Steve’s lips as he pulls away.

Steve just laughs silently. “Come on,” he says. “Sit with me. I missed you today.”

Taking his hand, Bucky lets himself be led towards the giant couch in the middle of the room. Steve lets himself flop back into the cushions, pulling Bucky on top of him. Bucky goes easily, nestling against Steve’s chest.

“Hmm,” Steve hums, burying his nose in Bucky’s hair. “Your hair smells nice.”

Bucky just grunts in reply, rubbing his face into Steve’s pecs like a cat. Steve, attuned has he is to each of Bucky’s gestures and silent commands, takes the hint. He lifts a hand Bucky’s head and starts to gently run his fingers through his hair, separating the silky soft strands and lightly scratching at his scalp. After a few moments of that, Bucky almost starts to purr. It just feels really nice, okay? He loves being petted, always has, and fortunately, Steve loves petting him.

“It’s getting really long, Buck,” Steve says after a while. “I bet you could wear it in one of those hip bun things guys tend to wear these days. Maybe even braid it.”

“You think so?” Bucky mumbles after a second, letting the idea roll around in his head.

“Sure, yeah. It’s past your shoulders now.”

“Can you braid?”

Steve’s hand stills his hair. “Me?”

“Yeah, you,” Bucky huffs, rolling his eyes even though Steve can’t see him do it. “I don’t see anyone else here, do you?”

“I mean, I can give it a shot,” Steve muses. “How hard can it be, right?”

—

Turns out, it’s pretty damn hard. Steve does his best, and to be fair, what he ends up producing is more or less a braid, but it’s not what Bucky expected.

“I can practice,” Steve says stubbornly, standing behind him in the bathroom while Bucky inspects the damage in the mirror. “I’ve learned how to drive a stolen car in Nazi Germany in an afternoon and mastered several martial arts. I’m sure I can learn how to braid your hair properly.”

Bucky just pulls a face at him in the mirror. “I dunno, honey.”

“Just you wait,” Steve says, sticking out his chin just like when he was a hundred pound asthmatic kid who was told he couldn’t join the army. “I’ll have this down by the end of next week.”

—

Six days and many a pained grunt on Bucky’s part later, Steve does actually manage to weave his hair into a tight and complicated braid that looks, if Bucky may say so himself, pretty damn amazing on him. The two of them spend a good fifteen minutes admiring Bucky’s ‘do in the bathroom mirror, a smaller, handheld mirror that he borrowed from Nat enabling Bucky to see the back of his own head.

“You did it, Stevie,” Bucky says proudly, putting down the mirror on the counter to turn around and wrap his arms around Steve’s neck, leaning in for a kiss. “It looks amazing.”

“Told ya I could do it,” Steve replies, before regretfully adding, “Shame you’re gonna have to take it out again for bed now.”

Bucky bristles. “The hell I am. I’m meeting Wanda and Nat tomorrow morning. They bet me you couldn’t do it, so I have to show them my man can do anything he sets his mind to. And also cash in their loser money.”

Steve snorts. “Can I just remind you that you didn’t think I could do it either?”

“Nonsense,” Bucky replies, giving a curt shake of his head. “I’ve always believed in you.”

“Sure, Buck,” Steve concedes, smiling down at him dopily before leaning in for another kiss. “Whatever you say.”

***

A week or so later, Wanda comes up to Bucky after a briefing with a little bag swinging from her wrist, which she hands to him with a flourish.

“What’s this?” Bucky says, curiously peering into the bag and finding only a small, nondescript box.

“Just a little present,” Wanda says enigmatically. “Open it when you’re home.”

It turns out to be a starter set of eye makeup; a few different mascaras and eyeliners, and a scary-looking contraption that Bucky later finds out is meant to curl his eyelashes. He spends the rest of the afternoon in Steve and his bedroom, trying out the different products. When Steve comes back from training with Thor that night, Bucky eagerly shows off his efforts. Steve duly tells him he looks beautiful, and any doubt Bucky might have about his sincerity disappears when Steve proceeds to kiss him breathless on the couch.

From that moment onward, Bucky’ll put on a little eye makeup on good days, or, perhaps more accurately, on days when he doesn’t actively hate himself.

The first time he wears eyeliner on a mission (because he’d been having a good day until some idiot with lasers decided to cause trouble down town) Tony and Bruce look at him a little strangely, as if they’re noticing something different about him but can’t quite put their finger on it. When Tony finally catches on, Bucky tenses.

“Are you wearing mascara, Buckinator?” he asks gleefully, and then Bucky has the pleasure of seeing him visibly wither when Nat gives Tony a truly terrifying look that shuts him right up.

