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ranxiaolong · 5 years ago

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The Woman who fell in Love with the Stars - Chapter 1 - And to You, the Stars

Chapters: 1 [2] [3] [4] [5]

Summary: You stared wistfully towards the night sky. You had loved the stars ever since you were small. They held all sorts of secrets and wonderful mysteries you could not even begin to fathom. At least, until the Doctor had whisked you away to see them. You still could hardly articulate how much the stars intrigued you, their glow blurred through the Earth's atmosphere. The Doctor showed you the wonders of the universe, gave you a taste of magnificent splendor.

The Doctor was many things. She was a traveler, a Time Lord, and a keeper of secrets. To some, she was like a flame, warm and inviting. To others, she cut like ice. And to you? To you, she was the stars.

A/n: this one’s got angst!

The Doctor stood frozen as your lips were pressed against hers. This was something she hadn’t been expecting. She supposed a lot of your recent actions had begun to make sense now, all the stolen glances, the lingering touches, rosy cheeks. She was an idiot for not connecting the dots sooner. As you pulled away your eyelids fluttered open, anxious orbs searching her face, teeth pulling fitfully at your bottom lip. She recalled how you had been the past few weeks: always a touch closer than usual, a bit more nervous in her presence.

Maybe Donna had been right all those years ago. She really was thick.

The Doctor felt her hearts race—but she remembered all the people before. This was how she felt when she was with Rose. How she felt when she was with River. Could she really accept these feelings? Accept the heartbreak that was going to come with them? Accept that as long as she cared for you and let you travel with her, you would be in the most danger you could possibly be in?

The Doctor became scared. Scared of her emotions, scared of her past, scared of the future.

So, she did the only thing she knew how to do.

She ran.

You found yourself dumped at your flat, a promise to pick you up later given only from Yaz. The Doctor had remained silent. The TARDIS doors slammed shut.

It had been three weeks since you had last seen the Time Lord.

You had started cooping yourself up since the end of the first week. You had most definitely seen Yaz and Ryan around in passing but had never managed to catch either for a quick exchange to see if they had seen the Doctor. It became unnecessary once you saw them out your window late one night running towards the fantastic blue box, the telltale sound of the TARDIS starting as soon as the door slammed shut behind them. The Doctor had not been waiting for you.

You padded over to your bed, falling across the mattress and face-planting onto your pillow. You laid nearly motionless, a few blinks away from passing out. You only rose from the bed two hours later, peeling your face away from a damp pillow.

————

You spent countless hours staring at the posters in your room. Foreign planets, solar systems, stars, and galaxies lined your walls. Some you had ever since you were a child, others were definitely newer as more were discovered. You glanced at the telescope you kept stored in the corner of your room. Ever since you were a child, you were completely obsessed with the stars. Your parents would tell you and the guests you brought over (much to your embarrassment and sometimes abject horror in your later years) the fantastical stories you would come up with as a child about being a space traveler—able to jump between the stars.

A humorless chuckle parted your lips as you reminisced.

Jump between the stars, indeed.

A sigh swelled and deflated your chest. Your eyes traced over the celestial figures taped to your wall, one poster, in particular, standing out. A mass of reds and blues and greens. The gaseous form had never failed to catch your eye. The Orion Nebula. Out of all of the extraterrestrial forms that grabbed your attention, nothing did it more than the Orion Nebula. You had no idea why, but the nebulous cocoon fascinated you.

Maybe it was how the stars were unattainable. You had always believed that you could only reach them through a telescope until the Doctor gathered you in her arms and let you walk amongst the stars. She let you touch what was only to be looked at through glass and hundreds of light-years away. An invisible barrier that was not meant to be breached.

The Doctor was many things. She was a traveler, a Time Lord, and a keeper of secrets. To some, she was like a flame, warm and inviting. To others, she cut like ice. But to you? To you, she was the stars.

You fell backward onto your bed, softly bouncing upon impact.

What you wouldn’t give to jump between the stars again. What you wouldn’t give to be with the woman who was the stars.

Was the woman you thought to be the stars to be as unattainable as you thought the stars were as well?

The TARDIS let you reach out to the stars.

But would the stars ever reach out to you?

————

Around the second week of solitude, Yaz had stopped by. She had hesitated in front of your door before knocking, unsure of what to say. You had a stagnant conversation over tea.

You sipped your tea quietly, waiting for your best friend to speak.

“So...” Yaz hesitated, “How have you been?”

Your eyes never left Yasmin. She was obviously uncomfortable.

“Fine. You?” You tersely replied.

“Good. I’m good.”

Silence engulfed the room.

“How has work been?”

“The same. Exactly the same as always.”

“I see.”

Another pause.

“Have anything going on this weekend?”

“No.”

Yaz’s eyes flicked between her cooling beverage and your eyes, nervousness intertwined with an unreadable expression on her face.

“See anything good on telly?”

Yaz spoke carefully, like stepping over broken glass. You could tell she was purposefully avoiding talking about the Time Lord. You insisted there was no need for her to check up on you, you were fine, and most certainly weren’t broken. You had shown her out the door with a clipped tone.

After Yasmin departed you sat back down at your dining table, staring at your now cold, half-filled cup of tea. Your mind raced with the quick glances Yaz cast between her cup and your face, eyebrows scrunched and a hesitant tongue.

You let out a shaky breath as you planted your elbows on the table, head rested in your hands. You were fine.

The Doctor had not been waiting for you. The Doctor wasn’t going to wait for you.

The stars never reached out to others. The stars were to be admired from afar.

A lone droplet made its way down your cheek.

You were fine.

————

Nearly three days passed after Yaz visited your flat that it really hit you. You supposed before was just a numb sort of denial, but Yaz sitting in front of you must have slapped whatever part of your brain that was responsible for the numbness awake. Why had the Doctor left you? Why did she drop you in front of your doorstep without so much as a goodbye? You thought that you had calculated correctly. Even if the Doctor didn’t return your feelings, you thought she would at worst graciously let you down then continue on as if it never happened.

The stars were many things, but they were never intentionally cruel.

They just were. Higher than anything else, conflict was beneath them.

You set the kettle on the stove as you turned up the flame, racking your brain for the potential cause of your exile from the Doctor’s presence. Your mind flitted to a planet you had visited months ago.

You had saved the royalty from a plot to scandalize them. As thanks, they threw a ball and insisted on extending your stay another night. There had been a large banquet. The amazing visual spectacle of otherworldly food, customs, dances, and clothes enamored you. The princess has insisted on dancing a few songs with the Doctor and you had thought the Doctor’s rapidly filling dance card was merely a show of thanks in the customs of the alien race.

The sharp whistle of the kettle broke you out of your thoughts temporarily, removing the boiling water from the stove to pour yourself a cup of tea. Your mind was once again with the thought of the ball. A frown tugged at your lips once you remembered stepping out onto the terrace for a quick breath of fresh air.

You had seen the back of the Doctor’s head across a few potted bushes and had eagerly stepped towards her in hopes of asking for a dance before you left. Just as you opened your mouth to call out to the Time Lord you heard the voice of the princess, causing your mouth to quickly snap shut as you hid behind a wall. You vividly remembered the twist in your stomach as the princess started flirting with the Doctor, coy phrases thrown her way. You still felt the clench of your gut when the princess had out-right declared her affections towards the Doctor, asking for her to stay and permission to court her.

The stars are never asked to be wooed. They are chased after with no hope of ever catching them in your arms.

You had quietly slipped away, hearing a soft murmur of an answer from the blonde alien. You couldn’t make out the words but the tone of voice led you to believe (along with the lack of the princess traveling with you when you left) that the Doctor had rejected her politely. Despite the rivalry for the Time Lord’s affections, your heart ached for the princess.

You quickly gulped down your tea.

You were an idiot. A massive, colossal, monumental idiot. Fresh tears spilled over your cheeks. She had the entire universe at her feet, all of space and time to choose from. She was the stars.

Why would she choose you?

————

You spent the following four days locked inside your flat when you weren’t at work. Yaz had stopped by regularly, knocking at your door the same time every day after her shift, like clockwork. You explicitly ignored the door. You couldn’t figure out if Yaz had felt bad about the Doctor’s actions or if it was something else. You didn’t particularly care to know, and you much preferred to wallow in peace.

On the fifth day of your self-insured solitude, the anger came.

You slammed the door behind you harshly when you returned from work that night, nearly missing the bowl you stored your keys in as you stomp towards the kitchen, the sharp metallic notes bouncing off the walls of your flat. Your teeth grit as you yanked the fridge door open, looking for ingredients to make dinner. You growled in frustration at the lack of food, kicking the door, fridge door banging shut. You pulled a takeaway menu from a drawer, your corse movements causing a pen to clatter noisily to the floor. You dialed up your usual Chinese restaurant, the phone static and long dial tone grated on your nerves. As the man on the other end picked up the phone you plastered a false smile to your face, scraping up enough civility to refrain from shouting over the phone. Once the bag was delivered you plopped down on the couch in front of the television screen, eating noodles straight out of the container.

After you finished your meal you threw the paper takeaway box and disposable chopsticks into the bin. You headed directly to the shower, cranking the temperature up to a nearly scalding degree. Stepping out of the washroom you pulled a small towel with you to rub at your hair. Mood slightly tempered, you run the towel over your hair as you padded into your bedroom. Your eyes flitted to a scrape on your wall, the scratch caused by the alien when she was running about your room looking for something to use as part of some sort of complex device she was throwing together. Some sort of “timey-wimey detector” by her definition. The scratch was etched into the wall just beneath one of your many posters of the Orion Nebula.

The anger rushed back.

You glared intently at the spot, stepping closer.

The bottled-up resentment exploded, physically manifesting in a violent punch to the wall. The loud thud was followed shortly by a loud string of curses. You cradled your bleeding fist. It hurt—you thought numbly.

Good.

You exited your room to find your first aid kit to clean and wrap your hand.

————

The following day you gave into Yaz’s insistent knocking, opening the door to find Yasmin’s eyes wide with surprise, her arms and legs in a position indicating she was about to forcefully ram the door open. You sighed, leaving the door open behind you as you turned around to walk back into the kitchen, turning on the gas to boil a kettle of water.

“Tea?”

“Ah, if you’ve got the kettle on then please.” Yaz shifted nervously at the mouth of the kitchen.

The two of you stood in silence as you waited for the whistle of the kettle. Once the shrill noise started you turned off the gas and poured out two cups. You offered a ceramic cup to Yaz who took it gratefully, a soft “thanks” leaving her lips. You led her to the table and sat down, waiting for her explanation.

Yaz sucked in a breath, “I want to start off by apologizing,” the Pakistani woman fiddled with her fingers. “I know it won’t be enough for what happened, but I’d like to anyway. I didn’t think that the Doc would just leave you here and not explain anything. I thought she had talked with you or something had happened. I couldn’t imagine the Doc wanted you to leave.”

You slammed your mug down, the harsh sound of ceramic on wood made Yaz flinch. “Wanted? The Doctor kicked me out without so much as a goodbye!”

Yaz held her hands up attempting to backtrack, “I just meant that before she seemed pretty attached to you. I honestly thought that if you weren’t coming it would have had to have been your own decision—which I found odd since you love traveling with the Doc. I tried asking her about it but...” Yaz bit her lip, “I guess when I pieced it all together was her total avoidance of the topic.”

You fell back against the backing of the chair. The Doctor refused to even talk about you. A sigh passed your lips. Well, if the message wasn’t clear enough from the Doctor shunning you like you were some personified form of the plague, her refusal of admitting to your existence did the job quite nicely.

“I don’t know what happened, but if there’s been some sort of misunderstanding between you two, at least let me help,” Yaz’s worried eyes flickered across your face, “You’re my best friend, I don’t want to see you upset because of this.”

A dry chuckle left your lips, “Trust me, the only misunderstanding was entirely my fault. I made a miscalculated decision. I obviously read the signs wrong.”

Yaz’s eyebrows scrunched in confusion, “What’d you mean?”

You bit at the inside of your cheek, “Nothing. It’s unimportant.”

A frown made its way onto Yaz’s lips, “Unimportant? My best friend locks herself away for days on end and you say it’s unimportant?” Yaz suddenly stood up, chair legs scraping harshly against the floor, “I don’t care what anybody says—I don’t care if the bloody Queen says it’s unimportant—but if you’re feeling so upset that you won’t even let me into your flat for nearly three and a half bloody weeks then nothing regarding it is unimportant!” Yasmin breathed heavily, her arms trembling now on the table from where she slammed her hands down. “Nothing about you is unimportant,” she added softly.

You sat in shock at the forcefulness of Yaz’s words. You knew she cared deeply for you, as you did her, but that was on a different level. You grimaced as you mulled over your actions over the past few weeks. True, you were mad, but it was no justification for shutting your best friend out entirely.

You sighed as you pinched the crease between your eyebrows with your hand. You were acting like a total twat to Yaz when this wasn’t even her fault.

“What happened to your hand?”

You looked up, your confused irises making a connection with Yasmin’s concerned-slash-alarmed ones. You glanced down at your hand, realizing it was the one you did a poor job wrapping up the past night.

You waved it off, “It’s fine, just a scratch. Really. It’s—” you cut yourself off, the word ‘unimportant’ on the tip of your tongue, “fine. I’m good.”

The frown on Yaz’s lips returned as she walked around the side of the table and kneeled in front of you, taking your injured hand gingerly between her’s. She carefully unwrapped the haphazardly applied bandaging, causing a low hiss to escape your clenched teeth.

“Not fine,” Yaz mumbled.

“Trust me, the wall had it worse.” You attempted to joke, wincing as she turned the joint of your wrist in her hand.

“That doesn’t make it any better.” Yaz glanced up to your face, grimace present, before going back to inspect the wound. “The joint doesn’t seem too damaged but it needs ice. I’ll help you clean up and wrap the scrape.”

“Yaz, really, I’m good,” you fumbled as she stood up, “you don’t need to—“

“I want to. Now let me help or I’m going to tie you down if I have to and properly wrap it.” Yaz squinted, challenging you to retaliate.

You let out a squeak but shut your mouth, conceding. You watched Yaz leave the room to fetch the first aid kit you kept in the bathroom cupboard. You could hear the shuffling and the muffled “ah-ha” once Yaz must have found it.

Her head swung out from around the corner, raising an expectant eyebrow at you. You nearly raised one back in question, earning you a long-suffering sigh.

Yaz pulled you by the arm towards the bathroom, rolled up your sleeve and turned on the tap. She felt the running water until it was at a suitable temperature then brought your hand to rest beneath it. You hissed at the warm water, the wound still open and stinging.

Your eyes flitted towards Yaz’s face, her concentrated yet soft expression catching you by surprise. You felt her thumbs carefully brush over the skin of your knuckles.

“You need to be more careful, I don’t want to see you get hurt.” Yaz opened a bottle of antibiotic cream and rubbed it gently over the torn skin.

You bit your tongue to prevent another long hiss from escaping your mouth. “A bit late for that.” Not quite enough to bite back a remark, however.

Yaz’s eyes flicked up to your eyes momentarily, quickly going back to dressing your hand, pulling out the gauze. “Then tell me what happened. If there’s anything I can do to help I’ll do it.” You opened your mouth and before you got a single word out Yaz cut in, “Not about the wall. You know what I was talking about.”

You couldn’t prevent the lopsided half-grin that edged its way into your face for an instant. Yaz always knew when you were about to dodge a question. She was always so keen at picking things up when she was around you. “Well, I suppose that attempt has been thwarted.” Your smile fell as you remembered what landed you in this situation in the first place. “Ahhh, how to start this… I guess I should start at the beginning. So you remember when we went to the Orion Nebula? That was—”

“When you first realized you fancied the Doctor?” Yaz finished your sentence.

Your eyes widened in alarm, your surprise quickly brushing off how her voice, for a split second, sounded rather forced.

“How did…”

“Trust me, everybody else noticed it except for her.” Yasmin didn’t look up at your eyes that time, hers glued to the bandage she was slowly wrapping.

You let out the breath you were holding. “Then I guess I don’t need to explain that bit.” You bit your lip as you carefully chose which words to proceed with. “I sort of confessed to her.”

The bandage abruptly tightened around your wrist, causing a sharp cuss to be drawn from your lips.

“Sorry! Sorry! I didn’t mean to do that! That caught me by surprise.” Yaz loosened the fabric before going back to tie it properly. “So you confessed,” her voice rose a pitch at the first syllable before dropping to her usual octave, “That’s exciting. How did she respond?”

A forceful smile that more closely resembled a grimace pulled tightly on your lips. “I was thrown out of the TARDIS.”

Yaz’s hands stopped moving.

“Yaz?”

Yasmin was completely still. “I’m sorry, she what?”

You hesitated, not sure what the tone Yaz was using meant. “She threw me out of the TARDIS.” You annunciated each word carefully.

Yaz resumed wrapping your bandage, securing the loose end so it wouldn’t unwind. As soon as she tugged a few times to make sure it was properly on, Yasmin stood up and turned to walk out the door. “Right, then if you’ll excuse me I have some business to take care of.”

Your eyes widened in alarm, “Yaz it’s fine, you don’t need to talk to her about it!”

“It’s not fine!” Yaz wheeled around, anger and something you couldn’t quite place reflected back in her eyes, “You’ve been depressed and angry and I don’t know what else, but this is not fine! She can’t just kick you out because you happen to like her! You’re worth more than that!” Yaz’s fists tightened, “You aren’t just some person she can brush aside.”

“Yaz, really, please don’t talk to her about this. I’m sure she just wants a bit of space and it’ll be alright.” You forced a smile on your face. “It’ll be alright in the end. I’m sure she just wants a bit of space.”

You weren’t sure who you were trying to convince.

Your best friend worried at her lip. She eventually sighed, giving in, “If it’s what you want, then I’ll listen.” Yaz’s eyes flicked over your face, “Would it make you feel better if I stopped traveling with her too?”

“What?”

Yaz let out a huff, “I just thought that you must be feeling left out from everything she takes us to do. If it would make you feel better I could sit out of the next few and stay with you.”

You shook your head quickly, “No! Please don’t on my account.”

Yaz inspected your face.

“Really, Yaz. Actually…” you paused, “if you could just tell me what adventures you’ve gone on while I wasn’t with you would be good. I miss it.” You fiddled with your fingers. “Just describing it and all that would be enough.”

Tell me about the stars.

Yasmin eyed you critically before relenting, “Alright then. But if you have second thoughts, I won’t hesitate to give the Doc a piece of my mind on the matter.”

A small smile made its way onto your mouth, “I don’t doubt it. Our tea has gone cold, let me pour out a new cup and you tell me what you’ve been up to.”

Yaz shook her head as a small grin etched its way onto her face, following you into the kitchen. “You win. So the first place we went to was this weird planet with an enormous bird that looked like a dodo that tried dressing up for some sort of alien disco…”

And for the first time in nearly four weeks, everything was unequivocally, indisputably, incontrovertibly fine.

#Doctor Who fanfic #doctor who #doctor x reader #13th Doctor #13th doctor x reader #13 x reader #Thirteenth Doctor #thirteenth doctor x reader #13 x fem reader #angst #gay for 13 #thirteenth doctor x female reader #and to you the stars #the woman who fell in love with the stars #yaz khan #Yasmin Khan

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kittymaverick · 4 years ago

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That Time of the Year Again (tm): Get ready for MCF 21: the Harbinger commentary!

It’s that time of the year yet again! Mystery Case Files 21: The Harbinger commentary. If anyone has been waiting for the hilarity that is my commentaries, I’m sorry I’m late this year. I actually started working as a freelance writer, and projects are coming in hot. Plus a recent family matter (not COVID-related. I’m thankfully in one of the safest places from it.) meant I had to put this on a back-burner. And then I guess I left it there for too long and triggered the smoke alarm, and people entered my inbox going “Are you okay???” So without further ado, let’s get this started. *cracks fingers* I have DUAL MONITORS NOW which means I can see my commentary AND watch the playthrough at the same time. (Yet, I still DON’T have a credit card. This is the new running joke.) I’m going to be watching YouGib’s playthough. Pazu also has his playthrough up. Spoilers below the cut as usual!

First, Grandma? A new studio? (A quick google shows they have done quite a bit of HOP titles and series.) Welcome to the MCF family! I hope you’re ready for the roasting that’s ahead. 8D MD: You mean the roasting they’ll let me do, right? I don’t know if they would be so nice as to grant you such catharsis right away. MD: Damn… It’s Grandma though. There’ll at least be cookies, right?

I like how “The” is in a place where you can almost read it as “The Mystery Case Files”, which MCF honestly deserves at this point. 21 years! That’s old enough to drink in the US!

(MD: Hm, old fashion building and clothes? Are we having some anachronistic adventure again--) CAT. Black cat. This is Isis. (MD: Not all black cats are Isis…) Yes they are. They are to me--

*Crystal ball* SHIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIT.

Captions: (Otherworldly scream) Why yes, yes game, thank you for describing my exact reaction to seeing that darn crystal ball. I love this self-awareness and I hope it stays.

Oh nooooo, green beam of light… (Green was the color of souls used in old Ravenhearst games, and also the type of light that the Archivist from Moths to a Flame evaporated into, iirc.)

MD: Hm, a harbinger usually means something worse is coming up. So who’s harbinger to whom I wonder? Well you could say Emma, Madame Fate, or Victor was the harbinger to Charles, and then Charles himself was a harbinger to Alistair, who apparently was harbinger to the twins, who were also harbinger to Alistair again-- MD: Yes, I know, thank you, please stop. --and then he was harbinger to a Lord Ravenhearst who we never saw again, and then we picked it up again somehow to Phineas Crown though that was much earlier and the pirate was a harbinger of himself in a sense. In fact, I guess in a metasense, you could say each MCF game is a harbinger of the next-- MD: You haven’t even gotten past the opening so PLEASE STOP.

Hm, game difficulty settings-- no Master Detective level. Ten marks off. :( MD: Okay that’s unfair. Also Hardcore is one word. MD: Hey, I’m the pyromaniac, okay? Chill! (Me at recording: pick helpful messages, pick it! PICK IT!)

OH, a CHOICE?! Oh, wait, it’s just the main game and extra content.

THEY GAVE YOU YOUR BUGGY BACK. THEY GAVE IT BAAAAACK. AAAAAHHH. MD: Interior’s a little different, but yes, I HAVE MY CAR BACK AND NOTHING CAN STOP ME NOW. MWAHAHAHA-- Queen: Something strange is happening in Darkmoor. MD: *Does a 180 and goes back home* [The end.] Just kidding. :P I love how all the names of the places we’re going to immediately screams DANGER. MD: If I turned back every time I heard a name like that, I would be a very different person today. Probably saner, less salty, and generally happier.

It took me a while to see clearly, but the bobblehead looks like default MD (the costume seems to be inspired by the Fate Carnival collectibles)! We can now safely assume that MD is either really afraid of the cold, or very, very desperately trying to hide their identity. MD: Don’t tell anyone… but the getup is like a security blanket. ...One that you wear?! MD: Shhhhhh not so loud…….

Queen: Several keywords related to your previous cases-- What keywords? What are they? MD: Ravenhearst? Souls? Pirates? Skulls? Crystal Ball? Madame Fate? Dire Grove? Death herself? Queen: I’m not revealing this mystery… it’ll give the whole plot away! ...Okay, I’m putting ten on Victor, twenty on Charlotte, thirty on Alistar, and a hundred on Charles-- MD: You CHEATER you were spoiled while GOOGLING. --actually, I should do a bingo board instead. Yeah, I’m gonna do that. (And then she spends ten minutes wasting time on that, before giving up. We are at… 2 minutes in of the playthrough. This is normal.)

Queen: We’ve detected a possible energy anomaly-- MD: I’m sorry, we have DONE WHAT?! You guys have technology for that??? MD: Where was this technology for like…. The past ten cases? I really could have used some of that before heading in! (Somewhere in the world, the Mystery Tracker detective hides his gadgets…) (Post video edit: Speaking off, he seems to have gone UFO now.)

*Radio fizzes out* MD: That’s not good. Um… UP AHEAD. MD: THAT’S REALLY NOT GOOD. DETECTIVE TAKE THE WHEEL!!!! MD: THIS BUGGY IS STILL ON MORTGAGE NO. (And the MD, the bobblehead, literally lost their head, lol.)

Gibs is definitely feeling the stylistic difference. I personally don’t think it detracts from the game right now, and if anything, it can open new avenues for MCF to explore. Also, awwww it’s not our old buggy, but hey, I like the red!

MD: Okay… agency device. Better use this to scan for creepy crawly energies. I’m so sad it’s not something you can get attached to… MD: I’m pretty damn attached to my new car, thank you very much. Well, the windshield is already broken, so I think it’s been marked as “readily expendable” emotionally. :P (Machine sort of reminds me of the old machine from Huntsville, actually… which did appear again in… Rewind?)

Wow, that royal decree is like… a permission slip from mom. XD MD: Enough to get people’s attention, but not enough for them to treat me seriously. You would think with lives at stake, they would send something more official? MD: If they did, I might just be out of a job, because half of my job seems to involve waiting for people to get in trouble. Also, marking this officer Davis down as “guy who might get into trouble later and need rescuing”.

...Okay, you know what the device could have been? A portable TV head. MD: I will PUNT that metal box so hard if they handed me one! Missed moment of creepy, honestly.

“The agency never ceases to amaze me”??? MD: I meant that in both the “wow, I can’t believe this is what you used our money on!” and the “wow, I can’t believe this is where you used our money instead of that other really important thing we could have had” sense. Never cease to amaze you in how disappointed you are at them, then. MD: After our last security breach, yes.

Solved Case Files, omg. And you carry it on your car.XD MD: The therapist said I needed to “express my outrage” more healthily than arson. And you made the WORLD NEWS???? Whatever happened to being the most secretive person in the world?! MD: Shhhhh let them keep guessing… (Also, Bobblehead isn’t our MD, it seems. A case of mistaken identity. Awww….)

Guy in purple: I didn’t do anything wrong! Hm, this guy is sus… also, we’re in the UK, confirmed? MD: ...As if the name didn't’ give it already. Also, SIR, SIR, YOU DROPPED YOUR purse……. Well I guess it’s my purse now.

Tarot cards as collectibles! More Madame Fate coming up?

Wow, that police station entrance was a time machine. We’re back in modern-day old town England! MD: ….pattern on floor, sus… Aaaaand power outage. Cue bars. Policeman trapped. Oops. MD: Number of people that needed rescuing is now one, and is exactly as I predicted.

Police: Um, can you come closer? I dunno man, you behind bars, pretty sus. Maybe you’re not a real police. Police: Oh please. We talking real? How about your prove you’re the real Master Detective-- MD: *Hands Queen’s note* Police: Right that’ll work. (We didn’t get to flash our badge?!)

Wait, you’re in a ROYAL AGENCY??? Did you.... change agencies or something??? MD: After the last game, can you really blame me if a headhunter came asking? Me: No but… you work for the CROWN???? MD: Hey, if me collecting stories for Grandma Queen wasn’t obvious enough, I don’t know what else to say.

Wow, an ACTUAL FLASH DRIVE. We’re actually in modern day society. XD Albeit one with really industrial looking computers. (Now I need to go and check if the old games used floppy disks…)

Witness 1: It’s not like she has a crystal ball! Suspect purple: Yeah, I’m a fair owner. Girl Aisling is a fortune reader. ...Madame Fate, Madame FATE, MADAME FATE. MD: Okay, maybe that cat WAS Isis after all. Guy: She likes watching ravens. MD and I, simultaneously: FUCK.

I have to say, the puzzles are quite refreshingly different from ones that have appeared in the past. Me likey.

Gibs sees victim photo on autopsy table: What a handsome devil he is! Me: *Dies laughing and fails to make comments for a while*

Oh wow, you can write coherently again! Actual journals! Clear sketches! (Actual cutscene replay???? TWENTY POINTS.) MD: Therapy can be a wonderful thing sometimes. ...Please tell me you’re talking actual therapy and not “I got to explode a ship and the pirates on it” therapy. MD: Well, that counts as therapy still, right?

Okay Madame Fate, if you have a daughter, or this is your granddaughter, please just descend from heaven and let us know right now. (...wait, didn’t Madame Fate have a son? The really big eater guy? Franco!) That said, it says the veil of time, which might be an allusion to the Dark Veil too.

Omg a FAX MACHINE.

Davis: Right, good luck heading into town to the victim’s home! MD: Yep! Thanks for being a rare competent soul in this universe! Really appreciate the help-- [Rose street.] MD: ...Is it too late to turn back? Yes, yes it is entirely too late. 8D Let’s gooooooooo! MD: *sighs*.

SHADOW IN JAMES’ HOUSE! SHADOW! MD: Probably Nigel. He was sneaking around already.

MENTION Of CAT. CAT. MD: ...are you broken? ...Yes. (It’s nearing 1 am. So Kitty commentary might be retroactive below.)

Huh, HOP has sections that unlock objects like in Dark Parables. Neat!

Well, well, well, what do we have here? Small town drama as usual. MD: The predictable disappointment of human nature. Why can’t I just have cases that deal with that? No supernatural stuff, just little town murder mysteries. Little Town Mystery Case Files, coming to a store near you soon! (I’ll be honest, Grandma, I would play that once, just to have MD be completely paranoid over nothing actually supernatural.)

Santa Claus Beard Guy: I hope I didn’t scare you. MD: I’ve had undead grip me through the window. A little shadow doesn’t spook me. A family whose last name begins with a D though rattles them. MD: Please don’t give away my weaknesses so quickly...

Santa Guy: So the cat kicked my ass. Can you get me some medicine? MD: Sure thing. BTW, where is this cat, and how can I recruit it to kick the asses of my enemies?

Eeeeehhhh complex door puzzles are back! Except they are now complex cupboard puzzles.

WOOOOOOOOOW that’s a LYNX if I ever saw one! MD: Hey, remember how I say I’m not good with animals? Too bad, grab the pet carrier, you’ll need it. MD: ...please don’t scratch me. Cat: *Roars* MD: *flips shit, runs and hides*

James has visited the Museum of Mysteries… And what’s with the MCF crest in his diary??? MD: Wait… Allison? ALLISON THE REPORTER??? Omg, James is her BROTHER. THEY HAVE THE SAME LAST TIME EVEN OMG. MD: ……….. I’m NOT going to be the deliverer of this bad news. Hey MD, does that curse that surrounds people associated with you extend to their families? MD: Thank you for going where my brain didn’t want to, now kindly proceed no further. Just morbidly wondering…...

MD: They… they visited all the places that my cases took place. EVEN A HOUSE I REPORTED BURNED DOWN AND EXPLODED. AND THEN CAMPED OUT IN DIRE GROVE. MY GODS ALMIGHTY YOU TWO!!!! ...These siblings don’t have a lot of self-preservation sense, huh? MD: There are some things that should NOT run in the family. This is one of them. (I’ll be honest. Just… HOW can the MD process this kind of guilt??? Kudos to you, Grandma Studios. This is possibly the most evil story choice ever, and you went there. Slow, claps. Seriously. That said there is a small plothole here with James saying he was there when MD rescued Allison. I think that might be a translation/grammar error though.)

Journal: Oh btw John worked on the Ravenhearst manor restoration. MD: *grabs John* WHY. WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT TO ME AND TO THE WORLD?! John: Um….. it was work? MD: SOME PLACES ARE BETTER OFF GONE. Hey, look on the bright side. You can burn it down again as therapy! John: Oh btw, I made the elaborate locks-- MD: *Begins to strangle John* NO HOMICIDES MASTER DETECTIVE! You investigate them, not commit them! MD: TELL ME THAT AFTER I’M DONE.

MD: Okay, John. Let me be clear on one thing. You are now number one sus on my list of “The person that’s gonna betray me in the end” right now, and probably staying there. If you turn out to be one of the Dalimars or their crony in disguise, I will END YOU. Are we clear? John: ………… MD: What? John: You’re more terrifying than James’ cat--

*Another prevention of homicide later…* MD: Alright, fine. Containers, opened. Toy, fixed. “Cat”, got. Now take it and get out. John: Thanks, here is the final piece to that closet door that I totally have been keeping from you this whole time. ….Seriously???? MD: ….Like I said, top of my shitlist. *Reads the closet puzzle poem* On second thought GET YOUR ASS BACK HERE I HAVE QUESTIONS!

James is the greatest dork. He locked his special diary entries with a lock. I’m so sad we didn’t get to meet him in person. Though that said... MD: My gods, some common sense is really missing from this family’s mind. Seeds from the carnival?! A cube from probably dire grove??? How does it feel knowing you contributed indirectly to his demise? 8D MD: ...It’s like seeing someone win the Darwin award and feeling bad that you are the one handing the trophy to them.

Davis: Oh hey, a cassette? Let me go and get the camera for it. We’ll meet later! MD: Wait a second, you’re gonna end up dead if you do that! Davis: No, I’m gonna be fine! Here’s a ticket to the night market! Have fun! MD: …… ...More Darwin award nominations? MD: No. Awww….

Marge: Oh hi detective! Thank you for saving me and my daughter so many years ago! MD: …. Who are you again? *Goes to google* Oh, she’s that woman from Reverant’s Hunt…. MD: Ah, the gossip hen. My gods what’s with this town and its inhabitants… It’s like all the people connected to you which fate has yet to kill are all showing up again for a chance of going to the afterlife! 8Db MD: That would be the worst lottery ever. All in the life of being Master Detective’s friend! Forecast for percent of death: high! MD: *curls up in a corner to be depressed*

Nigel: What do you want? MD: Here are your seeds. Nigel: Okay I’m gone! MD: Right, now Aisling-- WHAT THE FUCK IS HAPPENING. Crow: Caw-caw! MD: You, you’re not Crowlister, but if you are responsible, I will make you one very bald bird.

Okay, soooooo what do we do? MD: Removed what the device can. Guess we’re down to brewing this… tea... ...I think you need this tea more than her, honestly.

“I expect these MCF references now.” XD I think the 4th wall has just been shattered into oblivion.

Aisling: I see death all around you Master Detective! MD: Thank you for stating the obvious that has been made abundantly clear by the past hour and a half of plot. Davis: Hey waddap? MD: ….*breaks down sobbing* YOU’RE STILL ALIVE THANK GOODNESS! *hugs Davis* Davis: Um… what’s going… anyway, you should look at the video.

MD: Nigel! This video here suggests something. Want to talk before I make you? Nigel: This proves nothing! Now go away, I have preparations to-- Noooooooooo! *Nigel is swallowed by the earth* ……...MD? MD: NOT IT. WASN’T ME. DEFINITELY NOT ME! You saw that right, Davis? Davis: Oh no, he’s dead! Guess we’ll need to exhume him. MD: Now hold on, that reaction is just WAAAAAY TO BLAND.

(Watched a little bit ahead. I have some theories on who Aisling might be, since Gib’s thumbnail does appear to hint at it. We’ll see where it goes!)

(Aaaaand I was right!)

[Here ends entry one. Part two is going to be even more retroactive...]

#Mystery Case files #The Harbinger #MCF

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vitamx · 5 years ago

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watch and learn: chapter 3

[ Read on AO3 too! ] [ Chapter 1 ] [ Chapter 2 ] [ You are here! ] [ Chapter 4 ]

---

Chewing on his lip, Mumbo looked down at the floor, choosing his next words carefully. Grian was right- he couldn't waste time thinking up the questions themselves, but what else could he do?

This suspicious figure he'd unintentionally spotted had seemingly been following him, watching him...

Of course it would be a bit hard to pick his words.

Grian's icy gaze seemed to watch his every precise movement, narrowed dangerously.

Swallowing a lump in his throat, Mumbo sighed, grasping his hands together to keep them warm, and raised his head, locking eyes with the winged being.

"What... are you?" He muttered cautiously. "Humans don't have wings."

"Straight to the point, are we?" Grian tsked, resting his chin in the palm of his hand. "I'm simply an observer; a spectator... A Watcher." He hummed in amusement, a polite smile growing on his face once more.

"That doesn't exactly answer my question," Mumbo huffed in frustration. "Are you some new- new mob or something?" He guessed.

Grian laughed loudly, covering his smile with his hand.

His laugh sounded hyper and mischievous- sounded as if it belonged to someone who was watching the world explode.

That laugh sent shivers down Mumbo's spine.

"Oh- no, no! I'm not a mob, do you take me for some mindless monster? That's so silly. I answered your question- I am a Watcher." He chuckled, his laugh quieting down. "Though... I used to be human, you know. I was the owner of a server, too." He mused, a strange softness in his eyes.

"You were human?" Mumbo questioned, the tension from his shoulders slowly fading. "How can you suddenly not be a human anymore? What happened?"

Grian's smile fell from his face, an icy cold returning to the room once more. He did not look mad, per se, but rather, he looked melancholic, and bothered.

"Don't you think there are more important questions you could be asking?" He replied flatly, before an amused smile was plastered on his face. "You can't unlock my secret backstory until my 7th side-quest!" He joked, snorting to himself.

Despite the unexpected answer, Mumbo snapped his mouth shut, unease settling in his gut.

Though, if there was some way to turn a human into... whatever it is that Grian was, he wasn't sure if he wanted to know.

"Well- alright, then..." Mumbo stuttered, rubbing his arms as the room grew colder still. "How... How did you come here? Did Xisuma whitelist you? He never said anything about a new hermit coming."

"...Ah." Grian hummed, pulling a face. "I'm actually not so sure myself. I think we just... Can. Not so sure why- though, we Watchers are some sort of otherworldly entity and such."

"You don't know how you were able to enter the server?" Mumbo asked, dumbfounded. "-Wait, 'otherworldly entity'?"

"Yes, yes, I just said that," Grian sighed, rolling his purple-hued eyes. "And yeah, Watchers live beyond the Void, which technically makes them 'otherworldly'. Maybe that's why, actually- the Void connects to all worlds, after all..." He mumbled, furrowing his eyebrows.

"That's... O-okay, then..." Mumbo muttered, pulling on the collar of his dress shirt- he was talking to some sort of alien, then? "Why... Why are you here? You said you had a 'task' to do. What is it?"

The corner of Grian's mouth twitched, and he glanced to the side for a quick second- usual signs that belonged to a liar.

"Well, if you must know..." He sighed, quickly plastering a smile on his face. "It's a Watcher's duty to keep an eye on worlds. Make sure it's not falling apart, or that nothing gets corrupted... Oh, and we help with updates, too." He explained, tapping the table with his finger mindlessly.

Mumbo's eyes narrowed in confusion and hesitance.

He remembered Grian's earlier statement, if it was that hard to believe he wasn't here to hurt him... And while it was not even ten minutes ago, suddenly it felt as though, just maybe, Grian didn't seem so bad.

(Though, of course, something about him still left him with a sense of unease and uncertainty.)

"So..." Mumbo began, his lips pulling into a thin line. "You're like... A guardian of the world? Then... Why are you so against me telling anyone you're here?"

Grian frowned, the tapping on the table growing faster and painfully louder as the seconds quickly slipped by.

He was silent, eyes narrowed dangerously as he glared daggers in Mumbo's direction, the room suddenly feeling like a freezer. The ice patterns on the walls ever so slightly grew out towards the ceiling and floor, the air chilled and foggy...

"Didn't I mention it before?" Grian muttered, annoyed. "Watchers are not supposed to be-"

Suddenly, his eyes widened, and the familiar warping effect of an enderman flashed around him- within a second, he was gone.

Mumbo's eyes were wide, and he stood up abruptly, shivering still and tightly hugging onto himself. Nearly instantly, a firework was heard, and after that, several more. Before long, a figure flew in through the window, nearly tumbling into him.

"MUMBO!" Stress yelled, stumbling onto the ground and taking ahold of his shoulders. "How could you be four hours late to a meeting?! It's nearly-"

Mumbo couldn't hear the rest of what she was saying- his eyes had drifted to the side. On the table where Grian had sat, there were faint carvings on the tabletop, of which appeared to be strange symbols and markings: Galactic writing.

Before long, Stress had noticed he wasn't listening, halting her speech and following his gaze.

"Oh, hey," Stress hummed, hands slipping off of Mumbo's stiff shoulders, her fingers tracing over the symbols. "Isn't this Galactic? Have you been practicin' writing it or somefing?" She wondered, turning to look at Mumbo with wide, innocent eyes.

"I-" Mumbo began, blinking rapidly. He felt a slow pit of guilt return to his gut as he carefully planned his next words. "...Yes, I- I have been. It's a... nice pastime. Rather than redstone, I mean." He stuttered, wringing his fingers together almost in shame- he hoped he was better at lying than he thought.

"Well," Stress huffed, eyes narrowing playfully. "Next time don't carve it on our table! Now I've got'a go replace the damn block... What's it say, anyway?"

"Oh-! Um, it-it, says..." Mumbo stammered, face flushing red in embarrassment. Why'd he have to go and make up an excuse that he himself couldn't go with?

(Though, more adamantly on his mind, why was he making an excuse for Grian, anyways?)

"Wait, wait, don't tell me! I've been learning a bit myself too, you know! Helpful when you're enchantin' stuff, 'n all that." Stress grinned, eyebrows furrowing as she looked down at the carvings once more. "Ot... No, that's an A... At the... 'At the dragon'? What is that s'pposed t' mean?"

Slowly, the dread Mumbo had been setting aside came back to him full-force, his face paling and his eyes widening ever-so-slightly.

"At the dragon". Grian had carved that out, hadn't he?

"Um..." Mumbo began, swallowing as his throat suddenly felt dry. "Don't... Worry about it. I was just... writing down random stuff." He rasped, looking off to the side and forcing a grin onto his face. "Sorry for, erm, missing the meeting, too. Didn't sleep too well, I guess."

Stress' eyes softened, and she offered Mumbo a comforting smile- one that seemed much more genuine than the polite, porcelain smiles Grian had on his face constantly.

"Oh, forget about all that, luv. Why don't you go get some more rest, then? You look a little pale," She hummed, placing a hand on Mumbo's shoulder gently. "It's awfully cold in here, too. I'll bring by some hot cocoa later, how's that sound?"

Mumbo smiled exhaustedly and gratefully, shoulders drooping.

"That... sounds lovely. Thank you, Stress," Mumbo mumbled, rubbing at his eyes. "I think I will go and do that- rest, I mean. I'll see you later, Stress..." He hummed, grabbing his set of rockets and waving a quick farewell before leaping out of the window, and stumbling into the air towards his base.

He tried not to think too much about the cryptic message Grian had most definitely carved onto the table- with his finger, too.

Though, of course, curiosity did kill the cat.

"At the dragon"... What exactly did that mean? The first thing that came to mind was Stress' faux ice-dragon that curled around her winter-themed castle in Hermitville.

Other than that, there were Tango's dragon towers (which weren't even complete yet), but that seemed like the less likely option. Though, was there something inside the dragon? Did Grian want to meet up with him there?