After that, no even so much as blinks when Bucky occasionally shows up to kick villainous ass with a neat cat eye.

—

On a dreary afternoon in October, Bucky and Steve are once again stretched out on the couch together, Gone With The Wind playing on their TV set as Bucky dozes against Steve’s shoulder,

“Buck?” Steve says suddenly, keeping his voice low so as not to startle him.

“Hmm?”

“Do you ever, like…” He trails off, letting the unfinished question hang in the air.

“What?” Bucky asks, lifting his head to look at Steve.

There’s a frown on Steve’s forehead; not the one that means he’s upset or worried, but the one that means he’s thinking about something really hard. Bucky lifts a hand to smooth out the lines with the pad of his thumb. “What is it, Steve?”

Steve takes a breath. “Well, I was just wondering… I might be way off, of course, but I just want to make sure.” His frown deepens. “You know I’d give you anything you’d ask for, right?”

“Steve” Bucky sighs. “You’re not making any damn sense. Just come out with it, will ya?”

“Right,” Steve nods. “Of course, yeah. What I mean to tell you is, um, if you ever maybe, like, wanted to wear something a little… different. That would be perfectly fine with me. Just so you know.” He presses his lips together nervously, watching Bucky for his reaction.

Bucky, meanwhile, still doesn’t have a clue what his idiot of a boyfriend is on about.

“Something different?” he asks, puzzled. “Do you… do you not like what I’m wearing?” He looks down at himself, and has to admit that, okay, maybe this stretched out t-shirt and faded blue sweats combination isn’t his biggest fashion success. But to be fair, Steve himself is wearing a very similar outfit, so it’s not like he’s really one to talk.

“No, that’s not –” Steve sputters, “I don’t mean there’s anything wrong with your clothes, baby, I swear. I just meant, if you maybe someday felt like wearing a – a skirt, or a dress or something, that would be totally fine. Of course.”

Oh. So that’s what Steve was trying to get at.

Bucky smirks. “I know it would be,” he says, “but I don’t. Want that.”

“You don’t?” Steve watches him closely. “You sure? You can think about it for a while, if you want. You don’t need to tell me anything right away, I just wanted to get it out there – you know, just in case.”

Bucky gives Steve a small, reassuring smile and squeezes his ankle. “Nah. Dresses and heels are nice and everything, but they don’t seem very comfortable. As you know, I like being comfortable. ‘Sides, I can’t exactly fight baddies in heels, can I?”

Steve snorts. “I don’t supposed that’d be very effective, no.” He pauses for a moment, before adding “Though I’m sure Nat and Maria could do it.”

“Yeah, well. I’m not Nat and Maria,” Bucky huffs. “I’m not a woman, and I don’t want to be one, either. I just…” He bites his bottom lip for a moment, trying to find the right words to explain this to Steve but coming up short. “Sometimes I just like to feel – pretty. You know?”

Steve looks very serious when he says, “You look plenty pretty to me, Buck. Always have.”

And Bucky knows he means it. He can see it in Steve’s eyes every time he looks at him.

“I know,” he says softly. “But I just like making myself look nice, you know? There’s something about the process, the pampering, the grooming… I can’t really explain it, I just know it makes me feel… good. About myself.”

“Okay,” Steve nods decisively. “That’s great, Buck. You should do whatever makes you feel good.”

They’re silent for a moment after that, both of them ruminating on their conversation.

“So,” Bucky starts after a minute or two, “I know I said I’m not a woman and I don’t want to wear women’s clothes…”

“Yes?” Steve prompts him when he doesn’t continue, prodding his thigh with his bare foot.

Bucky bites the inside of his cheek, gathering courage. “Well,” he goes on, “say I maybe wanted to try wearing some pretty underwear someday. Would that be – weird?” He shoots Steve a tentative glance, trying to gauge his reaction.

To his relief, Steve doesn’t look shocked or appalled – though maybe his eyes do grow a little bit darker. “Why would that be weird, Buck?” Steve reaches out to brush a stray lock of hair behind Bucky’s ear. “I’m sure you’d look stunning in it.”

Bucky can’t help his pleased little smile as he leans into Steve’s palm. “Okay,” he says, satisfied for now. “Let’s go to bed?”

“Sure, Buck. Whatever you want.”

—

That Wednesday, Bucky and Steve find themselves on the couch once again. Bucky sometimes wonder why they even have other furniture in their living room, because this couch seems to be the only place either of them want to be.

Bucky is watching some spy thriller that he keeps scoffing and rolling his eyes at, because that is not how you do spying, for god’s sake. Meanwhile, Steve is drawing again – drawing Bucky, to be precise. He can feel Steve’s eyes on him constantly but he doesn’t mind because he’s used to it. The gentle scratch of his pencil over the sketchpad only audible when there’s a lull in the explosions, and seriously, no spy worth their salt would let that many things explode; the whole point is to go unnoticed.

When the credits finally start to roll, Bucky sits up, stretching his arms above his head.

Steve puts away his sketchpad, too. “So,” he says.

Bucky turns to him, and finds Steve looking a little hesitant. Bucky cock his head at him questioningly. “What?”

“I sort of… got you a present?”

That makes Bucky perk up. “Really? What is it?”

“I’ll just go get it,” Steve says by way of reply, getting up and heading to their bedroom before returning with a beautifully wrapped, rectangular flat box. It’s glossy black with a red, silky bow tied around it, giving it the appearance of an exceptionally fancy box of chocolates.

“Ooh, chocolates?” Bucky asks eagerly. “And it’s not even Valentine’s Day.”

Steve chuckles and tilts his head as if to say, hmm not quite.

“Not chocolates?” Bucky checks. “Then what is it?”

“Open it.” Steve hands him the box and sits back down on the couch. He wrings his hands nervously as Bucky lightly shakes the box, trying to determine what’s inside.

“Just open it, Buck,” Steve says, fondly rolling his eyes at him.

“Fine, fine.” Placing the box in his lap, Bucky carefully unties the red ribbon. He lifts the lid, pushes aside the tissue paper, and then stops breathing entirely.

Inside the box are three pairs of beautiful, black lace boxer briefs.

“Steve…” Bucky breathes, reaching out to reverently run his fingertips over the delicate fabric. “They’re beautiful.”

“Yeah?” Steve asks tentatively. “You like ‘em? I wasn’t sure what type you’d like, so I figured I’d start with something simple but beautiful, y’know?”

Tearing his eyes away from the gift, Bucky looks back up at Steve.

He makes sure to look him in the eye before saying, “I love them. They’re really gorgeous, Steve.” He leans in, putting a hand on the side of Steve’s neck and placing a kiss on his lips. “Thank you.”

Steve’s eyes remain closed for a moment after Bucky draws back. “You’re welcome, Buck. Wanna go put ‘em on?”

Bucky’s eyes widen. “Now?”

Steve shrugs. “Why not?”

Bucky steals another quick kiss. “Okay. Let me just…” He swallows down his sudden nerves. “I’ll call you when I’m done?”

Steve nods, and Bucky disappears into the bedroom, clutching the box like it’s precious. Which it is, kind of. To him, anyway.

He turns on the bedside lamps, then strips naked, carefully folding his clothes and putting them on the chair next to the wardrobe. Next, he gingerly takes out one pair of briefs and carefully steps into them. When he turns towards the mirror to looks himself over, he sucks in a sharp breath.

The briefs fit him like a second skin, perfectly hugging his hips and ass, easily accommodating the slight bulge of his already half-hard cock.

He looks… sexy. He feels sexy. A little bit nervous about Steve’s reaction, still, but the little voice in the back of his mind whispers to him that there’s no way in hell Steve isn’t going to like the way he looks in these.

Taking a deep breath, he walks over to the bedroom door and opens it. “Steve?”

He doesn’t have to wait long: Steve appears in the doorway approximately one and a half second later. With one look at Steve’s face, all of Bucky’s worries are erased. His expression is one of adoration mixed with naked desire, and it takes Bucky’s breath away.

They stand there, looking at each other, Steve’s eyes roaming up and down Bucky’s body, and Bucky has never felt more desirable in his life. It’s a heady feeling.

Finally, Steve breaks the silence. “Fuck, sweetheart,” he says in a gravelly voice. “Look at you.”

Bucky lowers his gaze, then coyly looks back up at Steve through his eyelashes. Steve, as if pulled by an invisible thread, walks over to him, only stopping when their faces are mere inches from each other.

Bucky can feel Steve’s quickened breath against his lips, that’s how close he is, and despite the fact that they kissed not ten minutes earlier, it feels as though they’re about to kiss for the very first time. He feels inexplicably nervous, his stomach roiling with nerves and excitement. When he locks eyes with Steve, his breath hitches in his throat.

Steve’s looking at him like he wants to devour him, his eyes burning as they flick between Bucky’s lips and his eyes, until finally, he closes the distance between them. He presses a hot, eager kiss to his mouth, deepening it immediately, and Bucky moans, swaying forward into Steve’s sturdy torso. Steve’s hands come up to wrap around Bucky’s biceps, keeping him steady, and when he breaks the kiss and pulls back, Bucky feels bereft. He makes a pleading sound, something between a sigh and a whine, making Steve lean in again, if only to brush his lips, feather light, over Bucky’s.