...Should he risk meeting up with him?

Grian still wasn't exactly a friendly entity, even if he claimed that he was watching the server as it's- what, protector?

But still, Mumbo couldn't risk leaving Grian alone and letting him do whatever he pleased- he still had questions that needed answering, too.

As Mumbo landed on the roof of his spherical base, he looked down at the familiar scenery of the ocean.

The ocean was big, nearly endless, filled with life and wonders- Mumbo loved the ocean more than anything; save for redstone, of course. The salty smell of the ocean was comforting in a way, a reminder of what was around him.

Mumbo stayed on the roof of his base for hours- snacking on golden carrots, messing with redstone parts, and enjoying the smell and scenery of the ocean and the gentle wind that blew past him.

The sun soon began to set, and by then Mumbo had made up his mind.

Dusting off the redstone on his hands, Mumbo fired a rocket and flew down, down to the bottom of his base and through his nether portal.

Distantly, on a sculpted ice dragon, someone lay within the opened jaw of the non-organic creature, waiting...

Watching.

---

Stress drifted slowly to the floor of Mumbo's base, making a u-turn for his room, two mugs held in her hands and a bright smile on her face.

She couldn't help but feel giddy- it had been a while since she had hung out with Mumbo, after all! And what better way to spend time with a friend than to enjoy a tasty mug of hot cocoa?

Pushing the door open with her elbow, Stress glanced down at the chocolate and buckets of milk in her inventory, whispering into the room as to not cause a startle.

"Hey Mumbs, I brought the-" She began, stepping into the room completely.

She faltered, the smile on her lips slowly falling.

The room was empty and dark- it didn't look like anyone had been inside for hours.

"...Mumbo?"

---

#hermitcraft #hermitcraft au #hermitcraft fanfic #grian #watcher grian #wal grian #wal mumbo #mumbo jumbo #mumbo #stressmonster101 #stressmonster #wal stress #watch and learn #WaL

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rosymaeflower · 4 years ago

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Idolize Me! CH 1

Summary: Idol!MC whos scummy as hell, follow her as she navigates Devildom from an idols perspective. Lotta plot, fluff and MAYBE smut as we go *wink wink* btw its harem af

I also post of Ao3!

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"MC!"

My manager calls out to me as a team of stylists flutter around me, teasing and pulling on my hair and touching up on my makeup.

"Yeah?" I call out blindly to him as my eyes stay shut to allow a nameless hand to pad on another layer of shimmer atop my eyelid.

"After makeup and wardrobe, u should test the fitting of your mic and in ear piece, you don't want them falling out on you on stage!" He nags. It's so like him to remind me of things I've done thousands of times, but it seems to help him more than me so I tend to just humor him.

“Yes yes I got it!” I call out once again. The stylists around me slowly disappear one by one till it’s just my manager left, letting me know that makeup and hair has now officially completed. He presses the in ear piece into my hands and fiddles with the wires for a while, muttering about how we’re running late as usual.

I stare back into the reflection I see in the mirror. The girl before me has transformed completely from the regular me to a completely polished and idol worthy me. I barely recognize myself, but I don’t need that to do my job.

“Alright, done, get up!” My manager hurries again, signalling for the stylists to check me over once more. Their hands are on me again, pulling and tugging as they go. My eyes stray towards a screen showing a boy group nearing the end of their performance, the chants of fans vibrating through the thin walls doing nothing to soothe my ever present nerves.

“Are you ready?” My manager asks, now finally calm as I’m moving into position behind the curtains.

I chuckle, "Of course, how could I not?” The boy group bows collectively and file off the stage, the emcees of the award show returning to the stage to announce the winner of some other award I can’t remember. How much did I get for pawning off my trophies anyways? Not much if I recall, so the awards are basically worthless to me.

“Remember, make this a blast and you could get a ton of CF opportunities if your stage goes viral, we could even up your asking price!” My manager yaps, clearly off in fantasy land. I’m actually pretty comfortable with my current popularity as a soloist. My albums sell out regularly, I’ve done both local and international tours, I’ve never been in a scandal (except for the chicken wings commercial one but it was clearly the directors fault!) and public opinion of me as a person is a-okay. But of course, earning money is this industry’s driving force, it doesn't hurt to have a few more dollars lying around…

With a thunderous applause, the winner has accepted their award and has given an emotional speech of thanks. And now… It’s time.

I vaguely hear my stage name being announced before the curtains slowly peel apart, revealing a sea of colorful lights and shrill screams. I take a step forward only to fall. Fall through the ground, wind swirling around me and through my hair as the lights bend and shift into something else completely. My eyes squeeze shut and I let out a fearful scream before-

*THUD*

My eyes fly open, I'm now laid sprawled on some cool tiled floorings. The lighting is completely different, the stage and crowd is gone, my backup dancers are gone.

What the-

I whip my head around only for my eyes to lay upon an imposing figure seated atop a majestic golden throne. Tanned skin and fiery red hair, wrapped in deep red clothes that could only be described as royalty, the man smiles warmly down at me. My head is still spinning from the weird vortex I just experienced but I can tell he calls the shots around here. I'm laid right by the steps before him, which makes me feel more vulnerable than ever.

Something about him is off. Otherworldly. Despite his harmless smile, I know I shouldn't trust him right away. Besides, who the hell is he? Where the hell am I?

With my attention initially focused on him, I almost failed to notice the other figures standing in what could only be described as ‘throne room’.

A green haired man with an unreadable expression who stands by the left arm of the throne. A tall black haired man who has his arms folded and is looking at me with…. Uh, polite disinterest? Or is that malice? Honestly I can’t even figure it out. I don’t even know if I should be scared or happy right now!

By the side of Mister Dark Scary Pants, there's a lean blonde guy with striking poison green eyes, his left hand absentmindedly laying on his chest. He looks decently normal, except for the ever present wrinkle between his brows. His eyes seem to flicker in recognition as he stares at me. Beside him, a beautiful peach haired man with an even more beautiful smirk chuckles as he stares right at me, his eyes unashamedly roaming down from my head to my bare legs.

“My my~ What have we here?” He croons in my direction. Well then. Looks like he's a classic pervert.

I’m no stranger to beauty, god knows I meet many extremely attractive people in my line of work, but something about them all seem... off. Just like the Throne Guy. They're all impossibly gorgeous but I feel like I should be running for my life right now, which I would but I am currently busy being plastered to the floor.

My thoughts are then interrupted by Throne Guy, who sweeps open his arms in a shameless welcoming gesture.

“Welcome to Devildom!” He announces, his voice surprisingly friendly. "Sorry if we startled you Miss MC, I'm afraid we couldn't be sure of your whereabouts before summoning you here."

I eye all of them cautiously, unsure if I’ve died or just am in a coma. “Ah yes… Devildom yes…” I say absentmindedly, slowly getting to my feet. Did my manager arrange for me to perform for the devil? First of all, major breach of contract! Secondly, how much am I getting paid? I reckon I could fetch a high price down here...

Finally standing, I realize just how naked I feel in this vast empty room. The dress I'm wearing is an off the shoulder long glittery blue piece, definitely suited for my scheduled stage but NOT for an audience with sketchy handsome men! The green haired man beckons me up the low steps and wraps a coat with strange symbols around my bare shoulders.

"Um…" my soft voice echoes through the loud room, making me cringe but I'm way too confused and worried to care. "So where am I? And who are you people?" I wave my hand at the surrounding men. "Am i… dead?" I asked tentatively, wrapping the coat tighter around me.

If I am, how on earth did I die?? Stage piece fell on me? My manager stabbed me? My backup dancer stabbed me?? A deranged fan?? As my thoughts raced a mile a minute, the Throne Guy’s deep laugh brings me back to the present. While surprisingly warm, I can’t help but feel like I’m some sort of prey here… And the men are all definitely predators.

"No, Miss MC, you're far from it!" He puts his hand to his chest. “My name is Diavolo, I am the crown prince of Devildom,” He then gestures to the man on his left, green haired man. “This is Barbatos, he serves me as both my butler and advisor,”

His hand waves towards the other 3 men on his right. “These are the Avatars of Sin, immediate to my right is Lucifer, then Satan and Asmodeus.

A strained smile finds itself on my face at his words. Is this some sort of prank? I shifted my eyes around, hoping to spot a secret camera, a boom mic, anything that would confirm my suspicions but I found nothing. Those names… I was never religious but everyone knows the name Satan and Lucifer right? The rest of the names sound familiar as well, biblical yet demonic at the same time…

I eye Diavolo, my eyes hoping to catch something that could help me figure all this out. "So Diavolo… If I’m not dead, why am I here?" I ask tentatively, still not believing most of what’s going on.

"Why there's no need to be scared, pretty girl!" Asmodeus purrs at me. "Just look me in the eyes…" His hand reaches out to turn my face towards his before a black gloved hand reaches out to smack it away.

"Control yourself, Asmo," Lucifer says sternly, nearly stepping right in between us.

“Aw you’re no fun Lucifer,” Asmodeus laughs, shooting me one last wink before leaning back. It seems like this Lucifer has some sort of authoritative power over them too?

Diavolo clears his throat, bringing my attention to him once again. “Well to answer your question, you’re here on a student exchange programme!” He says cheerfully. “You will be attending RAD, the Royal Academy right here in Devildom to learn the customs and culture of us demons here.” He explains.

My mouth opens. Then closes. Then opens again. “Uh huh?” I ask, a little in shock.

“Worry not,” Barbatos finally speaks, his voice light and lilting. “Your disappearance back home will be dealt with accordingly and you will be given all the help you need to adjust to your 1 year stay here.” He says, stepping forward to press a mobile like device into my hands. “ This is your D.D.D, it operates similarly to a regular human cellphone where you can contact people, complete your tasks for school and even operate social media.”

My jaw drops. “Wait so… I can contact my friends and family? And even post from hell??” I ask hopefully. “And wait, did you say ONE YEAR??” My brain finally caught up to everything he said.

“Let me correct myself, you can contact residents here only, and you will only be able to access Devilgram for social media purposes, it won’t impact your account back on the human realm.” Barbatos explains patiently. “Also, this place is officially called Devildom but yes there are humans who call it ‘Hell’.” He says, a little amused. “And yes, the exchange programme lasts a year.”

Well then. There goes whatever social standing I have left. People forget stars as quickly as they come, a year without comebacks? Or posting? Or shows? I’m basically jobless for the next whole year! Where am I gonna get my money! Also not seeing my family? Not to mention me never signing up for this anyways!

“But I have a job!” I exclaim, eyes flitting back and forth between Diavolo and Barbatos. “I didn’t sign up for this either, you must have the wrong person-”

Barbatos shakes his head calmly. “We most certainly have the right person Miss MC, you may not have signed up for this but your file was picked out of tens of thousands, you are incredibly lucky to have this opportunity.”

I made a face at him, finally regaining my nerves. I also don't have to worry about cameras here so I don’t have to worry about scandals anytime soon! “Listen, my job-”

“Ah yes, you’re an idol back in the human realm correct?” Diavolo interrupts me now, his teeth glinting under the chandelier light. “Not to worry, we have made it so that you’re taking a hiatus from performing to go back to school, we have made sure your family is aware of that too,”

The beautiful man gasps suddenly. "Oh my god! I knew I recognized you from somewhere!" He grabs my hand, leaning closer into me. "You're (stage name)!" He exclaims, eyes roaming over my face in childlike wonder. Once again, Lucifer moves forward to pull him back, this time with a disapproving glare.

I grin a little shakily. So demons can recognize me after all… "Ah yes but that's just a stage name… My real name is MC," I explain.

Satan, the blonde man, taps his fist into his palm in realization. “No wonder you looked so familiar,” He says. “I’ve heard of you and your songs,”

My eyes widened in surprise. “Demons… know idols?” I ask curiously. This could be a huge plus for me, I could rack up tons of cash down here, maybe even convert whatever demon money I earn into human money!

Barbatos finally smiles at me, his face looking way less mysterious with it now. “Yes Miss MC, you’ll find that you have a bit of a fanclub down here in Devildom as well.” He says.

“Oh!” I must say, in my 4 years of being an active idol, I never expected a portion of my fans to be made up of demons. But a welcomed surprise… I can hold concerts, fansigns, maybe even a high five event? Just thinking about all the money I could get from this is exhilarating!

“During your stay here you will be living with us,” Lucifer interjects through my money driven thoughts. “By us I mean my brothers and I, the Avatars of Sin.”

Asmo snickers, “You and I will have plenty of time to get acquainted with one another then, I’ve never been with an idol before!” He says almost giddily, licking his lips.

“and you never will.” I say firmly, frowning slightly.

“Please excuse my brother, he’s the Avatar of Lust after all,” Satan says, folding his arms. “I’m the Avatar of Wrath and Lucifer over here is Pride but I’m sure you can tell that by the pompous way he speaks and acts-”

“Satan please,” Lucifer grits out, “We have guests and we are in the audience of Lord Diavolo, mind your words,” He narrows his eyes at his brother, who shoots him an equally dirty look back.

I couldn’t help but let out a small laugh which earned a smug smile from Satan and a piercing glare from Lucifer. “Haha yes… So is that all I have to know?” I ask finally, rolling my shoulders back to ease a bit of the tension that’s been building up since I got here.

“Ah since this is an exchange programme, you aren’t the only human here,” Barbatos says. “Solomon, a human sorcerer, will be taking the same course you will be as well at RAD,”

“A sorcerer?” I ask in wonder. Hmm, I definitely should get to know him, I can’t just be with demons all the time can I? And he may be a fan… How much would he pay for a signature hmm?

“Yes but he will be living in the Purgatory Hall with the angels from the Celestial Realm,”

“I’m sorry what now?”

“You’ll be living in the House of Lamentation with the brothers as explained,”

“Why, pray tell?”

Diavolo lets out a laugh. “I assure you this wasn’t on purpose, the Purgatory Hall just doesn’t have enough space for all 4 of you,” He explains. “Now Lucifer, about her caretaker?”

Lucifer clears his throat and steps forward. “We Avatars of Sins are in RADs student council, so we will naturally be looking after you during your stay here in Devildom but I have also assigned one of my brothers to be your primary caretaker for any of your immediate needs,” He pulls out his own D.D.D, taps on the screen a few and then hands it to me. “You may call him down here, his name is Mammon” He said. “Put it on speakerphone,” He adds, his brows knitting together almost in preparation for disapproval.

I gingerly take his D.D.D and tap on Mammons name. Since they’re all assigned to one of the 7 deadly sins, I wonder which is Mammons? The dial tone is steady for a long while and before I wanted to give Lucifer back his phone, someone picked up.

“Whaddaya want?!” A males voice rings through the air.

Out of my peripheral vision, I see Lucifer's hand reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose with a sigh.

“Uh hi?” I ask, a little awkward. I look incredulously at Lucifer who isnt looking at me, why’d he hand me the phone so abruptly?! Asmodeus and Satan look on with little smirks on their faces, Satan probably enjoying Lucifer's despair more than the actual phone call.

“Wait you ain’t Lucifer!” Mammon shouts through the phone. “Whyddaya sound like a gir-” Mammon gasps loudly. “Are ya a gal he’s seein’?!!”

I splutter as Asmo and Satan laugh openly now, clearly enjoying this all too much. Lucifer lurches forward as if to grab his D.D.D. back but Diavolo holds out a hand to stop him, hiding a smile behind his palm with the other.

“Wait why’d I hear Asmo and Satan too?! Are ya with ‘em too? Lucifers gonna be real mad if he finds out ya know?!” Mammon shouts urgently at me, as if giving me holy advice.

“I- What? NO!” I trip over my words trying to get my point across. “No, god no, I’m a human from the exchange program?” I say, glancing up at Barbatos to make sure I’ve said the right thing but his unreadable expression tells me nothing.

The line goes dead silent for a bit. “LUCIFER’S SHAGGIN’ A HUMAN?!?!” Mammon bellows through the phone.

I blush wildly at his words, not knowing what to answer. Satan and Asmo laugh openly now, Satan falling to his knees as he grasps at his stomach. Lucifer hisses, grabbing his phone back now that Diavolo’s too busy laughing to stop him.

“Mammon, I’m giving you 1 MINUTE to come down to the throne room or I’ll have you hung from the ceiling for the rest of the week,” Lucifer says lowly into the phone, his voice dark and uh.. Scary as hell? Remind me not to get on his bad side thank you!

The line goes silent again. We all settle into silence as we hear thuds echoing through the walls, gradually growing louder before the big grand doors burst open to reveal a huffing and puffing figure collapse on the carpeted floor. Tanned skin with snow white hair, Mammon is as attractive as all of his brothers, except for the fact that he seems to be dying right in front of us.

“38 seconds, not bad,” Lucifer tuts, glancing at his watch.

“ARGH,” Mammon groans. “What was that for Lucifer?! I wasn’t gon’ tell nobody!” He complains, getting to his feet and dusting off his pants.

“You dare forget that we are supposed to welcome the new exchange student today, jump to such conclusions and embarrass us in front of Lord Diavolo?” Lucifer seethes, crossing his arms, his eyes glowing redder by the second.

“Relax Lucifer, he’s here now so it doesn’t matter,” Diavolo drawls from his throne. He seems to be enjoying this little show we have unknowingly put on.

Mammon eyes me with distaste. “So ya a transfer student? Why are ya all dressed up like that anyways?” He asks suspiciously.

“MC here is an IDOL,” Asmo claps his hands in glee. “Come on MC, let’s bounce! I can’t wait to show you all the makeup we have down here!” He links his arm with mine, pulling me towards the large doors left ajar by Mammon.

Mammon whips around towards us suddenly. “AN IDOL?! Hang on are ya (stage name)?!” He nearly shrieks, eyes as large as saucepans. A fan maybe?

“Yeah that’s right! And you aren’t getting your scummy hands on her cuz I claimed her first!” Asmo brags, yanking my arm tighter towards him.

“I mean if you want a signature, you can pay me for one,” I offer with a sly smile, shrugging Asmo off. How could I pass up such an opportunity? Maybe I could even inflate what I usually charge at fansigns back on Earth…

Mammon's jaw grows slack as he stares at me. “Are ya… chargin’ me?” He whispers, grasping at his heart.

Satan lets out a sharp laugh, walking towards us. “Turns out she’s as scummy as Mammon,” He comments, eyeing me with newfound interest.

“Ridiculous,” I scoff, “I’m scummier.” With that, I relinked my arms with Asmo and we marched out of the hall with Satan, leaving Mammon standing there stunned.

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#obey me #obey me fanfic #idol!mc #idol!reader #mammon #lucifer #asmo #belphie #beel #satan #diavolo #barbatos #simeon #solomon #luke

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ilovemesomekillianjones · 5 years ago

Text

The Soldier, the Witch, and the Dragon - A CSSNS 2019 One Shot

Summary: When soldier Killian Jones shows up on witch Emma Swan's doorstep, two worlds will collide. He will learn of worlds and wonders he never imagined possible and she will learn that true love might just be in the cards for her. Witches, Dragons, and Magic, Oh My! A CS one shot for the 2019 Captain Swan Supernatural Summer event.

A/N: Thank you to @spartanguard for masterfully crafting the banner above and this CS edit to accompany my story, it is magnificent. I love it Kaitlyn!!! @hollyethecurious - much appreciation for being the extra set of eyes to fine tune this tale. And finally, thank you @cssns for bringing together so many talented writers and artists to put together another phenomenal collection of supernatural content for all of us CS lovers.

ao3 ffnet Rated M 15K+

July, 1865

In spectacular fashion, as was customary for him, Killian Jones staggered up the two steps of the single dwelling nestled among the foliage of a supposedly haunted wood. Bloodied and bruised he slumped against the door frame, grunting as the raw nerves of his severed hand met with the rough wood. He brought his other hand to the door and rapped his knuckles against what he hoped to be the entryway to his last chance for salvation, before passing out. Spectacular fashion indeed.

Two days ago…

“Since you are representing yourself, Mr. Jones, you are charged with desertion, how do you plead?” the judge questioned.

“Not guilty,” Killian Jones stated definitively.

“You deserted during war time, is this not true?”

“Semantics.”

“Your honor he deserted the Confederacy in May of 1861,” the prosecuting lawyer argued.

“Your Honor, if I may?” Killian asked.

The judge nodded his head in Killian’s direction, allowing him his defense.

“I merely recognized I was fighting for the wrong side.” Killian smiled his most brilliant smile as if this one statement had won his case.

“Come again, son?”

“You’re required to be impartial, yes, Your Honor?”

The judge nodded curtly.

“I was involuntarily drafted into this war by the Confederacy. Being a former slave myself, sold into it by my father, I would never support such an agenda.” Years of practicing a cool and collected demeanor were working in Killian’s favor as he maintained the facade that hid his disgust for the Confederacy and all it stood for. “Therefore, I did not desert in time of war, I simply... switched sides,” he declared with a flourish of his hand.

“Then you are an enemy of the Confederacy,” the judge amended.

“I beg to differ,” Killian said cheekily, “how can I be an enemy of something that does not exist?”

A low buzz broke out across the courtroom as discourse ran rampant among the lot of Confederate diehards. Killian wondered if they even knew the war was over, and they’d lost.

“All good points you bring up, Mr. Jones. Unfortunately, I am not here for good points, I am here to uphold the law to the best of my ability. As such, I hereby by find you guilty of the charge of desertion during war time. In addition, I am adding and find you guilty of the crime of treason and as such, I sentence you to be hanged tomorrow at noon.”