“You look gorgeous, Buck. Let me take care of you, alright?” Steve’s voice is low, heavy with the weight of his devotion.

Bucky lets out a shaky sigh and nods. He lets himself be steered towards the low bed, Steve sitting down on the edge of it and looking up at Bucky. His wide, blue eyes are framed by those long, long lashes, and despite the arousal burning low in his belly, Bucky lifts a hand to tenderly brush Steve’s golden hair back off his forehead.

Putting his hands on Bucky’s waist, Steve slowly sliding them down his sides until they’re resting on his hips. The warmth of his palms burn on Bucky’s skin through the lacy fabric. He almost wishes they could brand him; how he longs to have Steve’s handprints on him forever, like a mark of ownership.

Steve’s thumbs press in just below the jut of Bucky’s hip bones, rubbing slow circles into his skin that have Bucky breathing faster and his cock filling up to full hardness.

Leaning in, Steve presses a kiss to Bucky’s belly button, then noses down the fine trail of hair that disappears under the waistband of the panties. Pressing soft, teasing kisses to the sensitive skin below his hipbones, he finally ventures even lower, nuzzling at the outline of Bucky’s dick through the fabric. Bucky groans, his hands coming up to settle on Steve’s broad shoulders.

“Steve,” he sighs, fingers scrabbling at Steve’s shirt. “Take this off.”

Steve grunts, leaning back a little to whip off his shirt in one quick move. Much better, Bucky thinks as he smooths his palms, one flesh and one metal, over the gentle slopes of Steve’s bare shoulders.

As if he hadn’t been interrupted, Steve leans back in, mouthing enthusiastically at the hard line of Bucky’s erection, wetting the fabric. He’s making pleased little sounds that Bucky savours, wants to store in the back of his brain to brighten up his darkest days. Steve’s hands start to wander, running down and up Bucky’s thighs, thumbs brushing the insides before they end up on Bucky’s ass. He kneads the firm flesh, making the lace scratch a little roughly over Bucky’s skin, and Bucky is unsure whether to push back into Steve’s big hands or forward, towards the warm, wet heat of his mouth.

Opening his mouth further, Steve moans against Bucky’s dick, his fingers digging into his hips almost painfully. Bucky shudder, his hips stuttering forward.

“Steve,” Bucky whimpers again, “please, Stevie.”

“What do you need, Bucky?” Steve asks, like he doesn’t know full well.

“Your mouth-”

“Yeah?” Steve says, looking up at him with dark eyes. “Tell me what you want me to do, Buck. I want to hear you say it.”

Bucky groans, his cheeks burning hot. “Want you to – want you to suck my cock, Steve. Please.”

“Whatever you want, pretty baby,” Steve says, and then he’s ducking his head to run his tongue teasingly over the leaking tip of Bucky’s dick where it’s peeking out over the waistband of the panties.

“Fuck,” Bucky breathes, his fingers digging into the hard muscle of Steve’s trapezius.

Slowly, inch by inch, Steve starts to pull down Bucky’s briefs until they come to rest below the swell of his ass. Bucky’s erection springs free, hitting Steve’s cheek, and Steve hums appreciatively. He starts to mouth along the side of it, torturously slow, before he finally closes his red, plush lips around the head of Bucky’s cock. Without further teasing, he sinks down on it, taking him deeper and deeper until he hits the back of his throat.

Bucky swears loudly, his left hand tangling in Steve’s soft, blond hair, messing it up. “Jesus, Steve. God fucking dammit.”

Steve makes a throaty sound, one hand coming up to wrap around the base of Bucky’s dick as the other keeps kneading his ass cheek. Bucky watches raptly as Steve begins to bob his head; red, wet lips sliding along Bucky’s shaft, creating the most exquisite suction that has Bucky’s bare toes curling against the carpet. Steve’s wicked tongue curls around Bucky’s cockhead each time he comes up, teasingly tonguing the slit before he sinks down again, taking him all the way to the root. His eyes are closed in bliss, as if he’s enjoying this just as much as Bucky is, which, to be precise, is a helluva lot.

”Oh, Stevie, uhh,” Bucky pants, closing his eyes too and letting his head fall back, giving himself over to sensation. “Feels so good, baby, so fucking good. God, your mouth.”

Steve hums with a mouthful of cock, the vibrations skittering up Bucky’s body, making him shiver. Seemingly just as worked up as Bucky is, just as eager for it, he starts to speed up, swallowing him down over and over. He makes it wet and sloppy, clearly not giving a fuck about what he may look like, which only makes Bucky burn hotter. Steve lets his left hand dip into the cleft of Bucky’s ass, fingertips just skating over his tightly clenched hole before he starts to rub at it with more intent.

Bucky groans loudly, fire licking up his spine as he’s gripped by an all-consuming lust, a need to claim or be claimed, he doesn’t know, and wanting to come so badly now he can taste it in his mouth. His fingers tighten in Steve’s hair unconsciously, pushing his head down further on every downward stroke, until he can feel Steve’s throat clench around the head of his cock. The pulsing sensation nearly breaks Bucky’s brain, and then Steve pushes the tip of his finger past the tight ring of muscle of Bucky’s asshole, just pushing inside, and Bucky is done.

He shouts, doubling over as his hands scrabble at Steve’s shoulders and head, pushing into Steve’s mouth as deeply as he possibly can while Steve groans and shudders underneath him. Bucky comes so hard he sees entire galaxies, gasping as his cock pulses on Steve’s tongue, spilling hotly down his throat until he’s completely, utterly spent.

It takes a few long moments for some of his brain to come back online, but when it does, he hastily pulls back.

“Shit, fuck, Steve. I’m so sorry.” He falls to his knees in front of Steve, hands coming up to cup Steve’s cheeks. “Are you alright?”

Steve’s eyes are watering. A few tears having spilled over, making glistening tracks down his flushed cheeks, and his hair is an absolute goddamn mess. He looks as if he just thoroughly got his throat fucked.

“I’m fine,” he rasps, licking his lips. “Don’t worry about me.”

Bucky scoffs, barely refraining from cuffing Steve on the back of the head. “I just nearly choked you with my dick. Of course I’m gonna worry about you.” He leans in to kiss the tear tracks on Steve’s cheeks and adds, more softly, “Time for me to take care of you now, honey.”

Somehow, the flush on Steve’s cheeks deepens. He clears his throat and says, “No need, honestly.”

Bucky frowns, his eyes flicking down to Steve’s lap – and his mouth falls open.

“Did you…” he starts, eyeing the large, dark patch spreading out on the front of Steve’s sweats. “Did you come?”

Steve gives a sheepish nods. “Uh, yeah.”

Holy fucking shit. “You came untouched, just from me fucking your throat?” Bucky asks incredulously.

“To be fair, the panties helped.”

Bucky snorts. He shakes his head, leaning up to press a kiss to Steve’s bruised, red lips. “They really did, huh.”

Steve hums against his mouth. “I think we should get some more.”

“Let’s do it, baby.”

#my fic #stucky #steve rogers x bucky barnes #stevebucky #steve rogers #bucky barnes #slight feminization #fluff and smut #tumblr prompt #ao3

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theshatteredrose · 3 years

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Relic Keepers: Awakening of the Red Lily (Chapter 13) - Original Fiction

AN: Kinda depressing just how long it took me to write this chapter. I’m sorta, kinda coming off of hiatus, but I have no idea when I’ll return to weekly updates. The main point is that I am enjoying writing and planning this project, and I am essentially writing this for me. If anyone takes issue with anything I’ve written, that’s not my problem. I’m just here to indulge in my own interests.

Anyway, enough of that. If you do read, I hope you enjoy. If not, then I hope you move along and have a nice day <3

Ao3 | Wattpad | Inkitt | FictionPress

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Chapter 13:

The morning air was cool and crisp as Eishirou stepped out of the helicopter and onto the dew-laden grass. The rising sun cast the Flutterlight Forest in a golden glow. Draping the greenery in an almost ethereal light. Inviting the unwary into letting their guard down.

Eishirou had to remind himself to stay vigilant. The lush green leaves, golden bark, and small colourful flowers shifting in the light breeze hid dark and dangerous ShadowDwellers. And those ShadowDwellers were not averse to destroying the environment around them to engage in battle.

He had to admit he was both excited and nervous about the expedition.

Heading out into the field with just Team 3 was a little bit daunting without Jacob there. But he got along extremely well with Zayne. Rinka was good company, too. And it wasn’t like they would just leave him out in the middle of nowhere. Jacob would never place him with a team he didn’t himself find trustworthy.

While it was essentially Eishirou’s personal assignment, Jacob did have one request of him during this expedition. And that was the map as much of the area as possible. A reasonable request.

He was also rather curious whether that centipede ShadowDweller created new paths for them to use. And whether its reckless freight-train like tendencies opened the way for new locations or ruins to discover.

Still, he hoped not to run into another.