Before Killian could react to what was happening he was roughly being hauled away by the bailiff and thrown into the shitty cell he’d been sitting in for the last three weeks. His jaw clenched as he lay on the ground where he’d been tossed.

One moment he’d been enjoying rum, riches, and wealth via his stellar poker playing skills and the next he’d been dragged from his bar of choice, carted hundreds of miles, and hauled into this cell. Where had he gone wrong? Perhaps he never should’ve left England with his father and brother, after his mother’s death. Then he never would have been sold into slavery, subsequently landing here in the south.

“On your feet, soldier,” the guard on duty barked.

“For what?” Killian spat.

“For your superior officer,” a familiar, grating voice said.

Killian’s eyes rolled so far back in his head he was sure they might get stuck there. There was nothing superior about this man, nothing. “Captain Cassidy, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Just came to settle a debt, Jones.”

“Ah, I guess my trial was over before it started, makes sense now.”

“You killed my father, you traitorous son of a bitch.”

“He deserved it, Neal,” Killian gritted out, jumping to his feet to meet his former friend against the bars of the cell. “He killed women and children in the name of being victorious for a losing side.”

Neal shrugged his shoulders. “You should have left well enough alone instead of coming back.”

“I didn’t have a choice, it was me or him! I didn’t seek him out, we were engaged in combat.”

Neal reached through the bars and grabbed Killian by the shirt. “Semantics. Isn’t that what you always said? You say didn’t have a choice, I say murdered in cold blood.” He threw Killian back as he seethed the last words. “You’ll never see that noose tomorrow, but you’ll wish you were hanged by the time I’m done with you.”

乂❤乂❤乂

“Wake up! Come back to me.”

Killian smiled as the feminine voice washed over him, adding to the weightlessness he felt. It made all movement a little cumbersome, but he felt healthier than he had during the past month, and he was blessedly pain free for the moment. That is until a stinging slap collided with his cheek. His brow furrowed and a grimace replaced the easy smile that had graced his lips. He struggled to open his eyes to see just who was attached to the voice that currently worried over him.

“Don’t die,” the voice repeated, “it’s the only thing I can’t fix.”

A doctor! he thought as relief washed over him. But when he was finally able to command the muscles of his eyelids, he was greeted by an angel. She was dressed in all white and a halo of blonde tresses cascaded over her shoulders, which positively emitted a golden glow around her being. He thought to himself, if he was dead then there were two things he was grateful for. One, he’d made it into heaven and two, the angelic being before him.

“Hey beautiful,” he rasped out before attempting to throw her his most devilish smolder.

“Oh! Are you in pain?” she asked.

“Not at the moment, which is more than I can say for the last forty-eight hours. Why?”

“You just made a face, I thought maybe your wounds were causing you pain. It would be quite odd if you were experiencing any pain, though. So maybe that’s your normal face?”

So, not a devilish smolder that he’d made then. “If it’s devilishly handsome, it’s my normal face. If not, you are not getting the full effect.”

“Whatever you say,” she said noncommittally.

Do angels really roll their eyes and scoff? Killian wondered.

“You sure are arrogant for a man who passed out after being on the losing end of some sort of fight.”

It was Killian’s turn to scoff. “I do not lose.” He had passed out though, he thought as he reached up sheepishly to scratch behind his ear. “Bloody Hell!” he yelled as something pierced said spot.

“Careful,” the angel chastised as she pulled his arm away from his head. “That thing is a weapon now.”

Killian looked at his left hand, or what should be his left hand. “What the devil have you done to my hand?” Killian looked around in a panic as the events of the past several weeks came flooding back to him. “Where am I? Who are you? Who do you work for?” He was yelling as he realized he was in an unfamiliar room, laid up in a bed that wasn’t his.

“Hey! You showed up here without your hand!” she exclaimed, jumping up from the side of the bed. She backed away from him, anguish washing over her face. “I- I didn’t do anything but try to help you.” She shook her hands as if to cleanse the aura in the room.

Killian gasped as pain seared through him. His wrist burned as if it had been jammed into salt, and his arm felt as though it was going to explode. His throat was parched, and suddenly he was gasping for air. He curled in on himself trying to shut out the pain. “Please! Stop! Please, you’re hurting me.” He pleaded for the blond haired angel turned demon to stop whatever it was she was doing.

“I’m not doing anything to you! You… you distracted me!”

“I’m sorry I yelled,” he rasped.

Inhaling deeply, the woman sat back down next to him and brushed the hair from his forehead. Closing her eyes she shook her hands out once more before sitting in concentrated silence.

Killian’s whole body relaxed as a soothing ambiance floated through him, and after a few moments the pain began to recede. “Thank you, love.”

“I’m not your love,” she scolded, opening her eyes.

“Pity.”

“If you’re going to flirt so outlandishly shouldn’t I at least know your name?”

“Apologies, lass, Killian Jones at your service,” he greeted, extending his right, and now only hand. A smooth flow of positive energy flowed through him when she took his hand. “And you might be?”

“Emma Swan.”

“Lovely to meet you, Emma Swan. Are you my guardian angel? Did you draw me here, in my time of need with your powers of guardianship? Or did I just happen to stumble upon a random angel?”

Emma laughed out loud, an angelic sound if you asked Killian, which is what made her next words even more difficult to fathom.

“I’m no angel,” she chuckled. “But since you are obviously a believer in otherworldly beings, perhaps I can tell you what I am. And if I can’t trust you with my secret, I can always cast a memory spell on you.”

“A memory spell?” Killian enunciated as he tried to grasp the words.

“Just who are you, Swan?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“I do believe I asked.”

“I’m a witch.”

It was Killian’s turn to laugh aloud. “There is no way you are a witch, darling-”

“Em-ma,” she corrected.

“Where is your broomstick and black pointy hat, Emma? And your laugh, that was most definitely not a cackle.”

“It is not a prerequisite of a witch to own a broomstick, or black pointy hat, Jones. Nor do we all own cats and have warts. Though I suppose if that’s your biggest concern with me being a witch, we’re in a pretty good place.”

“If you want to join me here on the bed, we could get to an even better place.” He ran his tongue along his lower lip before biting it and cocking an eyebrow at her.

“In your dreams,” she laughed.

“I do hope so.”

“I just told you I’m a witch, and your response is to flirt more?”

“Perhaps you’ve bewitched me with your beauty and grace?”

“Do you ever stop?” Emma asked as a lovely blush colored her cheeks.

“Do you want me to?” Killian asked softly. A crack of a smile curved Emma’s lips and he hoped she could feel his sincerity, he would stop if she asked him to. He wasn’t quite sure why, but he felt like he’d do anything she asked of him.

“Get some rest Jones, and when you wake we will eat and you can tell me what happened to you.”

Killian yawned heartily as a wave of exhaustion rolled over him. “But I don’t want to sleep.”

“But you need your rest,” Emma insisted.

“Do you have magic,” he asked as he became increasingly tired. The last thing Killian saw was Emma flicking her wrist as a dragon came to rest on her shoulders. A dragon? he thought, then he drifted out of consciousness and into dreamland.

乂❤乂❤乂

“I think we were meant for each other,” Emma whispered into his ear, causing a shiver to course through his body. His eyes were closed and his body was light, yet responsive to her every word and touch.

In his heart he knew she was right. He could feel the connection, mind, body, and soul. “I am yours, love.”

“And I am yours,” she promised as she pressed against his entire body.

Killian shivered again as she gently raked her fingers through his hair and fisted her other hand into the hair on his chest. Her lips hovered just above his as she told him she was going to kiss him now. He eagerly awaited the press of her soft lips as he attempted to wrap his arms around her. Damn, how he wished to hold her.

“Killian.”

What was she waiting for? Where was his kiss? Why couldn’t he reach out to embrace her?

“Killian?”

“What are you waiting for, Swan? It’s bad form to tell a man you’re going to kiss him and then tease him so.”

Her soft chuckle had him opening his eyes. “What’s so funny?” he asked playfully. As the room came into focus, she was no longer laying next to him, but standing at the small table by the kitchen. “And why aren’t you laying with me anymore?”

“I think someone was dreaming,” Emma whispered, giggling again.

“Bollocks,” Killian muttered as he dropped his head back down to the pillow. It had seemed so real, not just her physical presence, but the love. He’d felt her love.

“I’m not going to ask him that,” she scolded. “It’s none of our business what he dreams about!”

Killian tensed as he realized there was someone else in her home. Of course there was. Someone as beautiful and benevolent as this woman was sure to have a significant other.

Attempting to stand up, which was not nearly as fluid as his normal movement, he cleared his throat. He settled for sitting up in bed for the moment. “Apologies, it appears I have overstayed my welcome, I should be on my way.”

Emma cocked her head, looking at him with a perplexed expression. “You don’t have to go.”

“I wouldn’t want to impose on you and…” Killian looked around the room, searching for the person she’d been talking to. “Uh… wasn’t there someone else here just a moment ago?”

Emma blushed profusely as she looked toward the corner of the kitchen. “Not exactly someone.”

“Were you talking to yourself then?”

“No,” she answered indignantly. “I was talking to Henry.”

So there was a man in Emma’s life. “Ah, I see.” He really didn’t, since he couldn’t see this Henry fellow. “Best take my leave now. Any chance I can have my shirt back?” Looking around the small cabin, Killian spotted his boots by the front door.

“Sure,” she said quietly.

He watched as she slowly walked to the basin and picked up his shirt. Great, it was still dripping wet, at least all the blood stains were gone. That would make it a little easier to blend in when he moved on to the next town.

“We can’t force him to stay,” she hissed.

Killian quirked an eyebrow as he watched her argue with a spot on the wall.

When she turned her eyes back to him, he averted his, not wishing to embarrass her. He wasn’t sure what was going on, but something was definitely a little strange. Unable to look away any longer he chanced a glance back at her. She was still staring at him, almost longingly, he thought. He jumped when with a small flick of her hand the shirt was not only dry, but also back on his body. He was jarred back to right before he’d dozed off, he’d asked if she had magic. Unless he’d lost more than just his hand, oh yeah, that, he was pretty sure she did have magic.

“I made dinner if you want to eat before you go?”

Killian wondered why she sounded so defeated, seemed almost sad at the prospect of either dinner or him leaving. “I don’t wish to impose on you and Henry.”

“We don’t mind,” she rushed out.

“Okaaaay… and you’re sure Henry won’t mind?”

“Of course not,” she said excitedly. “Tell him, Henry.”

Killian’s eyes nearly bugged out of his head as he realized she must have an imaginary friend. Who was he to judge, though? It must get lonely in these woods where most wouldn’t dare venture. She must not know many others of her type. Killian was pulled from his musing when a bird suddenly swooped from above and circled his head. “What the devil? How did a bird get in here?” Waving his hand in the air, he attempted to shoo the bird away.

“That’s Henry,” Emma laughed.

“Henry’s a bird?” he asked.

“No,” Emma said, walking toward him. “Settle down, Henry.”

The little guy landed on Killian’s shoulder and he was overcome with a sense of being welcomed. “How did he do that?”

“Do what?” she asked.

“Invite me to dinner.”

“I invited you to dinner.”

“You told him to tell me it was okay, and now he is sitting on my shoulder and somehow he has communicated to me that it’s okay to stay for dinner. He let me know you both want me to stay for dinner. Does he have magic, like you?”

Emma’s eyes widened. “He did?”

Killian gave a small nod as she seemed to contemplate something.

“Well, since you didn’t balk when I told you I was a witch, I guess I can tell you about Henry.”

“You can tell me anything,” Killian said as he sat forward. He wanted to hear anything and everything Emma Swan wanted to tell him. That feeling of absolute love was back, and although he couldn’t fathom the idea of loving someone so soon after meeting them, he also couldn’t deny the feeling.

“Henry is what you might call a power animal or a spirit animal. He’s my power animal.”

“Power animal?” Killian repeated.

“Power animals are supernatural creatures that convey influence. They can also give a person the powerful traits and characteristics of the animal. They walk through life with certain people, teaching and guiding them, and sometimes protecting them.”

“Do I have a power animal?”

“Everyone has a power animal. They usually only reveal themselves when you need them. Or when…”

“When what?” Killian asked with rapt fascination.

“Dinner’s ready,” Emma said, changing the subject abruptly. “Oh, and Henry is not a bird. He’s a dragon.”

Killian tensed up as he slowly turned his head to try and see the small dragon sitting on his shoulder. He wasn’t so sure allowing a dragon to sit on one’s shoulder was a good idea. As soon as he thought the idea, Henry was communicating to him that he was perfectly safe.

“That is so weird,” Killian murmured.

I know, Henry seemed to say.

“You get used to it,” Emma said with the sweetest smile on her face. “Henry, can you help him over to the table?”

Without too much effort, Killian was up and moving toward the table. He couldn’t believe how… normal he felt. As if he hadn’t had the crap beaten out of him and his hand lopped off. Oh yeah, that. “So, what’s with the hook?” he asked as he sat down at the table to a hearty looking stew and bread.

“I uhh… I don’t know, I just thought it would be utilitarian.”

“A hook?”

Henry landed on Emma’s shoulder and chirped loudly at her. “It is not a lie,” she snapped back. Henry seemed to cock his head in disbelief, and Killian just chuckled at their interaction.

“Sure, you can use it to scratch, stab, eat-”

“Like a pirate?” he asked, just a little outraged at the barbarism she was implying he might employ.

She just laughed at his reaction before continuing, “It would also serve you well in the thick woods, and it’s easier to hold than a hand.” Emma reached across the table to grasp the hook as if trying to prove her statement.

Although it was an inanimate object, Killian could swear he felt that same unconditional love through her firm grasp. “I guess it has its perks,” he said, somewhat lovestruck.

They ate in comfortable silence for a few moments before Emma spoke again. “Can I ask you a question, Killian?”

“Anything.”

“What were you dreaming about?”

A blush crept up his cheeks as he contemplated his answer. He debated brushing it off, or making something up, but then Henry landed on his shoulder and he felt an esoteric need to tell her. “I dreamt we were in love, I don’t know how, I don’t know why, I just know we were truly in love... and you were going to kiss me.”

“Really?”

“Aye, love. I wouldn’t make that up. Sadly I was woken before the kiss.”

“What a shame,” Emma teased. “I’m sorry Henry and I woke you.”

“You could make it up to me, you know.”

“A healed arm, no pain, dinner, and a roof over your head not enough, Jones?”

Killian roared with laughter. “Well, when you put it like that, I guess I do sound like a greedy bastard.”

Emma stood up from the table and began to clear away the dishes. Killian grabbed his bowl and took it to the basin. “If you have magic, why do you continue mundane tasks like dishes?”

“I try not to use magic for every little thing. It helps me to pretend I’m normal.”

“Why would you want to be normal when you have super powers?”

“That’s a story for another time,” Emma murmured. She pointed to Henry, who was still propped on Killian’s shoulder. “And don’t you dare, mister, no compelling me to spill all my secrets.”

Killian gave Henry a conspiratorial look, maybe later, he tried to tell the mini dragon. Too say he was shocked was an understatement when Henry actually winked at him.

“And no ganging up on me!” Emma ordered.

“If Henry is your power animal, why can he communicate with me?” Killian asked.

Emma narrowed her eyes, giving Henry a dirty look. “Did you tell him to ask me that?”

Henry ruffled his wings as if offended by the accusation. “Why would he tell me to ask that?” Killian’s curiosity was definitely piqued now.

“Never you mind,” Emma said walking away from the basin. With small flicks of her wrist she lit several oil lamps and went to sit on the settee.

Henry urged Killian to join her, so he did. He wasn’t quite sure why Emma was clamming up when it came to elaborating about Henry and power animals, but he decided to leave it be. “May I ask why you live out here in these haunted woods?”

Emma snorted in a decisively unladylike manner as she repeated the word with disdain. “Haunted. They’re not haunted, I just don’t want anyone bothering me. So I may wreak a little havoc when people get too close.”

“Doesn’t it get lonely?”

“I’ve never really noticed. I have Henry and I can go to town when I wish.”

Killian looked around the small cabin, it was quite homey and comforting. He supposed that’s all some people required.

“How about you? Did you live alone before you found yourself at my doorstep?”

“I haven’t lived anywhere for a very long time.” A bit of melancholy worked its way into his voice as he answered truthfully. He looked back to Emma and the inquisitive expression she wore. “I suppose that answer was a bit cryptic, but just as you said earlier, that is a story for another time.”

Emma smiled graciously, letting Killian know she wouldn’t push.

Over the next several hours they chatted easily, including Killian telling her the story of how he’d come to lose his hand. Henry had long since taken up residence between her shoulder and hair and was quietly snoring. Killian only became slightly alarmed when Henry emitted several smoke filled exhales.

“Is he going to ignite?”

“No,” Emma giggled. “He is a fire breathing dragon, though, and sometimes when he dreams he gets a little heated.” She yawned, covering her mouth and apologizing. “It’s almost three in the morning!”

Not realizing how late it had gotten, Killian told her, “You take the bed. I’ll sleep here, on the sofa.”

“Absolutely not! You’re not healed yet.”

“I am mending just fine. Besides, a gentleman would never make a lady sleep anywhere else when a bed is available.”

Emma stood up and offered her hand to him. “Gentleman?” she laughed.

“I’m always a gentleman, Swan.”

“Come on, we can both fit.”

Killian shook his head, and slid his hand behind his back. “That’s not necessary.”

“What? Are you afraid you won’t be able to resist my feminine wiles?”

Something like that, Killian thought.

“Stop being a baby.” Before he could stop her, she grabbed his hook and dragged him to a standing position. She led him over to the bed and with a flick of her wrist he was wearing sleeping clothes he’d never seen before. “Now get in the bed, before Henry has to make you.”

Killian held up hand and hook in surrender before climbing into the comfortable bed. “What are you doing?” he gasped as he looked over to see her lifting her skirts.

“I’m changing into my nightie,” she replied as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

“Do you suppose for propriety’s sake, or at least my sanity, you might just poof yourself into some night clothes like you did me?”

“Poof?” Emma snickered.

“Yes, you know, magic them onto yourself.”

“You could just look away.”

He knew he could, he just didn’t want to make himself. Her creamy thighs were delectable, and it had been a score. Well, that was an overestimation, but it’d been a long while since he’d looked upon a gorgeous woman. He could feel himself stiffening and had to adjust himself in the thin pants he was wearing. Where was Henry to douse his damnable lust!

“Yes, I could,” he lamented, looking around the cabin, anywhere but in her direction. Still, knowing she was blissfully uncovered had him stirring further. He spotted Henry across the room, curled up on the settee, head under his wing and tail wrapped around himself protectively. Killian guessed he’d have to persuade himself to calm down.

“There, see. All done, and no worse for the wear,” she stated as she climbed into the bed next to him.

Killian’s tight pants begged to differ. Scrubbing a hand over his face he rolled over to face away from her. “Good night, Emma.”

“Good night, Killian.”

乂❤乂❤乂

“You are meant for each other,” the dragon stated matter-of-factly. “You’ve been destined to meet since the moment she was born. She was born many years before you, but was cursed by a jealous witch to walk the world alone..”

“How long ago?”

“Several lifetimes.”

“Why can you talk to me?”

“Because this is a dream.”

“Even when I’m not dreaming, we understand each other.”

Henry grinned at him knowingly. “That is because I am your power animal as well.”

“What? How can that be? How can two people share a power animal?”

“If those two people-

“Henry!”

Killian sat bolt upright in bed as reality came back in on the wings of a dragon who was chirping, angrily if Killian was not mistaken, at Emma.

“It’s my secret to tell!” She was dressed with a flick of her wrist, wearing another flowy white dress, and out the door before Killian could ask what happened.

Standing up to stretch, he was suddenly hit with a wave of pain. The same pain from the day before sliced through his wrist and forearm. Sweat broke out across his forehead and he struggled for air. Collapsing back on the bed black spots infiltrated his vision as he bordered the lines of consciousness. Henry was there on his chest momentarily, and Killian watched as the mini dragon closed his eyes. He was immediately flooded with a cooling sensation and the pain subsided quickly.

“Thank you, Henry.”

Once he’d caught his breath he asked the dragon where to find Emma. Henry let him know he would lead him there. Looking at the clock he couldn’t believe it was already past noon; they had been up late the night before, so he supposed oversleeping was excusable this once. Rummaging around the cupboards he grabbed a canteen, some biscuits, and fruit and put them into a basket from the counter. “Henry, where is my uniform?” he called out as he grabbed his boots.

Henry chirped to him from the bed. When Killian walked over he saw the dragon was sitting upon a fresh pair of pants and a pressed shirt. “Where did this come from?” He certainly did not wish to wear someone else’s clothes. If dragons could roll their eyes, Killian was certain Henry just had. “Well, how was I supposed to know you also have magic?”

“Yes, you’re right, you are a mystical, fire breathing creature, I guess it’s not too far of a stretch for you to have magic.” Killian chuckled as he remembered how odd it’d looked when Emma appeared to be talking to herself yesterday, and now here he was doing the same thing. “Wait! I dreamt you told me you are my power animal as well as Emma’s!” Killian exclaimed as his dream came back to him.

Killian was greeted with utter silence. “Oh, now you’re going to clam up, mate?”

Henry simply shrugged his wings. “Okay, here’s what’s going to happen. We’re going to find Emma and then you are going to make yourself scarce.”

Henry nodded.

Killian wasn’t sure how, but they had a story. He didn’t know what it was, but this woman he barely knew had captured his heart. A fierce determination coursed through his veins with each beat of his heart, and Killian intended to find out just how he fit into this tale. “Wait,” he looked to Henry, “are you making me feel this bravado?”

Henry shook his head adamantly. He also conveyed to Killian that he was done interfering and overstepping.

“You don’t like when Emma’s cross with you, do you pal?”

The dragon hung his head, Killian had hit the nail on the head. “Well never fear,” he said holding his hand- uh... hook up in the air, “Captain Killian Jones is here. I will fix this.”

“No! You may not call me Captain Hook.” He stared daggers at the dragon as the jibe came through. “Yes, it is fitting, I just don’t like it.”

“Okay, fine. It is rather lethal sounding,” Killian acquiesced as Henry continued to emote reasons why this name would be perfect. “But only you can call me that. Don’t go spreading the word.”

The two left the cabin in search of Emma. It wasn’t a far walk, she’d be near the water, Henry had assured him. And the little guy was right, the trees of the forest broke to a small bank along the shore of a glassy blue lake. Emma sat at the edge, her dress pulled up so she could dip her feet in the icy water as she leaned against a large fallen tree.

“I thought you might be hungry,” Killian spoke softly as he walked up behind her.

“Is the traitor with you?”

A smile broke across his face as he realized both he and Henry were being wrongfully accused of being traitors. He was sure Henry’s sentence would be much lighter, just a cold shoulder and grudge from this beautiful angel. He contemplated if it might be worse than a death sentence to have Emma Swan angry with you.

“He’s not-”

“Good.”

“You didn’t let me finish, love. He’s not a traitor.”

Emma whipped around where she sat and scrutinized Killian. “So you’re taking his side?”

Was he really being accused of being a traitor… again. Sitting down next to her, he offered her the basket. “There is no side to take, you two are a team.” An errant thought of wanting to be part of that team flitted through his mind and a small, shy smile graced his lips as he looked down at the ground.

“I think he wants to be on your team,” Emma huffed.

“Maybe he wants us to all be a team?” Killian couldn’t resist the perfect opportunity to speak those words aloud. He was floored as emotion after emotion crossed her face while she seemed to study him. He imagined she was gauging the legitimacy of his words. “I’m not sure how, but I know there is something between you and I, something real, and deep. And I want to figure it out with you, without the influence of Henry… because when I win your heart, Emma - and I will win it, it won’t be because of any trickery. It will be because you want me.”

Before he could read her reaction, he was being pulled by the lapels of his magicked shirt and he was positive she was about to kiss him. Just before her lips could touch his, a loud chirping sounded within the small haven they’d created around themselves.

“Henry, we talked about this. No interfering, right?�� Killian asked with a trace of irritation in his voice.

“Shhh! There’s someone here,” Emma hissed. “Henry, how far are they?”

Killian looked between the two of them, the panicked look on Emma’s face and the haphazard flapping of Henry’s wings, and he knew treachery was afoot. “Who is it,” he whispered.

Soldiers, Henry projected, two.

“Emma, you and Henry go back to the cabin. I have to take care of this, I won’t risk either of you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You’re not handling anything in your condition! If I leave, you’ll be writhing around on the ground like a snake in pain.”

Killian rolled his eyes. “It’s not that bad.”

Emma raised an eyebrow at him and Killian could tell the moment she lifted some of the effects of whatever dampening spell she was masking his pain with. “Fine, but stay hidden.” He watched as Emma and Henry shared a look and knew right away that his request was not going to be met.

“You keep him out of pain, and I will fight with him,” Emma said to Henry who gave a nod to confirm her idea of the plan. “Stay in the trees, I don’t want them to see you. And I’m sorry I got mad at you.” Henry flew over to Emma’s shoulder and nuzzled her cheek with his nose. “Yes, you did overstep. But I overreacted, too.”

Despite the danger lurking, Killian was inexplicably relieved that Emma and Henry had made up. As Henry took to the trees, Emma and Killian braced for the intruders.

“Killian Jones, war criminal and traitor, surrender yourself and no one gets hurt,” a man shouted from beyond their scope of sight.

“What do you want from him?” Emma shouted, grasping Killian’s hook.

“Going to let the little lady speak for you?”

“I’ll be speaking for myself,” Killian gritted out as Cassidy showed himself at the treeline.

“You’re a convicted traitor and deserter,” the other man added, “you’re to be hanged. I hereby place you under arrest. If you come willingly, no one will get hurt.”

“You’ve got the wrong man,” Emma argued. “Killian is a good man, he would never do those things.”

“He deserted the Confederacy in order to fight for the Union. If that’s not a traitor, I don’t know what is, little lady.”

“Stop calling me little lady,” Emma spat. “And if you’d told me he deserted the Confederacy the first time you spoke, I’d have applauded.”

“Oh, did he tell you his sob story of being a slave? Did he brainwash you into believing the North is superior?”

Emma glanced at Killian as if sizing up the affect Cassidy’s words were having on him. “He’s told me nothing. I just know which side I’d choose. Every once in a while, there is an underdog no one can root for.”

Killian wished he had the ability to communicate to Emma silently right now. She was unaware of how easily Neal could be rattled, and right now she was shaking the cage quite hard. “I’m not going with you, Neal. I’m not a criminal, all is fair in love and war.”

“Where’d you get that shit, all those fancy books you like to read?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. Yes, I did.” Killian’s smug grin turned into a gulp as both men drew their rifles. Apparently he was also unaware of how easily Neal was rattled.

“Hands up, Jones. I’m taking you in. Shackle him, Felix,” Neal commanded the other man.

“I told you I’m not going with you,” Killian repeated. “You’ll have to shoot me, but let her go first.”

“No!” Emma shouted.

“No,” Neal answered, “I don’t think I will. I think I’ll take her as a prize.”

Neal set down his rifle, while signaling for Felix to keep his trained on Killian and Emma. He approached her with a sickening leer upon his face. “Yeah, I think I will take her right here. I’ll let you watch, Jones.”

“Over my dead body,” Killian spat as he moved to stand in front of Emma.

“That can be arranged,” Neal nodded at Felix, “shoot him.”

In the time it took Felix to cock his rifle, Emma shot her hand out toward Felix, and as he pulled the trigger a spark flared and it misfired, blasting hot gun powder into his face. Dropping the weapon, he shrieked in pain as he ran toward the water.

“What did you do to him?” Neal screamed as he charged toward Emma.

“It was a misfire,” Killian yelled pushing Neal back. “Not so tough without your gun, are you?” Killian taunted as Neal reached for his gun, obviously forgetting he’d left it back by Felix. “Let’s settle this like men. You and me, fisticuffs.”

“You want to lose your other hand?”

“In what world would you take my hand without weapons?”

“Who said no weapons?” Neal asked as he drew a boot knife and lunged toward Killian. Slashing out wildly, Neal connected with Killian’s face, slicing him. “You’ve got a fucking hook for a hand.”

Oh yeah, that. Killian jumped back as Neal made another pass with the knife. When Neal advanced again, Killian shot his left hand in front of him and deflected the blade, causing a clank of metal against metal to ring out.

The two grappled back and forth, punch for punch, knife and hook competing for the upper hand. Both men panted heavily as they fought on. Felix was still down at the lake dousing his eyes and face in the water, while Emma made sure he stayed put and kept an eye on Killian. She could, no doubt, end this thing with a flick of her magical wrist, but perhaps for Killian’s pride, she wasn’t interceding.

Blood dripped down Killian’s face where Neal had cut a gash across his right cheek, his left eye was swollen almost shut, and his ribs were burning. Neal had two swollen eyes, a puncture wound to his right forearm, and a sprained ankle from where he’d tripped over a log as Killian lunged at him.

“I don’t wish to kill you, Neal,” Killian appealed to Neal where he lay on the ground after tripping. He knelt above the man, fist still cocked and hook at his neck. “If you have another solution as to how you and your lackey can return home and I can stay here, tell me now.”

“You’ll have to kill me,” Neal growled. He grasped Killian’s forearm trying to push the hook away from his neck, but it was no use as Killian threw his weight into pinning the man down.

“There is another solution,” Emma spoke quietly from where she’d perched herself on the same fallen log which had foiled Neal.

“And what’s that, love?” Killian asked.

“I could make them forget.”

“Make them forget…”

“Anything. Everything.” She stood from the log and walked up to Killian’s side. “I could make them forget that they found you or I could make them forget that it is their mission to find you. I could make them forget who they are. It just depends on what level you want to take it to.”

“I knew she did something to Felix. Is she a witch?”

“Well, since it seems we will be erasing your memory soon enough, yes, she is a witch.”

Neal withdrew his hands from Killian’s forearm and formed a cross, apparently trying to ward her and her evil off.

Emma laughed loudly at his antics. “I’m not the devil, that cross won’t do you any good today.” With a flick of her wrist Neal and Felix were both shackled and sitting with their mouths gagged. “How about instead of erasing their memories completely, I give them false memories?”

“What do you have in mind, Swan?”

“For starters, they are going to remember that they found the remains of Killian Jones, that there was no prisoner to bring back to their commanding officer. They will feel that their mission is complete, and they’ll have no recollection of this place or me. Any ideas on where they found you?”

“Hmmm,” Killian thought as he wrapped an arm around Emma. “I think they discovered my remains way up North, they should have a grand time in these fine Confederate uniforms.”

Neal tried to yell through the gag, but only mumbled nonsense could be heard.

“That’s just mean, Killian Jones.”

“He tried to kill us,” Killian argued.

“True,” Emma agreed. “North it is. Heart of Boston? ”

Felix shook his head vigorously, “Uh-uh,” he pleaded through the gag.

“Now who’s being mean?”

“That is a little harsh,” she cackled. “Okay, I will put them on the outskirts of the North, where they might have a fighting chance,” she paused to look both men in the eyes, “if they get their shit together real quick.” She kissed Killian on the cheek quickly before telling him to back up.

Killian watched in awe, from a safe distance, as Emma rubbed her hands together and focused in on her craft. She glowed with magic and the wind swept up around them, she was positively mystical as her hair flew wildly. She was murmuring quietly, her eyes closed when suddenly a brightly colored vortex opened up in the middle of the ground.

Henry landed on Killian’s shoulder at that moment and sent calming vibes through him just as he started to experience small prickles of fear, not fear of Emma, but of the situation. As abruptly as the vortex had appeared, it swallowed Neal and Felix whole and disappeared. “Swan! You were bloody brilliant, amazing!”

As soon as the words left his mouth, Emma crumpled to the ground in a limp heap. “Emma!” He ran to her side kneeling next to her and sweeping her into her arms. “Emma, come back to me.”

“I’m okay,” Emma whispered faintly.

Killian smiled as she regained consciousness, albeit a tenuous hold on it. “I don’t mean to upset you, Emma, but I think we make quite the team.”

“Why would that upset me?”

“You passed out when I told you you’re brilliant. I wasn’t sure how you’d handle me saying we are brilliant together,” he teased.

She giggled, that shy tinkling giggle before once again losing consciousness.

He caressed her cheek with his good hand and felt the flush of her overheated skin. “Henry, what’s wrong with her, is she ill?”

Too much magic, Henry broadcast. She will be okay.

“How do you know?” Killian asked desperately. Killian listened as Henry transmitted that this had happened before, any time she used a significant amount of magic.

Gently lifting her, despite the injuries he’d sustained today as well as his previous ones, he carried her over to the lake’s edge, where she’d been sitting when he’d arrived. Sitting down, he leaned against the log and held her. He marveled at how well he felt, the magic used to keep him pain free must be very powerful. It damn sure beat morphine.

“Emma, wake up darling.” He dipped his hand in the chilly water and brushed it across her forehead.

“Hmmm,” she hummed. Stretching her body while still in his arms, Emma curled into his embrace.

Deciding it was probably best to rest he leaned his head back and closed his eyes. “Henry, keep watch?”

Aye aye, Captain Hook.

Killian cracked an eye open to look at Henry as he chuckled. “Yeah, I suppose it does have a ring to it.”

乂❤乂❤乂

The next time Killian opened his eyes, Emma was gone. He startled as he realized she wasn’t in his arms. A quick glance around showed she was in the lake. All that was visible was her water slicked hair and bare shoulders. “Isn’t that cold?”

Emma turned around to face him and he thanked the heavens that the most delectable parts of her body were fully submerged. “It’s wonderful once you get in.” She brought her hands up to her hair to ring it out and tie it in a knot. “Join me?”

Killian would’ve been certain his eyes had fallen out of his head except he could still see.

“Come on, you’re all bloody. Let’s get you cleaned up here instead of my basin.”

Still deep in thought over the repercussions of bathing nude with her, Killian stood up and took off his shirt. He proceeded to walk to the water but stopped when Emma asked what he was doing. “I thought you wanted me to join you.”

“I do,” she laughed, “but not with your pants on. You’ll be soaked for hours.”

Killian knew she could just dry them, but maybe that was selfish after all the energy she’d exerted today. He fumbled with the fastening of his trousers as he stalled, trying to think of anything to keep his ardor under control.

“Don’t be shy,” she teased, “I’ll turn around.”

The moment she’d turned, he expeditiously stripped down and barreled into the water. “It’s fucking f-f-freezing!” he stammered.

“Give it a minute, Jones. And you gotta get in deeper.”

Oh, how he wished to get in deeper. He internally rolled his eyes at his lewd mind. Walking in further, he noticed it did seem to warm up, in fact, the closer he got to Emma the more comfortable the water became. He dared not get too close, he was quite certain he wouldn’t be able to handle it.

“Come here,” she said impatiently. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

Killian looked down at himself, he did have quite a bit of blood across his chest. He rubbed at the dried stains as he continued toward her. “Better?”

Emma pointed at her face and made a circular motion. “You’ve got a little something… well all over.”

“Ah, yes, I suppose he knocked the handsome out of me.” He’d forgotten about the pummeling he’d both given and taken earlier. Cupping water in his hand, he splashed it over his face and scrubbed.

“No one’s that powerful,” she whispered.

Killian jumped when he realized Emma was but a hair's breadth away from him. He’d felt her breath as she whispered those last words. When her hand brushed the hair away from his forehead and then cupped his cheek, he couldn’t help but lean into her palm.

As Emma wiped away the last traces of blood, Killian was lost to the depths of her bright green eyes. She didn’t look away as she worked, and he swore he could feel love simmering between them. He didn’t miss the way she glanced to his lips several times, or when her tongue lightly traced her own lower lip. That pressure deep down in his abdomen came to life, he wanted her, and not just in the carnal sense either, he wanted everything.

“You have me spellbound, Emma Swan.”

“Is that supposed to be a witch joke?”

“Not in the slightest. I am taken aback, smitten, a fan of every part of you.”

She smiled and a blush colored her pale cheeks as she looked up to him through long lashes. “I’m going to kiss you now.”

“I’ve dreamt this!” Killian exclaimed. His exuberance caused Emma to startle. “Sorry, love, I mean, this was my dream yesterday. Exactly like this.” Just as in his dream, it almost seemed like she was warning him about the kiss, or preparing him for something. Only this time, hopefully he wouldn’t be rudely awoken before getting to taste her delectable lips.

“Whaaaaa-” Emma screamed as she jumped and then unceremoniously splashed down into the water.

Confused and just a bit alarmed, Killian dove down below the surface to see what was happening. Despite the beautiful blue of the laketop, it was quite murky below and he couldn’t see much. Breaking the surface once more, he was relieved to see Emma hightailing it to the shore. He watched as she emerged, water running in rivulets from her hair and glistening as it trailed down her back. Just as her pert backside broke the surface she snapped her fingers and was fully clothed.

Killian growled as he made his way to the bank. “What happened?”

Emma snapped her fingers once more and Killian was dressed too. “A fish happened,” she shuddered. “I don’t know about you, but a slimy fish swimming across my backside doesn’t work for me.”

Killian laughed, he had to agree with her there. At least it was nothing serious this time. “So why are you snapping your fingers now, instead of…” he mimicked her wrist flicking.

“I don’t know,” Emma said, “I really don’t need to do either. It is more a physical manifestation showing I am doing something magical. A courtesy, if you will.”

“So all you need to do is think it, and it will happen?”

“Prove it,” he challenged as Emma nodded nonchalantly. He should not have been surprised that challenging her skill would only end with him being naked. “Cute,” he grumbled, quickly covering himself with his hands.

“Yes, it is.”

Killian’s eyes bugged hilariously before narrowing to mere slits. “Is that supposed to be a size joke, because I assure you, there is no truth to your statement.”

“Prove it,” she snickered.

Just as Killian lifted his hands away to let her look her fill, he found himself clothed once more.

“Hey!” Emma whined. “You’re such a killjoy, Henry.”

Henry chirped and squawked as if to say he wanted no part of this whole situation.

“Henry, my boy! Good looking out.”

“What is this, a boys only club now?”

“Oh, not at all, Swan,” Killian consoled. “Come, sit, let’s eat. I brought some things this morning.”

Sitting down along the bank, Killian passed her the canteen and set out the fruit and biscuits. They talked at great length about nothing in particular. It was more relaxed than either could remember being, and once more Killian found himself marveling at the unique sense of belonging together.

“May I ask you something,” Killian asked.

“Sure.” He noticed her hesitation, as if she was weighing the pros and cons of letting him ask her a question.

“Where are you from, how did you and Henry find each other, and how did you come to be alone?”

A nervous sounding chuckle broke from between her lips. “That’s a lot.”

Killian scooted closer to her and wrapped an arm around her. “I guess that was more than just one thing, but I’d love to know more about your beginnings, Emma.”

“You do?”

“Yes, I want to know everything.”

“Let’s get home first,” she suggested. Something about the way she said home was so endearing to Killian, as if it was his home, too. He understood her desire to have familiarity amidst if she was going to tell him her life’s story.

After packing up the basket they started the trek to the cabin. Emma reached out and grabbed his hook as if it were the most natural action in the world. He was still in awe of how easily she accepted his missing appendage.

It was already late into the evening by the time they arrived. Cleaning up and changing into sleeping clothes once more, they laid down in the darkness.

Tonight though, Killian didn’t face away from her. They lay facing each other, heads on their pillows with just the glow of the moon lighting the room softly. He stayed quiet, knowing that Emma would start when she was ready.

“Do you want the long story or the short story?”

“I want the whole story,” Killian answered, running his hand through her hair. “I want to know everything about you, love.”

A small smile sat upon her lips as she began. “I was born in Massachusetts in 1688 and I’m from a place called the Enchanted Forest.”

“I’ve never heard of it,” Killian interrupted.

“That’s because it isn’t part of this realm.”

Before he could interrupt her to find out what that meant, she placed a finger to his lips. He smiled against them and took the cue to shut up.

“When my mother was pregnant, a prophecy was told that I would become the most powerful witch of the realm. My mother’s stepmother was enraged, she’d been the ruler of the Enchanted Forest for centuries. She threatened my mother, telling her that she would kill her, my father, and me if she didn’t get rid of me.”

Killian’s heart clenched at the thought of a mother abandoning her child. He rubbed his hand up and down her arm, hoping to provide comfort.

“Of course she refused, and so my wicked step-grandmother ordered our deaths. My parents crossed over to this realm and fled to the town of Salem where they planned to live like commoners. Five years later we were living peacefully and safely, but…”

Killian pulled her closer when he sensed her distress.

“I couldn’t always control my magic. It was little things, but soon, none of the other kids wanted to be around me. They were afraid of me. My mother tried to work with me on how to control it, but I was so powerful even then, and she didn’t have the means to train me. After several of the other girls went too far in mocking me, by pretending to be possessed, they accused my mother and her best friend of being witches.” Tear tracks streamed down her nose and cheek as she remembered the anguish as strongly as if it were yesterday.

“The Salem Witch trials?” Killian asked in astonishment.

Emma nodded her head. “So many women, innocent women and a few men were wrongfully hung because of me. All because I really was afflicted. My parents had no choice but to return to the Enchanted Forest. They begged Regina, my step-grandmother for shelter. She refused, and this time she didn’t let us go. She crushed my father’s heart as a warning to my mother.”

“She killed your father?” Killian was outraged, he wanted to slay this beast who’d hurt Emma.

“No, there is a way to live without your heart in my world. If you are true love, you can share a heart. After Regina crushed his heart, my mother split her own heart in half. They live even now by sharing two halves of the same heart.

She ordered me banished, and cursed me to walk the earth alone. She also made it so my parents couldn’t leave the realm without losing all of their memories. The night before I was to be sent away, my mother pleaded to every deity to send my power animal to guide me safely back to this realm and watch over me.” She looked over to the settee and smiled fondly at Henry. “That’s how Henry and I met, we’ve been together ever since.”

Hearing his name, Henry sleepily stirred, and as though summoned, he flew over to the bed and nestled between them. Emma gently stroked a finger over his tiny head and he seemed to absolutely purr.

“Have you ever been back? To try and defeat this evil witch?”

“I can’t risk it. My parents share one heart now, if anything were to happen to one of them, they would both die.”

“But the prophecy said you would be the most powerful witch. That has to count for something.”

“The prophecy also said I’d meet my true love in the form of a…”

“Of a what?” Killian asked when she didn’t continue.

“The point is, the prophecy foretold many things and after almost three hundred years, not one of them have come true.”

“What else did the prophecy say?”

Emma pulled away from Killian’s embrace and he could detect a trace of discomfort. “What aren’t you telling me, Emma?”

Henry stirred again when he sensed the discourse. Looking to Emma, he tilted his head as if asking her a question.

“I’m not scared,” she told Henry. “But what if the prophecy was wrong?” she asked him as tears welled in her eyes. “No, no you won’t. I’ll tell him.”