Eishirou glanced around the landing area in mild curiosity as the Elite team gathered their previsions and equipment. His attention was soon drawn to the small pockets of red and blue flowers. There was a small patch of flowers close to him, so he knelt down and got out his tablet to take a photo. He then cross referenced that photo through the database of already discovered plants and flowers.

He wasn’t surprised when he got a match.

Felicia mauve cloud. Ah, blue daisies. Of course.

And the red flowers were…Ixora coccinea, or Flames of the Woods. Fascinating. He wondered if these flowers had any medicinal use. He’d have to talk to Neriah about it sometime.

“Well, shall we begin this assignment?” Ernesta stated more so than asked as she took the commanding role. “Zayne, you are the one who will see to Eishirou’s safety.”

“Got it,” Zayne replied without any hesitation.

“Eishirou, feel free to concentrate fully on your research. We’ll ensure that ShadowDwellers do not interrupt this expedition.”

Eishirou nodded. “I’ll try not to get in the way.”

Ernesta gave him a placid smile. “How would you like to begin this expedition?”

He didn’t answer immediately as he needed a moment to consider his options. It was his first solo expedition, after all. He didn’t want to be frivolous. “Our best bet is to head for the clearing and work our way around from there. I’m curious to see if that Centipede ShadowDweller unearthed new ruins or possibly another entrance to the mine tunnels below.”

“Very well. Zayne shall take the lead with your guidance, while the rest of us will concentrate on security and protection,” Ernesta commanded.

After securing his bag across his chest, Eishirou pulled out his tablet and the map function. With Jacob’s map overlaying his, he was confident that he could lead the team to the clearing. And ultimately back to that underground chamber with the mosaic. That was his ultimate destination in all honesty.

He was curious to know if his dream from the previous night was just a figment of his imagination filling in the blanks.

With Zayne right next to him, Eishirou took the lead through Flutterlight Forest. The name was quite accurate. Other than a few broken branches here or there, and thick shrubbery having been pushed to the side for a make-shift path, there was little change to the surroundings.

The birds were chittering and the insects were chirping noisy. The air fresh with only a slight morning chill. The wind was still for the most part, with only a tender gust every now and again.

Their trek to the clearing was a thankfully uneventful one.

The clearing where they first discovered the runestone and hidden wooden chest had seen better days, though.

“That ShadowDweller torn up this area more than I thought,” Zayne commented as he glanced around warily.

Eishirou nodded. It really did. Broken branches and heavily damaged trees. Torn up patches of grass and soil. There were even a few depressions that weren’t there the other day. It was highly likely that there was a partial collapse of a mine shaft just below the surface. And it was likelier still that there were numerous tunnels crisscrossing the entire area.

They had better be careful were they stepped.

That Centipede ShadowDweller had also opened up some new paths, rendering his map from back then out-of-date. But only slightly. So, it wasn’t anything to be overly concerned about.

Eishirou felt the distinct feeling of having dropped a few inches. It wasn’t overly dramatic, but it did startle him. Enough for his heart to skip a beat.

Before he could react, however, Zayne did. He swiftly scooped Eishirou up into his arms and jumped back a couple of feet. As he landed in a crouched position, his mana wings flickered into existence and one shifted toward Eishirou in an attempt to shield him.

Just as the ground where Eishirou had stood open up.

And a scorpion ShadowDweller crashed into view.

“I’ve got it!” Leon announced.

The ShadowDweller was still half-in the hole it had created when Leon used his mana-claws to effortlessly cut through the ShadowDweller’s large claws, rending it incapable of attacking him in return.

As the two dismembered claws fell to the ground and dissipated into that mysterious dark mist that seemed to make up the entirety of ShadowDwellers, Leon moved in to finish the creature off for good.

Zayne stood to his full height before he placed Eishirou back onto his own feet. But he kept his hand on his shoulder and pulled him close toward him in a protective stance.

Eishirou stared as mist rose from the corpse of the ShadowDweller, flittering it out of existence. The whole thing happened so quickly that he honestly didn’t even have time to feel frightened or even nervous. Startled, yes. Afraid? No. It was an odd feeling. He felt detached, in a way.

Yet, somehow comfortable.

It was likely because he had seen Zayne in action before. He had protected him numerous times before. So, there wasn’t like he had anything to fear, really.

Still, he was grateful that Zayne had been there. And reacted so quickly. He didn’t fancy another tumble down a hole into utter darkness below.

“Ambush predators, yet recklessly confrontational,” Ernesta mused aloud, both oddly curious and yet dismissive of the previous event. “We best practice extra caution.”

Eishirou returned his attention to his tablet and added a few notes of caution. The mines below made the area ideal for ShadowDwellers to ambush unsuspecting victims, be them Elites or Passive.

“We should move on from here. The ground is clearly unstable.”

The location of where that ShadowDweller appeared from indicated to him that the mining tunnels reached further than previously thought. Also, narrow paths may be more stable thanks to the tree roots and thick shrubbery keeping the ground compact. Though it did lead to the problem of a smaller battle area.

From what he had seen, Zayne and the others didn’t find the scorpion ShadowDwellers exactly difficult to battle. Their reflexes and level-headedness were quite astounding.

But that was what Elites did. They battled expertly against ShadowDwellers. They were truly amazing at what they did.

“Let’s move on to that underground chamber,” Eishirou suggested. “I need to give that a proper inspection.”

Once more, Eishirou took the lead with Zayne close to his side, taking his role of bodyguard seriously. Which Eishirou was honestly grateful for. As the path before them caused him to feel a sense of trepidation.

Broken limbs and felled fully grown trees littered the path. Broken into splinters. Thrown aside with ease. Telling indentations marred the soil. Created by hundreds of black, insect-shaped legs scuttering at an abnormal speed.

“Is this where that ShadowDweller chased you?” Leon asked nonchalantly as they walked cautiously down the path.

“Came barrelling through like a freight-train,” Zayne replied. “Able to hear it coming a mile away, though.”

Well, unlike the scorpion ShadowDwellers that liked to burst in from underground, the Centipede at least gave them a warning. A terrifying warning of breaking trees and thundering feet. But it was better than no warning.

The recently forged path might be a blessing in disguise. From what he could tell from his map, a new path to the underground chamber had opened up. Allowing them to reach it sooner.

They moved through the forest in silence. The birds and insects continued to make their noise, unconcerned by their presence. Other than a few fallen trees that they needed to climb over, there were no other obstacles to slow them down.

Minutes later, they finally reached the entrance that led to the underground chamber.

Eishirou pulled to a stop just outside the entrance, however. He felt the urge to inspect his surroundings once more. Lush foliage, thick shrubbery, flowers of red and blue in small patches.

Huh…the area around the entrance wasn’t damaged. No broken trees or torn up earth. Nothing to indicate that that centipede ShadowDweller emerged underground from here. So, it emerged from somewhere else, obviously. But where?

He…couldn’t see any place it could have appeared from. The area around the entrance looked untouched. Not a shrub disturbed. Not a twig broken. Nothing.

That would be something he would investigate later. He was more interested in inspecting the mosaic and underground chamber.

The stone doors that once barred the way had remained opened. Eishirou wasn’t all too concerned about them, even if they closed behind them. He knew how to reopen them. If they worked once, they were sure to work again. But if push came to shove, he was sure one of the Elites would just blast their way out.

“Hm,” Ernesta murmured as they moved to the centre of the chamber, her gaze forward. “So, this is the mosaic that Professor Chryses was referring to.”

Eishirou turned to look at the mosaic, too. Unmarred and in the same condition he had left it. Which was a relief. “That’s it.” He then pointed toward a small opening to the left of the room. “That leads to the underground tunnels. And they’re connected to mining tunnels.”

“And where we first encountered that centipede,” Zayne added.

Ernesta glanced over toward the tunnels and a frown soon spread across her face. “Hm. I am not comfortable with exploring those tunnels. Especially not with the possibility of encountering other ShadowDwellers in such a restricted environment.”

Especially that large centipede ShadowDweller.

“Unfortunately, if we’re to map the area fully, we’ll need to,” Eishirou explained as he pulled out his tablet. “Though, I’m reluctant, too. I’d feel better if there was a way to get in and out of the mines should we encounter trouble.”

“Blasting through the roof not an option?”

Zayne’s sarcastic quip caused a laugh to escape Eishirou’s lips. “I guess. I mean, if the situation was that serious.”

In all seriousness, though, he hoped they wouldn’t need to resort to such drastic measures. If only they could find a way to monitor ShadowDwellers from a distance or at least discover how far and deep the tunnels actually go.

Eishirou glanced down at his tablet screen. He just remembered how his map had alerted him to that centipede ShadowDweller a couple of days ago. A red dot that moved across the screen. He had honestly forgotten about it due to everything else that occurred. He could only assume that the map function had registered the presence of the ShadowDweller and added it to the data also.

Did that mean that if he encountered a ShadowDweller that didn’t immediately attack them (or is immediately destroyed), it will be registered to the map?

“Eishirou?”

Ernesta’s voice pulled Eishirou from his thoughts and he snapped his head up. “Yes?”

“Professor Chryses mentioned that you are able to see recordings from objects containing mana. Are you able to control what information is given to you?” she queried.