Killian sat up in bed and leaned against his pillows and the wall. “You’ve nothing to fear, love. You can tell me anything. Can I tell you about my dream from this morning?” He held his arms out to her, wordlessly asking her to allow him to hold her.

Sitting up alongside Killian, Emma scooted closer to him and rested her head on his shoulder. She nodded her head, “Tell me what you dreamed.”

“I was having a conversation with Henry. An actual conversation, he was speaking.”

Emma chuckled. “What did he sound like?”

“He had the voice of a spirited boy, and he had some pretty hopeful and positive things to tell me.”

“Like what?”

“He said some heavy things, love. Are you sure you’re ready to hear them?” He could feel the tense of her body. And he knew she knew what he was going to say, but still he waited for her answer.

“Mmhmm.”

“Henry told me we are meant for each other. He said we’ve been destined to meet since you were born. And he also says he is my power animal, too. I don’t know about you, but I believe him, I think he was communicating with me while I slept. And I think that’s why you were upset with him this morning.”

“You seem pretty sure of yourself.”

“You’re something of an open book, love.”

She looked up at him seemingly daring him to ask the question that was on the tip of his tongue. “How can two people share a power animal, Emma?”

“Why don’t you ask Henry since he seems to have all the answers?”

“Because I want you to tell me.”

“The only way for two people to share the same power animal is if they are true love.” The words fell from her lips so softly that Killian almost didn’t believe his ears.

“True love,” he tried the words out. He’d surely felt a connection from the moment they’d met, and he didn’t consider it out of the realm of possibility that this woman could be his true love. “Do you believe it?”

“It doesn’t matter what I believe, Killian. I want to be loved because someone loves me for who I am, exactly how I am, not because of some stupid prophecy.” She hopped up from the bed and paced the room.

Killian felt bereft as soon as she left his arms. He needed to lay it all on the line. He knew he wasn’t wrong, his heart wasn’t wrong. “What if I told you I’ve felt a connection to you since the moment I opened my eyes and you were there.”

“I’d tell you it’s because I’ve been casting a dampening spell for your pain.”

“Not this morning when you stormed out of the cabin, and not today at the lake when Cassidy showed up. Henry was keeping watch over me then. And the connection I feel to you wasn’t broken for a single second, in fact, it only strengthened in those moments.”

Jumping out of bed he walked over to her and placed hand and hook on her arms. “Tell me you feel it too, Emma?”

“Part of the prophecy said that my true love would seek me out and would come to me in the form of a man who wasn’t whole.”

Killian held up his hook, waving it in her face. How could the prophecy possible get more accurate, he wondered, but she continued on.

“I met a man some eighty or ninety years ago, he said he had no heart, he said he wasn’t a whole man. He swore an evil witch had stolen it. Graham was so gentle and sincere. I convinced myself that he was the man from the prophecy. Despite everything that happened, I still believe we shared some form of love. It just wasn’t true love.”

“What happened?”

“He was sent to kill me, by Regina. She held his heart hostage and even had some control over his actions. In the end she killed him when he didn’t fulfill her command to end my life. He died in my arms.”

“Emma, I’m so sorry.” How could she still be the beautiful soul she was after almost three hundred years of a lonely and loveless life? He understood now how she might doubt the prophecy after semantics played a part in her heart break. Still, he didn’t see the harm in trying, he was no hired gun, and he sure wasn’t missing his heart, unless you counted the fact that Emma owned it. “Why would you deny yourself the happiness I know we could share?”

“I’ve dreamed for centuries of blue eyes and a hook, that’s the real reason I chose to give you a hook. The real reason Henry called me a liar at dinner last night. What if I am projecting my hopes, what if we try and I’m wrong again?”

“I know what I feel, Emma. I know you’re it for me, prophecy or not. And if you’ll have me, I’m in this for the long haul.”

“Killian,” she whispered, “I… I feel like I’ve known you my whole life. I feel like I’ve been waiting for you my whole life. From the moment I found you passed out on my front porch I have felt a connection to you that I’ve never felt with anyone. I can’t explain it, but I’m afraid to hope for it.”

“I knew you felt it, too,” he murmured as he wrapped his hooked arm around her waist and brought a hand to her heart.

“I do,” she admitted. “But sometimes when things are too good to be true, they aren’t true.”

“Emma, we feel the same connection, we share a power animal, I am literally missing a hand, making me technically not whole. How much closer could we be to the prophecy? What are you so afraid of?”

“The last part of the prophecy said if I find my true love, all evil would be vanquished from the Enchanted Forest.”

“Doesn’t that mean you could go home?”

“Yes, that’s exactly what it means.” Tears welled in her eyes once more.

“What’s wrong with that?” Killian had a sinking feeling in his stomach that perhaps he wouldn’t be able to go with her. He would never make her choose between himself and her parents, but still the thought of losing her rocked him and a sadness so great overwhelmed him that his own eyes filled with tears.

“No, it’s not that,” she told him. “You could come too.”

“Did I say that out loud?” Killian asked in confusion.

Killian’s eyes widened comically and Emma beamed at him as it dawned on both of them that they’d just communicated telepathically.

“Wait, if I could come too, what has you so down?”

“I am so afraid to hope, Killian. So afraid. What if we aren’t true love? That would mean I met a man I love, but evil won’t be conquered in my realm. I wouldn’t be able to go home. And even worse, what if one day my true love did arrive. What would we do then?”

“You love me?” he breathed.

Emma rolled her eyes, “Of course that’s all you picked up from that entire-”

“Aye, that is all I am hearing, because the rest is horseshit. I don’t know how we prove this true love thing, but I believe, Emma, I can feel it.” He picked her up and spun them around in a circle. “I love you, Emma Swan, with all my heart.”

“I’m going to kiss you now,” she murmured.

“Why do you keep telling me? Why don’t you just do-” His words were cut off as her supple lips collided into his, just as their two worlds had collided. A mix of soft and sweet with dangerous and arcane. Killian only took a second to catch up, opening his mouth to hers. His hand slid into her hair grasping gently at the base of her neck, and he relished the feel of her hands as one caressed his chest and the other played with his hair.

Suddenly the air around them stilled, and it wasn’t that he couldn’t breathe, but that he didn’t need breath. Time seemed to freeze. In his mind’s eye, a flash of every memory he’d ever had, some good, most bad, flooded him. In that moment, he knew that every atrocity that had befallen him, from his mother’s early demise, his father’s treacherous betrayal and abandonment, the years of slavery, the devastating loss of his brother’s life as they fought for the Confederacy, to the loss of his hand, had all happened for a reason. He’d been set on a path by destiny itself to meet this woman, his one true love.

As soon as the thought was born, time exploded back to life as a gust of wind and light burst forth from where their lips were joined. “What was that?” Killian asked as he tightened his grip on Emma.

“That’s true love,” she gasped. “Killian! That was true love’s kiss.” She assaulted him with kisses as she laughed and cried tears of joy.

He kissed her thoroughly before taking a moment to say, “I told you so.”

“Oh my gosh, you sound like Henry,” she laughed.

Killian laughed heartily before planting another kiss on his true love’s lips. “When do we leave?”

“You’ll come with us?”

“What kind of question is that? Obviously, I am going with you.”

“I just wasn’t sure if you had anything here in this realm to stay for.”

“I have you, Swan. Everyone else dear to me is deceased.”

“I know,” she whispered as she stroked his cheek. “I saw everything,” she confessed, “when we were kissing, I saw all your memories.”

He knew it wasn’t pity he saw in her eyes, but perhaps understanding, because when they’d kissed, her past, also filled with experiences no one should have to endure, had been revealed to him. “That was certainly easier than having to tell every sad detail of my past,” he joked. He knew that Emma recognized the deflection with humor charade, and he loved her a little bit more for letting him get away with it.

“You have me and Henry now. And once we get home, you’ll have more family than you’ll know what to do with.”

Killian smiled at the idea of family. He hadn’t had one of those in a very long time. Not as long as Emma, but he was a mere mortal, his lifetime wouldn’t last nearly as long as hers.

Yes it will, Henry pushed into Killian’s mind.

“How so?”

“Hmm?” Emma asked as she broke from the embrace and led Killian back into the bed.

“Sorry love, I was speaking to Henry.”

“Alright mister, I see we are going to have to set some rules eventually.” He watched her pick Henry up off the bed and place him on a pillow that seemed to be just for him, on a nearby table.

Henry huffed in annoyance before conveying his train of thought to her so she could continue the discussion with Killian.

Emma laid back down in bed next to Killian so they could face each other again as she began to explain what Henry was trying to communicate. “My mother was a bit of a rebel in her younger days, she liked to sneak into the mortal world to see how the other half lived. I think she just had a stronger need for adventure than most. My father is a mortal, just like you. She met him when they were both out wandering the woods bordering our Enchanted Forest. He says it was love at first sight. She says it was punch first, ask questions later. Anyhow, my point is, my father ages the same as my mother now. A witch’s mate, if they’re true love, will inherit the same life span.”

“So, I’m not going to age? I’m going to be this devilishly handsome for centuries?” Killian grinned salaciously and waggled his eyebrows, causing Emma to roll with laughter.

“You are so full of yourself.”

“I’ll have you know I prefer self confident. And I will still pale in comparison to your beauty,” he exalted.

“Are you trying to charm me?” Emma asked as she edged closer into Killian’s space.

“It depends, is it working?”

“Even though I know you do not need your ego stroked even a little bit,” Emma paused to lick her lips, “I find your self confidence very attractive.”

Killian inhaled deeply, trying to calm himself, for his mind was still stuck on the word stroke. He definitely had something she could stroke, and goddammit why was his mind going there right now. Here they were, in the midst of a life altering evening, and he was having obscene thoughts. “Then in that case, yes, I am definitely trying to charm you.”

“Good,” she whispered. “I think I want you just as much as you want me, and I have since you got here.”

He could feel her body heat radiating off her in waves, and good God was she trying to kill him? Yes, she may want him, but he was quite sure she didn’t want exactly what he wanted right at this moment. Clearing his throat gruffly and attempting to inconspicuously back his groin area away from hers, he asked again, “So when would you like to leave?”

Emma blinked several times, confusion evident on her face as she processed his change of direction. “Well that depends on a couple things. I can open a portal, which would be the quickest way, or we could travel by land or by sea. If we use a portal we can leave anytime. If we go by land or sea, we have to procure horses or passage on a ship. How quickly do you want to leave?”

“As soon as you want to, darling. You haven’t seen your parents in centuries, the sooner the better, right?”

“I want to leave tomorrow, and I want to open a portal but…”

“But what?” he asked. He could sense concern in her tone, perhaps she was nervous after her reaction to the last time she’d opened a portal. Or maybe she was nervous about bringing him home to her parents? “Are you scared?”

“Not scared, but there is one thing we would have to do first.”

“Your heart’s desire, that’s all I want.” Killian caressed her cheek in his palm and leaned in to seal his words with a kiss.

“You can’t travel through a portal in your condition. The minute I rescind the dampening spell, you will be in pain. We can wait for you to heal on your own, which could take weeks, or I can heal you.”

“That’s easy enough, heal me, and we shall depart at your whim.”

“Okay,” she answered, almost inaudibly.

Killian couldn’t figure out why she seemed so unsure. “What is it, Emma? Are you unsure of your ability to heal me? Because I have faith in you, I have yet to see you fail.”

Emma beamed under his praise. “No, it’s not that, it’s just, well, healing is an extremely… physical process.”

Even in the dim moonlight he could see a hint of blush upon the apple of her cheek. “Physical how, like painful?”

“Touch, I would heal you through touch. It won’t be too painful, but it might be more invasive than you want.”

“I assure you, be as invasive as you like, my body is at your disposal.” He really meant it too, even though he was also trying to make her more comfortable.

“Are you sure?” Emma asked, propping her head up on her hand. “Because a second ago I told you I want you and you completely changed the subject.”

It was Killian’s turn to blush as he chuckled lightly. “I needed a moment to settle my… well I was slightly overstimulated and I don’t wish to offend you.”

“Offend me? When a woman tells you she wants you, isn’t stimulation a good thing?”

“I didn’t realize you were talking in those certain terms, a mere misunderstanding, I promise.” He pulled her close, so close he rested his forehead to hers. “I want you in every way, Emma.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he whispered before kissing her. Threading his hand into her hair he sought a deeper kiss, licking her lower lip and nibbling at it softly.

Her lips were pliant to his request as she opened to him and allowed his tongue to stroke hers. He felt lit up, invincible as their mouths moved together. Rolling her to her back, he slipped his hooked arm under her pillow so he wouldn’t hurt her, and placed his other hand upon her hip. Killian kissed down the column of her neck, pausing when she’d emit a particularly wanton moan, making sure to pay attention to her body’s communication.

“Wait,” she panted. Her hands, which were buried in his thick hair, pulled his head up so he could see her flushed face. “Let me heal you first. If I have to concentrate on keeping you pain free, I won’t be able to fully enjoy you.”

“We can’t have that, Swan.” He acquiesced to her lead as she pushed against him, urging him to roll onto his back.

With a flick of her wrist, his shirt was gone. He gave her a cocky grin and asked if it was altogether necessary to be shirtless, to which she rolled her eyes. He wasn’t sure if that was a yes or a no, but it didn’t really matter either. “Focus on my touch,” she whispered.

When she straddled his stomach, Killian was almost positive it was not necessary, but he’d be a fool to question this woman’s reason for being astride him. Placing each of her hands to his temples, she rubbed delicately, and Killian couldn’t help but close his eyes. The feeling was absolutely serene, his mind felt clear, and the pressure behind his swollen eye dissipated. As her thumbs rolled over his cheeks, the sting of the gash on his right cheek dulled until it was no more.

“You have three broken ribs,” she stated, “and no matter how powerful my magic is, it’s going to hurt when I reset them.”

“That’s okay, I can handle it.”

“I know you can,” she said with a sweet smile. She leaned down to kiss him deeply, a little roughly even, and Killian had to wonder if this whole healing process wasn’t an aphrodisiac for her, it certainly had him worked up.

She slithered down his body, pausing when her core hovered above his fully hardened cock. Fuck, how he wished she would rub herself against him. “Emma,” he whined.

“Shhh, I’ve got you.” She fisted his hair in one hand and placed the other flat against his rib cage. When she set to work, he thought he might be split between heaven and hell. She placed her lips to his once more, then pulled at his hair and ground her hips tantalizingly against his while at the same moment she summoned the bones of his rib cage back together.

The whimper that left his mouth was a mixture between excessive titillation and sheer agony. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to come or cry, or both.

“That,” she said, with another yank of his hair, “was the art of distraction.”

His breathing was heavy as he struggled to gain some composure. A wicked grin cut his mouth as he realized Emma Swan was a bit of a minx, and she was definitely enjoying this healing process. “Come here,” he growled, pulling her down on top of him and kissing her breathless. “That was incredible.”

“I thought so,” she smirked with a buck of her hips. She sat up and grabbed his hook, “Last part.”

Killian gave a nod of his head.

“What would you like?” she asked, placing a kiss to the curve of the shiny metal.

Killian furrowed his eyebrows in confusion. “Uhhh, I’d like to be healed so I can make love to you.”

Emma giggled and blushed as she told him she wanted that too. “But what do you want for your… appendage? I can give you something that resembles a real hand, it wouldn’t be yours though, unless you happen to have it, or know where it is?”

Killian’s face soured at the thought of reattaching his rotting hand, wherever it may be. “That is quite macabre, and I don’t have it anyhow.”

“I could leave it severed, but healed?”

“Why can’t I have the hook?”

“You can,” she said excitedly. “I wasn’t sure if you would want it.”

“I’ve grown quite attached to it, actually. And Henry…” Speaking of Henry, Killian glanced around and realized the little hellion was nowhere to be seen. Considerate little guy, he thought. “Henry has given me a most colorful moniker to go with it.”

Emma cocked an eyebrow, as if unimpressed. “And what would that be?”

“Why, Captain Hook, of course.”

A loud laugh burst from Emma as she slapped his chest playfully “You boys are so funny.”

“I quite like the name, it’s ominous.”

“Oh yes, so ominous,” she teased. “Am I going to have to call you that in bed?”

“If the hook brings you any pleasure, you must!”

Emma covered her face with both hands and Killian knew then and there that she’d already considered the act. “You little coquette!” Killian sat up and leaned against the pillows with Emma still straddling his lap as he waited for her to regain her composure. She was absolutely adorable.

“Are you ready,” she asked, removing his hook. When he nodded, she took Killian’s forearm in her hands and smoothed her hands over the damaged flesh. Killian watched a golden glow radiate from her palms as she massaged from his elbow down to his wrist. It wasn’t going to be pretty, but it would be healthy.

She kissed the blunted end of his arm and cradled it to her cheek. “How does that feel?” she asked with a tilt of her head.

Killian’s eyes were a little misty at the tenderness she exuded. He rubbed his arm, squeezed up and down the healed area testing for any sign of distress. “Good as new,” he whispered hoarsely. He couldn’t help but pull her into a fierce hug. As they locked in an embrace, love and understanding flowed between them, and despite his missing hand, Killian couldn’t remember a time he’d felt more complete, and he could sense Emma was feeling the same thing.

She acted first as their combined emotions spilled over into need. Killian didn’t hesitate when her lips assaulted his, in fact he pounced back with as much fervor, sucking her tongue between his lips and massaging it with his own. Breaking the kiss, he rucked up her nightie and pulled it over her head, thankful that she’d let him do that the old fashioned way.

Passion filled Killian’s eyes as he looked his fill of Emma Swan. Her breasts were full and tightened at her rosy nipples. He was mesmerized as he scanned her lissome frame down to the apex of her thighs which cradled his still clothed cock. “So gorgeous,” he muttered. He ran a finger between her breasts and down her stomach to her belly button, she was so soft and warm. A shiver coursed through her and covered her skin as he continued to touch her, hand and blunted wrist familiarizing themselves with the feel of her body.

Leaning down, Killian wrapped his left arm around her and sucked a nipple into his mouth, working her gently before switching to the other one. He jumped when he felt her hand wrap around his shaft, he’d been so caught up in acquainting himself with her breasts he hadn’t even noticed she’d magically divested him of his pants. He looked up to see Emma greedily staring as she languidly stroked his cock.

“See something you like?”

“Mmmhmm,” she hummed, never looking away from her ministrations.

Killian ducked his head and surged to her mouth once more, kissing her passionately. He could feel her rubbing herself against his thighs as she continued to work him. Halting her movements, he slid his hand between her thighs and he could feel her heat before even touching her. When he slid his middle finger into her, she broke the kiss to cry out his name. It was the most glorious thing he’d ever heard.

Killian’s cock twitched in her still moving hand as his digit explored her soaking core. His mind raced as he imagined what she’d feel like once he was buried inside her. He added another finger and Emma threw her head back for just a moment before focusing back. He smirked as he realized she really did like what she saw, she liked to watch, her pupils dilated as she stared at his fingers pumping in and out of her. Picking up the pace, he marveled at the way she thrust down upon his fingers, taking what she wanted, and as her soft moans became more needy he grazed his thumb over her clit once.

“Yes,” she panted. “Do it again.”

Killian complied, making the same pass over and over. When she grabbed her breasts to tweak her nipples he almost spilled himself, his saving grace was that she’d had to release his cock to touch herself. It took her but several more pumps of his fingers before she was calling out his name like a praise. Her whole body tensed, and she squeezed his fingers so tightly his cock actually felt jealous.

Before she’d even come down, Emma got to her knees and pulled him in for a kiss. “If your fingers are that good, I can’t wait for the real thing,” she panted between still ragged breaths.

Killian groaned as she grabbed him once more, only this time she slid her coated folds up and down his shaft instead of her hand. It drove him mad as she whispered in his ear before sucking his lobe into her mouth. He quickly flipped them so that she was on her back, and he studied her face for any sign of hesitation. When all he saw was love and desire, he thrust into her in one fluid stroke.

He had no words, he couldn’t even emote how she felt around him because a choice enough description was beyond his scope of thought. He didn’t want it to end, and so he stayed buried, enjoying the pulsing of her post orgasmic walls. When she squeezed his butt and gave a small thrust of her hips, he knew she needed more. Propping himself up on his blunted arm, he looked down at her as he pulled out and then slowly filled her back up. The wet slide of heated flesh against his swollen cock was unimaginable, and he struggled to keep his eyes open. He wanted to see her face though, wanted to watch her pleasure while taking his.

Emma wrapped her legs around his back, and her hands around his neck, and he knew she wanted him close. Placing more of his weight on her, their slick bodies rubbed together as he thrust into her over and again. Killian placed his forehead to hers as he neared the edge, wanting to be connected. When her body tensed up once more, signaling her release, he let all finesse go and pumped into her erratically. As her walls began that pleasurable flutter and clamped around his cock he came harder and more blissfully than he’d thought possible.

Killian sighed out her name while holding her close. “That was…”

“I know,” she whispered.

And he knew she did, there were no words to convey, only feelings. Unconditional love, absolute trust, bliss to name a few. They luxuriated in the peaceful embrace that seemed to permeate the entire dwelling.

“Let me get a cloth to clean us,” Killian said; but before he could even move, Emma had them bathed and spooning under the covers.

“Sleep,” she murmured, “we will have a long day tomorrow.”

“Are you excited?”

“I’m so excited, Killian, and nervous,” she gushed. “I can’t wait to see my parents, my home. And I can’t wait for them to meet you.”

Killian’s heart squeezed a little when he picked up on the pride in her voice as she expressed her wish for her parents to meet him. “I cannot wait either, my love.” Tightening his arm around her waist, he pulled Emma closer into the cradle of his body, and wishes of good night, and I love yous passed silently between them as they drifted off to sleep.

乂❤乂❤乂

“Bugger off,” Killian grumbled, as an incessant knock pounded at the door. Whoever it was, was rather insistent, and it was grating on his last good nerve. He rolled over to see Emma still blissfully passed out. They had been up quite late indulging in more enjoyable activities than simply sleeping.

Answer it, Henry projected.

It’s still dark outside, mate.

Answer it! This time Henry added a persistent chirp.

Fine! Killian projected back as he stumbled out of bed and pulled his pajama pants back on. He ignored Henry’s warning to put on more clothes as he sleepily walked to the door.

“Bloody Hell, give it a rest,” he hollered as he reached the door and pulled it open. “What is so important that has you banging on my door before sunrise,” Killian asked crossly as he stared down the young couple.

“No!” the woman cried out.

Killian studied the short brunette as she clutched at a small crocheted blanket. She looked between him and the blonde man standing next to her.

“But…”

“Shhh,” the man murmured into her hair as he pulled her into his arms. “Sorry to have woken you,” he said to Killian.

Killian stood there watching the couple and his heart squeezed as he witnessed the anguish between them. He wanted to ask what was wrong, but he wasn’t sure that was proper. “Have you traveled far? Would you like to come in and rest?”

“I used the locator spell, David. How could it be wrong?”

“I don’t know, sweetheart. But we will find her.”

Dawning hit Killian the moment he heard the word spell. His heart soared a little as he realized Emma might get to see some of her family sooner than she’d even hoped.

“Killian, come back to bed,” Emma called to him, “and you better still be naked,” she added in a sultry tone. A blush broke out from his abdomen, where his pants were still hanging low, all the way up to his ears. Dammit, why hadn’t he listened to Henry when he’d told him to put on more clothes.

“Pardon me,” he grinned sheepishly, “just for a moment.”

The couple stared at him with puzzlement across their faces as he closed the door over.

“Emma!” he hissed as he double-timed it over to their bed. “Emma! Get up.”

“Why,” she whined. “Come back to bed.”

Killian jumped as she cupped his cock, doing her best to entice him back to the comfort of their bed. “Love,” he implored, “please get up, poof us dressed, and-”

“I’m sorry, but did you say, Emma?” the brunette called from the entryway.

Killian’s head whipped around to see that the couple was now standing right inside the doorway peering in their direction. He lightly smacked Emma’s hand away from his crotch before broadcasting as loudly as he could to her that they had company.

“Oh, shit,” Emma muttered as she pulled the blanket up to her neck. As Killian had requested a moment ago she poofed them dressed and then exited the bed. Who is it? she silently asked him.

Take a look for yourself, Swan. I think you may be able to tell me who it is.

Emma peered around his shoulder to take a better look. “Is this a dream?” she asked as her eyes welled up with tears.

“No, love,” he whispered with a smile.

“Mom? Dad?” Emma asked hesitantly.

“Emma!” the woman exclaimed. “It did work!”

Emma pulled Killian by his hook as she ran to her parent’s embrace. He watched as the three broke into tears, the woman talking a mile a minute and the man simply cradling Emma’s head to his shoulder.

“How did you find me? How did you even know to find me?”

“We felt it,” her mother said. “There was no doubt the moment you and your true love broke the curse. And once the curse was broken, we found you using this,” she held up the white crochet blanket, “and a simple locator spell.”

“What is that?” Emma asked, reaching out to touch the fabric.

“It was your baby blanket,” her father answered, reverently unveiling the part where her name was crocheted in a pretty purple yarn.

After introductions were made, the two couples sat down at the small dining table and Henry perched on Killian’s shoulder, offering a sense of unity, in light of Emma’s parents showing up.

Snow and David explained how Regina had been stripped of all her power and the Enchanted Forest had been immediately restored to its former glory. The people were rejoicing and had already reestablished Snow and David as their Queen and King. Their intent was to take back Castle Misthaven, and the only thing left was to bring back the long absent Princess of the Enchanted Forest.

Emma in turn told her parents how she and Killian had already planned to travel to the Enchanted Forest by portal. Within the hour everyone was ready to depart. Emma packed up the shockingly sparse amount of belongings she’d acquired over the centuries, where Killian had nothing but the clothes on his back, and his mother’s and brother’s rings.

Killian looked around and wondered how different his new home would be, would this new realm be earthly? Or would he be out of his element?

“You’ll be right at home,” Emma whispered, “and I’ll be right by your side.”

Killian leaned into her and placed a chaste kiss to her lips. I love you.

And I love you.

They both said a quiet goodbye to the cabin where their worlds had collided and their magical love had begun, before setting off to their happy new beginning.

#cssns 2019 #cs ff #cs fanfic #cs au #captain swan

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theboardwalkbody · 5 years ago

Text

Title: The Shot

Fandom: Stranger Things Characters: Alexei, OFC, Murray Pairing: Alexei/OC Rating: T Warnings: Blood Chapter: 1/??? Might do more if there’s an interest.

Alternative take on the scene at the fair. AU - Alexei doesn’t die. OC.

They say the first gunshot of the Revolution was the proverbial loudest gunshot. ‘The shot heard ‘round the world’ as they say in the history books. Well, American history books anyway. The truth is it wasn’t. The loudest gunshot is actually the one you are affected by and needless to say I was in no way involved in the American Revolution. For me the loudest gunshot was one I didn’t even hear. It happened right next to me but between the guns silencer and the gunman skillfully timing it with the boom of the overhead Fourth of July fireworks there really was nothing to be heard. And yet, it was deafening.

I’ll be honest the 24 hours prior to this shot were shocking, and that is a grotesque understatement. Otherworldly portals, secret underground labs, an almost superhumanly crazy gunman whose sole purpose in life seemed to be to keep said underground lab and otherworldly portals kept secret; which of course meant that the Four Nosy Americans and our Dearly Abducted Russian Scientist who has willingly spilled all of the metaphorical beans needed to be, well, eliminated.

You would think that any one of those hugely life changing discoveries would be the thing that struck to the core; the thing that would cause so much dread and panic. But it was none of those things. For me the most shocking event was that one second I was walking alongside that Dearly Abducted Russian - or, as he stated his actual name – Alexei, smiling with him as we walked back from a balloon-dart game where he had won a giant stuffed Woody Woodpecker (impressing me and about 2 dozen children) and the next… deafening noise.

It was as if he appeared from thin air – the gunman suddenly passing right in front of us without either of us noticing his approach, the raise of his arm to press the barrel of his gun against Alexei’s body, shielding it from view between their bodies and the giant stuffed cartoon woodpecker, the whisper of something I couldn’t understand as he passed by to disappear as quickly as he had appeared. It was so quick and the act so fluid that I wasn’t entirely sure it even happened except for the evidence left behind in his wake.

There was blood.

I’ve always heard that in the most profound moments everything is quiet. Nothing but absolute overwhelming silence. To me it was the loudest moment I’ve ever experienced. The sound of my heart pounding mixed with the sounds of fireworks, children yelling, people talking, babies crying, machines whirring, music from about 30 different sources, everything melding together to create the most offensive and chaotic sound.

I wanted to scream from the pressure of it all welling up in my head. I shut down emotionally instead.

Murry, also known as the Only Apparent Human Being Who Can Translate Russian to English, had witnessed the assault but saw about as much as I did despite the different vantage point. He rushed over as I leaned into Alexei’s body and wrapped an arm around his shoulders to support him as he began stumbling. Murry and I guided him to a secluded area between two pop-up buildings for games. In the little makeshift alley it was darker and the sounds of the roaring fair faded to more of a jumbled background noise.

“Alexei! Can you hear me?” Murray was practically yelling as we gently lowered the shocked and bleeding man to the ground. Being spoken in English Alexei responded only to the sound of his name being said, but he didn’t have much strength or awareness to stay focused and his head fell back against the wall behind him as his eyes closed.

“Keep him awake,” I said quietly to Murray as I yanked the jacket off myself. “Give me your shirt.”

My voice was quiet and emotionless. Almost robotic.

Murray nodded, ripped his own shirt off, then shifted focus back to Alexei and tried to keep him from losing consciousness by snapping his fingers and speaking in a loud, panicked tone; switching back and forth between English and Russian, not that it mattered at all what he was saying or which language he was saying it in. Neither I nor Alexei could really hear him. Alexei was between life and death – a fact I was well too aware of – and I was living in a silent world having tuned everything to focus.

I tied my jacket to Murray’s shirt to make them longer and then reached around Alexei and tied the clothes around him just above the wound. As I reached around I felt for an exit wound but felt nothing. I tied the makeshift tourniquet as tight as I could not tying it off until it was so tight Alexei sucked in a breath. My heart almost leap out of my chest. He felt the pressure. That was a good sign.

“Murray I need your shirt,” I said.

“What? I already –“, he started but I cut him off.

“The undershirt. Now.” I still didn’t raise my voice even though I was angry with him for not doing what I said the first time and wasting precious seconds.

It took only a moment but to me it felt like an hour; Murray handed me the undershirt.

“Tell him I’m sorry but it’s going to hurt,” I told Murray.

He nodded and translated my words to Russian. Alexei’s only response was a wince in response to the pain he was already feeling, though I highly doubted he felt it with its true intensity. His body was in shock, he needed immediate medical attention and I needed to try and stop the bleeding as much as possible. I took Murrays shirt and twisted it slightly to form a ball roughly the size of the bullet wound. I ripped open Alexei’s blood stained shirt and as gently and as quickly as I could I stuffed some of the shirt into the wound to try and block it and instead of backing off I pushed against it with all the strength I had, shifting my position and getting better leverage by leaning slightly forward on my knees and almost falling on to him.

The action caused him to yelp in pain. For a moment his eyes focused on mine before rolling back into his head and fluttering closed. My chest ached. He was in pain, and even though it was needed I hated that I caused it. “Alexei!” I shouted, evidently too loudly by the way Murray jumped at the sound. “You gotta stay with me, okay,” I added more softly when he took a deep, rough breath in and looked at me again but with unfocused eyes.

“Murray – get an ambulance. There’s a medic tent by the main entrance,” I ordered. “But what are we going to tell –“ “Murray! I am a goddamn nursing student, not a fucking trauma surgeon! Cover story later. You get me an ambulance or he’ll die soon. I can’t let that happen which means you need to get me a fucking ambulance!” I was yelling. I had kept my cool for too long without letting myself experience any sort of emotion and it was all bursting out. Tears were beginning to leak from my eyes. Nursing school and clinicals teach you to keep your head in a crisis. But I had done all I could do which meant that now I no longer had control of the situation. No control means no emotional blockade.

Murray stumbled to his feet and then ran off to find a medic and an ambulance.

I was using both hands to keep pressure on the wound and aiding the pressure of the tourniquet. I took a deep breath to try and calm myself and then placed my forehead against Alexei’s for a moment to try and reassure him. I knew that he couldn’t understand me, but I spoke to him anyway.

“It’s going to be okay. I’m going to make sure of it. You just have to stay with me, okay? I can’t do all the work here by myself. I need you to help too. Okay? I need you.”

I felt a lump rise in my throat. ‘I need you.’ I didn’t realize I even felt that way until the words had left my lips. I wanted to yell at myself. What was this? Some Disney film where the heroine falls for the hero after knowing them for only a few days all the while they barely exchanged any words? All our conversations were translated by a recluse with a severe prejudice against Russians, with the exception of the one he was now trying to save, and our meeting did begin with a kidnapping. It just wasn’t mine it was his. Yeah, this could definitely make a Disney movie.

My panicked thoughts were interrupted by Murray reappearing with a few medics in tow.

“I warned Jim and Joyce,” he said as the medics rushed over and flanked me. I nodded, never taking my focus away from Alexei.

“Miss, you can let go, we will take him from here.” I heard the lead medic say to me, but my body wouldn’t react. “Miss, please, you need to get off him so we can transport him.”

Murray walked up behind me and placed a hand on my shoulder. “Let them work, you’ve done your part,” he assured.

I hesitantly backed off and stood up. Murray kept a hand on my shoulder as I stared at my blood-covered hands. I wiped them on my jeans but the stains were already setting in.

The medics placed him on a stretcher and began to wheel him to an ambulance that had pulled up by a third medic arriving on the scene.

I broke away from Murray’s reassuring hold. “I’m going with him,” I said.

“But what about Joyce and Jim?” Murray called after me jogging slightly to catch up with me and the medics.

“Stay with them, tell them what happened, make sure they’re safe. Go with them,” I yelled back. After my instructions I didn’t look back, but I knew he listened because he didn’t follow or call out again. I climbed in the back of the ambulance and sat watching the two medics work on stabilizing Alexei with fluids and oxygen. I knew it wouldn’t do much without stopping the bleeding and getting a blood transfusion but I hoped it would be just enough to get him to the hospital where those measures could be implemented. I reached out for Alexei’s hand. I’m sure the medics assumed it was because I wanted to comfort him, which wasn’t wrong, but the truth was I was trying to comfort myself, too, and the only way I knew to do that was by placing my middle and index finger over the radial pulse point and just feeling his pulse against my fingertips. A pulse meant life; meant he was still with me. I closed my eyes and focused on the ragged, unsteady beating of Alexei’s pulse and tried to shut out the blaring noise of the sirens and the medics talking and working beside me hoping we would get to the hospital soon.

#alexei #stranger things #stranger things 3 #alexei smirnoff #murray bauman

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superchartisland · 5 years ago

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Sonic the Hedgehog 2 (Sega, Mega Drive, 1992)

The chart commentary in the September 1991 issue of Computer & Video Games noted astonishment at Sega’s Sonic the Hedgehog, a console game, placing as high as #11 in the UK all formats sales chart. Sonic’s impact didn’t immediately show up on the charts beyond that, but by the start of 1995, games on consoles would make up more than 50% of the UK’s market, and the Sega Mega Drive console would be the clear leader. This fits with personal anecdata -- between my brother and me we had four friends with Mega Drives and not one with a SNES, Nintendo’s rival console. Every one of those friends played Sonic the Hedgehog and Sonic the Hedgehog 2. I can remember the attention around the release of Sonic 2 as greater than any other game back then, ‘Sonic 2sday’ and all, and I didn’t even have a console. Looking back, the whole idea of Sonic 2sday -- a unified international release date (on, obviously, a Tuesday) -- was a telling detail.

The UK was unusual in the Sega Mega Drive (or, as Americans like to call it, the ‘Sega Genesis’) being the clear market leader rather than Nintendo’s SNES, and the reasons go back into the ‘80s. Nintendo’s Famicom/NES console was utterly dominant in Japan, as my looks at the chart #1s there have shown, and in the US it famously saved the whole video games industry after the American Video Game Crash of 1983 (or, as Americans like to call it, the ‘Video Game Crash of 1983’). As I explained back in my post on Ghosts’n’Goblins, we were in the middle of a boom time for home computer games, and Nintendo didn’t have anything like the same impact in the UK. They frequently could barely be bothered with us at all, although the order of cause and effect there is not 100% clear. Most likely it was a self-reinforcing cycle. Without such a base elsewhere to fall back on, Sega put in a lot more effort. The release dates in different countries of Sonic the Hedgehog and Nintendo’s archetypal mascot rival Super Mario World, both playable on their snazzy new 16-bit consoles, tell their own story:

In Japan, Sonic was definitely taking on the incumbent. In the US, he got in first in this particular battle, but Mario was so popular from before it didn’t matter too much. In the UK, that wasn’t the case and by the time the SNES and Super Mario World came out, Sonic was well-established and Sonic 2 was just around the corner. Sega weren’t going to rescue the British games industry, because it still didn’t need rescuing, but like Sonic’s new flying fox sidekick Tails in Sonic 2, they would give it some lifts into different directions.

Like the last massively influential Sega game in our story, OutRun, Sonic was made with America and Europe in mind, but in this case it wasn’t as a location but as an audience. Sonic was a hybrid creation with input from Sega of America alongside Sega of Japan, and turned out to be perfect for Britain as well. With Sega having their own console for Sonic to be on, there wasn’t any question of playing inferior home versions, or at least not ones that were actually Sonic. At that time Sega in Japan gave the American and European branches of Sega pretty much free rein in marketing, which meant being able to run more easily with things that they thought might work better here (Ayrton Senna and his Sonic trophy at the Sega European Grand Prix, crude sexist adverts in Viz, and all). A year on from Sonic 2, we got our own British fortnightly Sonic the Comic which ran until 2002, and which my brother and a couple of the previously mentioned Sonic-playing friends were regular readers of. I was never as big a fan of Sonic as of Mario, but as a Brit the hedgehog felt more like ours. For many British people, like for me, Sonic the Hedgehog got to be the powerful introduction to console games.

This was the series that got to represent the advantages of having specialised hardware designed solely for playing games. Further than that, the advantage of the same people designing both the hardware and the games to run on it. Sonic didn’t represent a complete revolution of unrecognisable possibilities, but it was obvious that it was a new way of doing things and a different type of experience. That experience wasn’t the one single console experience, or one single console platform game experience, either. Mario is often about the intricate hidden possibilities that players can work out and open up within its world, but Sonic’s design philosophy, designed in opposition, places its intricate possibilities right at the surface and gives players little choice but to see them in action. Which is not to say it’s a shallower approach -- Sonic has its own hidden secrets and multiple routes anyway -- but certainly a different one. And Sonic 2 is an iteration further on the Sonic design philosophy than the original. Its colour-saturated world, and its array of toys and gimmicks to fast-forward Sonic around that world, are even more built up. It adds a rapidly charging spin-dash move so Sonic doesn’t have to rely on momentum to keep speed up, increasing the ratio of action to pause still further.

Sonic 2 has the Chemical Plant Zone, a marvel of criss-crossing accelerated paths that eschews any kind of straightforward left-right movement in favour of tying itself up into spatial knots and letting the player enjoy how they eventually get untied. It has the Casino Night Zone, the zenith of the entire concept of Sonic: platform game as literal pinball (with slot machines thrown in), with cities full of lights shimmering deliciously in the background, music of the most assured cool playing while vivid sound effects maintain a constant level of stimulation. It’s a place to drink everything in and forget the passage of time completely, just like they encourage you to in real casinos. It has so much more, more Zones, more everything. Sonic 2 is not flat out the best game I’ve covered so far, because different games do very different things and I prefer some of them, but Sonic 2 is a pretty much unbeatable at what it does. You only have to look at Zool again to see that trying to go toe-to-toe with Sonic 2 on a home computer was a laughably doomed venture.

In the UK, Sonic was the champion trailblazer and the one to match up to, and it’s only now that it’s It’s funny to think how much of that might have been a matter of release timing. But hey, you know what they say - gotta go fast!

There is, in fact, something ironic in Sonic being so successful here despite his famous speed being handicapped. Due to technical TV format issues, Mega Drive games, including Sonic the Hedgehog and Sonic 2 alike, run at five-sixths speed on British consoles. For Sonic 2, Sega fixed the music alone to run at the correct speed, which is sort of a shame. I probably only prefer the slower version of Masato Nakamura’s incredible Green Hill Zone music in the original game because I’m used to it, but it remains brilliantly sparkling at either speed and when slowed down also gains a glorious otherworldly sheen. In a similar way, the slightly off speed boosts the haunting weirdness of Sonic the Hedgehog’s hallucinogenic bonus levels to a potency that Sega probably couldn’t have deliberately created if they’d tried. In Sonic 2, the bonus levels are replaced by showy 3D racing things and lack the same effect. Even still, the fact that in the UK we were literally playing different versions of the games is one more strange way in which they got to be ours.

Virgin all console formats chart, Teletext, 10 January 1993.

[See also this Gamesradar article confirming that it was #1 at Christmas 1992 in what was presumably the Gallup equivalent. I’m taking a leap based on remembered hype to assuming that it was overall #1 immediately after its release in November 1992]

#every number one #retrogaming #Sonic 2 #Mega Drive #Sega #Sonic the Hedgehog #gaming #video games #gif

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alchemisland · 6 years ago

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The Antiquarian and the Devil's Dog

April 1928.

I, Martin Bryn-Kolkiln, wish to commit to paper the strange events of Friday last, April 9th 1928. For what seems an age I have been chasing time, little tempting pockets of freedom peppered throughout the week, but the crafty seconds evaded capture. My rest too, like the proverbial snoozing hound, has been disturbed to much chagrin, prolonging the day's drudgery.

I had been away for several weeks prior to the incident, pining for home on the sun-cursed dig sites of the Nile delta. Aerial raids destabilized the region, yielding formerly guarded treasures to the gloved hands of fevered antiquarians, creating a scramble the likes of which beaurocrats had not seen since the African pile-on. At one such site, in the frame of a ruined mosque we found an idol, stark and malignant in its shadow-haunted grotto, providing ample fuel for speculation among my uneducated workforce.

My postprandial scribblings, so long a staple of my working week that no servant dares scurry past my quarters upon seeing the glow neath the door signalling occupancy, go neglected of late, my notepad chastely going without flourish.

I have been much beset by idleness, my usual studious nature replaced by bouts of extended procrastination. I do not fear that you will judge too harshly my slovenliness once I recount my adventure in full.

The journey from London towards Matfield is punctuated with occasional wondrous natural vignettes. A journey I had taken many times before, I spurned heirs for comfort and slid far down on my seat, staring out the window. Wild horses cresting grassy knolls against the backdrop of God's own country.