Eishirou was momentarily startled by the question. “Ah, well, it depends.” His gaze flickered over to the mosaic once more as a thought occurred to him. There was an abundant amount of mana contained within. “I could give it a try. Maybe if I try to receive a recording from the mosaic, I might learn just how far these tunnels reach.”

He slipped the tablet into his carry bag as he walked toward the mosaic. He ascended the stairs to the altar. The painting upon the wall was exactly the same. That shouldn’t be a surprise to him. Elites wouldn’t be interested in the chamber or the mosaic on the wall. Their first concern was ShadowDwellers.

But he was somewhat startled to note that his dream of the painting was the same. The rainbow-coloured hair, the flawless face. There was only one minor little difference; the eyes were open in his dreams. The painting before him had the eyes close.

…It was probably nothing.

Pushing his musings aside, Eishirou raised his hands and placed them upon the painting once more. He closed his eyes and attempted to use his own mana abilities to draw out the mana residing within the cave wall. And the mosaic itself.

Just like before a series of still images appeared in his mind. Quick flashes of moments in time so long ago. There was…there was a story attached to the images.

Men dressed in blacken overalls. A partially collapsed wall. Miners moving through the narrow tunnels. Torches illuminating shadowy creatures. Miners running in panic.

An entrance high on a hill side. Framed with wooden beams. With steel and wooden planks hastily baring the entrance.

The recording came to an abrupt end and Eishirou found himself taking a stumbling step backwards. Only to fall back against someone and an arm wrapped around his shoulders firmly.

Eishirou didn’t need to open his eyes to look at the one holding him upright. It was Zayne.

“You all right?”

Eishirou clutched his forehead as he nodded his head. “Yeah. I think it worked. There’s another opening. One…of the ancient tunnel. Connected to a mine shaft not far from here. But…the first appears only accessible from underground.”

Those other images; they told a story of how miners broke through into the ancient tunnels. They inspected the tunnels, curious and amazed. Until they encountered tall shadowy beings. Humanoids of the darkest of black. They ran, terrified. What happened to those miners was up to speculation. But the boarded-up entrance to the mines indicated that the mines were closed.

Was that a fraction of the history of these tunnels?

Were…ShadowDwellers around back then, too?

“Ernesta.” Tatsu’s terse voice prompted Eishirou to open his eyes and return to the task at hand.

“Hm?” Ernesta turned to regard Tatsu with a curious expression. But that soon changed in confused one when the other Elite handed her something. “That’s-?”

“It seems to be a badge from one of the Elite teams,” Tatsu informed briskly. “They must have inspected this chamber, too.”

A deep frown marred Ernesta’s face. “And dropped their badge.”

Zayne kept a secure arm around Eishirou’s shoulders as he guided him down the stairs and back to where the rest of the team gathered. He could see their puzzlement and concern easily. Which he understood. An Elite’s badge was a symbol of their superiority. A badge of honour, so to speak.

…If he was able to see images from an ancient mosaic, could he receive a recording from a badge? Though, that likely depended on the intent of the owner of said badge.

“Can I try something?” Eishirou asked as he reached for the badge.

Zayne frowned slightly. “Another recording?”

“Hm. Maybe there’s enough mana here for me to see what occurred to lead to this being dropped.”

He wrapped his hands around the badge and closed his eyes.

The images didn’t hit him as suddenly or as profoundly as the ones of the mosaic did. He saw an animated recording; one he hadn’t experienced before. It was from the point of view of the fallen badge.

A group of Elites walked through the chamber and headed straight for the side path. Like they had known it was there. The group seemed to be…huddled together. He could only see four members. Yet, Elite teams were made of five.

There was a sense of…uncertainty and fear from the badge. From the owner of said badge. They were confused. Startled…betrayed?

But then…a dark shadow appeared from somewhere behind the badge. It…scurried across the ground. Four limbs. Yet, it appeared human like.

…Just like those shadowy beings he saw from the mosaic.

The recording ended abruptly and Eishirou shook his head. Once again, thankful for the strong arm wrapped around his shoulders. He couldn’t help but feel threatened. And that the life of the Elite which the badge belonged to might be in danger.

“What’s wrong?”

“They entered the tunnels,” Eishirou explained, his voice surprisingly shaky thanks to the remnants of the recording. “But there was something following them. A ShadowDweller, I think. But…I can’t be too sure. They definitely headed deeper in, though. I do know that much.”

“I see.” Ernesta frowned as her eyes flickered toward the side path once more. “We…may need to follow, if nothing more than to sedate our curiosity.”

#original fiction #scifi fantasy #young adult #relic keepers: awakening of the red lily #relic keepers

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