I had informed colleagues of convalescent intentions, two weeks bedridden to document my trip, so it came as a reluctant surprise when a letter arrived requesting my urgent presence at the Powers Estate. It spoke of a strange discovery as work began on a proposed pleasure garden "to rival Xanadu". The author supposed the discovery would be pertinent to my historical interest, and suddenly I was keen to reevaluate my proposed hermitic fortnight.

I set off that same evening with only a light jacket tossed overshoulder. The note's concluding statement disturbed me most. The scribe, generously an amateur, was firm that they had uninterred the skeleton of an enormous hellhound.

I cycled to match Nike's record laps and barely caught the evening train. Upon alighting, a short preamble along a pleasant pebbled path paired with pastures carried me to the estate, its foreboding walls stark and unmissable against the sweeping hillocks. Overhead, through a bore in the wounded firmament, a lance of otherworldly pearlescence triumphed.

The moon in its wane sat stop the rounded domes of the main compound like a crown's centrepiece, its design an eclectic mix of Eastern and Western classical art, rounded arches twinned with dappled pillars, obsidian grotesques with forked tongues freed of their pursed half mouths. Inside, French tapestries decorated the walls, Greek marbles on every landing, enormous canvas features depicting glorious hunts in gilded frames tacked lavishly on every capable surface. Looted Pictish stones inscribed with mysterious runes decorated the fish pond. This was wealth. Old money.

Casement Power, younger brother of late Lord Richard, inherited no property, instead reviving a modest annual wage to fund his excess. The scurrying fox and the baited badger that presumably made up his cost of arms could not satiate his warrior spirit, so he traveled to Africa where the large game roamed.

It crossed my mind while tracing its mighty girdle that perhaps a secret exotic pet had been disinterred, cyclopean only to an amateur.

I found myself frozen at the gates. Some fuedal conditioning told me my sort still weren't welcome here, and I stood hypnotised by its granduer A fortress fit for a martial family.

A buried phalanx of ghoulish hoplites raised their jagged spears to form the gate rails, fearsome black rods as a ward to the timid, a black bas relief in its centre. Pushed its hinges dragged and howled in dull flight, which I took as a sign of reluctance on the house's part.

Once inside I turned right, veering from the cedar-lined drive down a snaking path of trodden grass towards a distant glow. With my forearm raised to tide the eye-hungry branches, I came to stand in a copse offering a clear vantage of the fiddler's kirkyard, where four beacons crudely jammed into the soil guttered, illuminating a profession of loiterers. One waved my shade closer, evidently the letter's author.

The grass grew sicklier in the albumen of my redoubt, tusks of jagged rock bursting through the topsoil. Little wonder this field alone was designated the plebeian pit, it must have been the only infertile patch inside this splendid garden of bulbed delights.

A terrible scream rang out as I took my first ginger step forward. It crowed shrilly, razorlike against the eardrum. Wretched as banshee's wail. Mighty as the seven trumpets sounding to toll the seventh seal's opening. The Djinn's howl. When the screaming stopped, an orb of light rose and hovered about the hungry mouth of an open grave. Unaccustomed to the light, its radiance blinded me, and when finally those briny trickles tamed enough to pry them back open, I found myself back in the copse where I had stood a moment before, the kirkyard beacons up ahead.

I stared to my hands, unable to discern their shape in the darkness. I needed to be positive I wasn't dreaming. It was bitterly cold. Does one feel true cold in the nightland? I surmised then I was not sleeping and in fact alertly experiencing high strangeness. Sudden nausea stole my legs and I keeled over retching.

Prone on the lawn I watched the distant beacons ignite and extinguish in sequence, casting strange shadows, then in unison they doused. Plunged into void, I felt the grass against my cheek mutate into something harder, with many sharp points. I lifted one eyelid and saw the gates. I was outside the compound, as if I had never before entered!

The bas relief's dark contours adopted an ominous aspect, moreso than previous observations yielded. Their bulbous forms tricked me with feigned normalcy. Brushing the stones set in my palm like jewels, I winced to my feet.

One idle lance shone directly on its centre. Beings that at first seemed grecian effigies altered in the pale moontorch. The icons, lacking perspective, still bulged with taut muscle. Lacking the vocabulary to describe the 'otherness' of its shape, Revelations must serve as an imaginative stimulus. The beings were contorted demons with men's bodies and genitals, coated head to toe with coarse black hair.

Where their mouths should have been jutted jaws like that of the snapping Nile crocodiles. One figure above all I was hypnotically drawn to carried by his shoulder a noxious stinger slick with venom poised to strike. Alone was he armed with a pestilent whip, distinguishing him as a leader of sorts, if rank existed within an anarchy of grotesques.

Even as fantasy, this folly was gratuitous, a remnant of the freakshow. The metal itself gleamed as if slick, though no hint of varnish my nostrils scented.

I pushed open the gate as a matter of promptness, again it screeched, reeeeeeeeeeeeeeee - like a vixens wail. Events were unfolding like theatre beats, precisely as they had moments ago, only now where I was sure I had steered right, the dig site was to my left.

I thought voicing the skeptic aloud to might steady frayed nerves. Marsh gases were spirits to feudal farmers before wise men dispelled their ignorance, replicating in micrcosm the binding of the primal flame which elevated our kin above the fierce descendants of Echidna. Perhaps what I experienced was a phenomenon as yet unexplained, wholly within the realms of fact.

Seeing the skeptic permitted entry, the coward tried his charms on the doorman, a masculine fellow with traps the size of roset chickens. Without baudy company to mock my yellow belly, I thought of home, there was time enough yet. Sure, the trains wouldn't run until morning, but a man still might still safely walk the tracks in these leafy byways, and at the station Bucephalus waited.

Whether the men disturbed the rest of a hellhound or bones of a dead doe expanded by the ceaseless freeze-thaw action could a question remain, a chilling inkling to ponder on the Samhain.

A faint dust was visible in the air. A golden sporehaze like foundry sparks taken flight, shifting breezeless. Whether it was the unholy residue of occult practices blighting the gloam or a warning of impending spiritual disaster from the universe itself, I don't know, but I knew to follow my gut, instincts hard-honed.

I sped out the open gate, avoiding its siren keen, and kept a blistering pace until the lane melted where gravel gave to slick grass, then further on nearly stumbling were the tracks, a steel corridor of gnarled teeth. Stemming from negligent workers, trackside grasses growing unwieldy cast ominous shadows, obscuring assailants from the side. I slowed briefly, ensuring my stride matched the distance between planks.

After a time ambling I heard from behind the definite sound of paws plodding, four distinct footfalls increasing pace to match my own, causing me to sprint forward with surprising intensity, flapping like a disturbed bird to keep upright.

Paws clacked against the timbers quick as knuckles on a tabletop, dull heavy thuds, then something emitted a low growl that released the auxiliary adrenaline stocks. Without regard for form I reached my maximum possible speed, tissues, coins and paper scraps falling from my pockets all the while.

I was sure no fevre dream had taken hold, that what gave chase was tangible evil, an anamalous malignance out of another world, an oppressive presence. Some distance at last came between I and it, or least the sound of its routing, but still the aroma of fetid meat wrinkled my nostrils. Intense heat flared across my shoulder blades, as the footfalls came closer than ere before it flared to a searing agony.

I imagined an enormous fissure somewhere along the rows of planks behind, a tunnel hewn from riven flesh, from where mangled fingers rose to grasp my tails, bidden aid Cerberus. The beast thundered along now, terrible jaws searching the air. Teeth, dagger sharp and serrated for tearing flesh clean off the bone, came within inches of my ankles. I felt drops of reeking saliva raining down when the beast's tongue whipped at the empty space I occupied a moment earlier.

In truth I cannot recollect much further, gripped by adrenal berserk time held no meaning. New memories ceased forming. All non-critical faculties were off.

After an eternity I emerged into the dirty light of the station and dared to slow, coughing a lung by a signpost, the chase had not been so rabid these last lengths. The spell which coated those bones in living flesh expired as Sol threatened her wakening divinity, bleaching the hills.

The horizon turned red as iron ore. Hours faded like charcoal met by floodwater. Dawn arrived, silent and chorusless. I found no snapping Cerberus or terrible mastiff, only a dizzying corridor of shifting darkness stretching to infinity, for the dawntorch did not pierce the thicket there. In relief I howled, noting aloud to none in particular that this was likely a record time for this journey, surpassing even the no-stop trains that carried resources to the Hebrides overnight.

In spite of everything, I had to question if a creature ferociously pursued me at all, or merely had some friendly dog trotted alongside for a time. As to whether my own footfalls quickening sent me into a panic I was unsure. Should I be terrified, relieved, embarrassed or a combination of all three?

Next came the darkest revelation. I sat, legs dangling over the lip of the platform, lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply, held it as if the smoke would absorb my woes.

A draft met my back and the sodden shirt plastered thereupon. No, more than a breeze, a pain. I gingerly pawed the raw area, if the phrasing can be pardoned, and found three scrapes stretching hip to hip. At night they vomit pus onto the swanfeathers corset of gauze I have taken since. Another paroxysm sent me spiralling into blackness.

I suppose it was near enough morning when I woke. Some kindly commuter or station man had taken notice and fetched a doctor, I have no memory of this.

The doctors informed say it will be some time before the wounds heal, that I may never recoup my former vigour, and even in miraculous circumstances, there is danger of tetanus.

Tetanus.

The lacerations were proved to have been canine in origin. Doctors, veterinarians and trappers consulted have been completely baffled by their length, stating no native creature is capable of inflicting wounds suchlike to a man grown.

With this nightmare put to page I hope the oily tendrils of it are scraped from my mind. I must retire to steam the wound again. Most, my spirit is shaken. I have not felt anxiety like it since the war.

I cannot complain overmuch, but blast sleeping on my front! How anyone finds solace in this repose is beyond my imagining, I feel like a lizard basking on hot stones.

April 20th, M Bryn-Kolkiln

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qqueenofhades · 6 years ago

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Starlight & Strange Magic, Chapter 21: In Which Lucy Makes An Executive Decision

Rating: M Summary: Lucy Preston, a young American woman, arrives in England in 1887 to teach history at Somerville College, Oxford. London is the capital of the steam and aether and automatonic world, and new innovations are appearing every day. When she meets a mysterious, dangerous mercenary and underworld kingpin, Garcia Flynn, her life takes a turn for the decidedly too interesting. But Lucy has plenty of secrets of her own – not least that she’s from nowhere or nowhen nearby – and she is more than up for the challenge. Available: AO3 Previous: In Which The Best Laid Plans, Etc., Etc.

Lucy doesn’t stir a single eyelash until ten o’clock the next morning, which coincidentally is when the sun is finally coming up. Admittedly, “up” is a bit of a misnomer, since it remains low enough to cast long shadows for most of the day, but she becomes aware of the weak glow on her face, peering through a break in the curtains, and grimaces, mumbles, and raises a hand, a cave-dweller suddenly disturbed by news from the overworld. She is extremely comfortable and could sleep another few hours anyway, but as memory trickles slowly into her rebooted brain, that possibility seems unlikely. Not even like this, engulfed in Flynn’s arms with her head on his shoulder, her legs thrown over his, her –

Wait. What? Not that she objects, but she can’t remember when exactly she ended up in Flynn’s arms, other than a brief and general memory of him crawling in next to her last night (and if she hadn’t insisted, she has the distinct feeling that this idiot would have tried to tough it out on the floorboards with a full-body beating and a badly broken leg). Even with that, she was expecting the same stiffness and distance of their night in St. Petersburg, when he caught himself apparently relaxing too much and hastily tried to separate them. But she has woken up instead with both his arms wrapped around her, practically spanning her twice, and her entire body fitted into the cracks and crevices and rugged places of his, like a lost hiker sheltering on a mountainside. When she moves as if to pull away, he rumbles in his sleep and unconsciously, reflexively draws her closer. He is warm and solid and very strong, somehow – incredibly – real, after everything they went through to get him, and it takes her breath away.

Since she doesn’t really want to get up anyway, and since she might as well savor this before he wakes up and wigs out again, Lucy wriggles around to look at him better. There are a few flecks of silver in his stubble and in distinguished touches at his temples, but his hair is thick and dark and just the right length to flip over his forehead. He has faint lines around his eyes, deep grooves around his mouth, and his nose is long. A few scars that look like claw marks stripe the heavy muscle of his upper arm, making her wonder how many were-beasts he’s tangled with apart from Wyatt, and he has clearly lived a hard life. There is a small red cicatrix just under his collarbone that looks like a healed bullet wound, and she hopes he won’t go around catching any more of those. She is overcome by a sudden desire to put her lips to it, to kiss it, to soothe this evidence of old hurts since her ability to help the new ones is so limited. She doesn’t even exactly know why, and she shouldn’t. He said no, before. He said no.

Lucy bites her lip, shifting still closer, finding nothing else to do with her left hand apart from settle it on Flynn’s chest, slowly rising and falling to the rhythm of his breathing. Moving it down feels like an invitation to awkwardness and disaster, so she slides it up instead, into the hollow of his breastbone. He doesn’t seem to be sleeping fitfully, so maybe he isn’t in too much pain from his leg, and when she lifts her hand and ghosts her fingers over his forehead, he isn’t running a fever. He was yesterday, so maybe he’s on the mend, though this would be a fast healing by anyone’s standards. Maybe the Raven King stepped in.

At that, Lucy frowns, trying to remember a dream that she’s fairly sure she had last night. Another one about ravens, though this one wasn’t seeing them above the train. This time, she was in a boggy grey field, the wind blowing in her face, and there was someone standing on the far side of the fog. She thought it was a man, but the shadow he cast was an endless forest, and ravens kept rising in whirling storms. He did not say a word, or come closer. Merely remained there, in some sort of stasis, as if waiting for a moment, for a sign. Waiting. Waiting.

That, however, reminds Lucy a little too uncomfortably of the forest in her room during the revenant attack, and since it stems from the same magic, perhaps that is understandable. But it also suddenly makes her wonder if the Raven King, if he is the maker and master of the revenants, might be considerably more dangerous than they are. She already noted Priscilla’s leery reaction to the idea of contacting him, and while she knows that Flynn reveres Matija Korvin, that Korvin is responsible for however they got out of the jam with the train, and whatever else, it makes Lucy feel that further reliance on him might be something to avoid. She doesn’t know what Korvin is, other than a very powerful otherworldly magical being that clearly has not let earthly death stop him from doing his thing, and might in fact have leveled up as a result. She has not taken his magic seriously before, and it got her attacked by the revenant. It is more than time that she takes more than a little caution with it now.

There is, however, still the fact that Emma and Rittenhouse are looking for Korvin’s lost library, and the idea of contacting him directly might also occur to them, rather than muddle fruitlessly around the Balkans in search of it. As far as Lucy knows, Emma hasn’t heard for sure that she herself is in Russia, but the news of Flynn’s capture was definitely sent back to London. Rittenhouse might not yet know that Flynn has escaped, given as the tockers on his train were all destroyed, but someone will have been waiting for him to arrive in Arkhangelsk, realize that he has not (as far they know), and start asking questions and mounting a search. Even if Flynn was in a state to be walking around the city, he shouldn’t do that. Someone here is looking for him. Might have gone to the station master, asked questions. Not to mention, Rufus and Jiya are now here too. If Emma could catch them in the same place, together, she could wipe out the whole team at a stroke, and end all further resistance to Rittenhouse and everything they could achieve across the multiverse. The chance would be too tempting to resist.

These troubling thoughts are starting to cut into Lucy’s enjoyment of the carefree, comfortable moment she woke up in, and she supposes that she can’t loaf around in bed, or in Flynn’s arms, much longer. Her leg is still sore, but her feet have been messed up in some way since she got here, and she’ll find some liniment or bandages to splint it up if she has to do a lot of walking. She pauses, then pets her fingers over his cheek, since she doesn’t know when they’ll wake up like this again and, selfishly, wants to keep it that way for a moment longer. This time, however, he stirs, eyes closed, hand rising out of the quilts to catch hers and curl his fingers around it. “Moja ljubav,” he murmurs, voice thick and hoarse with sleep. “Dobro jutro.”

Lucy’s heart turns over. She doesn’t know exactly what he said, but the tone makes it more than clear that it’s an endearment, and the fact that it was spoken in Croatian means that he – understandably – is not yet awake and thinks, however briefly, that he is back in bed with his wife. She doesn’t get the sense that he has been remotely near any other woman since then, and as much as she tries to tell herself that it’s understandable, that she doesn’t grudge it to him, she turns her head away, so she doesn’t have to see the disappointment in his eyes when he opens them and realizes otherwise. “Good morning,” she says. “It’s – it’s me.”

She’s still halfway in his arms, and she feels them tense. She steadfastly keeps her gaze on the window, waiting until she feels it would be safe to look back at his face. There’s a long pause. Then he says, “Yes.”

It doesn’t sound disappointed. It doesn’t sound – well, like anything. She’s not sure what sort of answer yes is anyway, unless it’s confirming that he has recollected himself and remembered who he was speaking to. He opens his arms as if to make it easier for her to slip out, and Lucy does so, not sure that she’s ever felt more mortified in her life. (That includes the drunken hookups in her acting-out freshman year at UCLA, when she woke up in some dorm room smelling of rancid socks, next to some pasty-ass kid she didn’t know, and had to scramble to remember if they’d used a condom.) She disentangles herself from Flynn and sits upright, on the edge of the bed, to make it clear she’ll put space between them and wasn’t trying to sleazily make a move on him when he was asleep. Her cheeks burn. Silence.

“So,” Flynn says, after an excruciating pause. “How… how are you?”

“Fine?” Lucy can’t tell if he’s taking refuge in inane pleasantries to smooth things over, if he’s asking if she’s physically on the mend, or – or what. “I’ll do. I really should be asking about you. How’s your leg? Is it any better?”

Flynn wiggles it experimentally, which does not cause more curses or grimaces. “Better,” he agrees. “I had a dream that – well, anyway, maybe there was some leftover magic for it. It still feels like someone stuck it with a thousand hot needles, but that’s an improvement.”

“Either way, I don’t want you running around on it,” Lucy orders, sounding like a stern hospital matron to her own ears. “It was broken literally yesterday, and besides, there have to be Rittenhouse people in Arkhangelsk looking for you, if they were sending you here in the first place. You stay in today and rest. I’ll go out and see what I can find.”

Flynn looks briefly inclined to protest, but stops with a wince as he moves his leg again; evidently it’s not completely healed, and even his absurd pain tolerance has its limits. Nonetheless, he does not agree to be confined to bed and fed gruel like an invalid, and heaves himself up, the too-short nightshirt hiking up his muscled thighs and nearly giving Lucy a look at something she would rather not see. Not that she would find it unattractive, but really, the opposite. She is trying with all her might to mind her manners and maintain the boundary he asked – the kiss was an emotional, spur-of-the-moment, enchantment thing, she can’t count on him wanting to do it again – and she does not need to be taunted like this.

After considerable effort on both of their parts, they get washed and dressed, which almost feels familiar from their room-sharing in Oxford, and head downstairs. Rufus and Jiya are awake, talking cautiously with the landlady, who has cooked an enormous breakfast since it’s the off-season for trade and they are the only guests in the boarding house. “What about your friend, in cellar?” she asks, spooning more eggs onto Rufus’s plate even as he protests that he couldn’t eat another bite. “I bring him also some food? Bacon, sausage?”

“I – yeah, I think he’d probably like some meat,” Rufus says, visibly chewing his cheek. He’s been reluctantly persuaded that Wyatt is safe to be around after he’s been removed from the Raven King’s magic and taken a large dose of medicine, but he also has the look of a man who spent the night jumping at small noises. “Whatever large carnivores eat.”

“We could ask him to come up here,” Lucy says. Wyatt probably feels enough like a dirty animal, tied up and stuffed in the cellar and shunned, brought down scraps from the kitchen table, and while she doesn’t know if it would help, it certainly can’t hurt. “He – it’s all right, you know, he’s not… it’s controllable.”

Rufus, who has had a far too eventful time since his crash-landing in Westworld, gives her the fish-eye. “Lucy, I know I’m new around here, but it feels like rule number one would be don’t get too cozy with the – ” At that moment, he notices the landlady listening avidly, remembers that they haven’t told her what’s up with their extra tenant, and waves his hand. “You know.”

“I’ll see if he wants to come up,” Lucy repeats stubbornly, ignoring the communal wince. She gets up, goes to the cellar door, and after calling down reveals that Wyatt is awake (“was he howling at the moon?” Rufus asks behind her), asks if he wants to join them for breakfast. It takes a while, as evidently Wyatt is no more eager to be around them than Rufus is to have him, but he finally appears, pale and haggard-looking. He glances around at the tense expressions of everyone at the table, then sits carefully at the end. Rufus watches him like a hawk.

“Hey,” Wyatt says, once the silence has gotten excruciating. “I’m – sorry about – you know. The other night.” He glances at Flynn in particular, since the goose egg on his head is still quite purple, as is the corresponding eye. “Did you have to hit me so hard, though?”

“Did you have to keep a secret like that?” Flynn arches a cutting eyebrow back at him. “You’re lucky I only hit you. If I’d had the right gun with me, I would have shot you.”

Lucy doesn’t really feel that this is getting everyone off on the team-spirited foot that she had hoped for, and clears her throat, trying to break apart Wyatt and Flynn’s staring contest. “We can all agree that nobody was expecting it. So – ”

“Yeah,” Rufus says. “You know, like the Spanish Inquisition. Also a noted bad thing.”

Lucy gives him a look, and Jiya giggles, even as Flynn, the only person at the table who doesn’t get the joke, stares at them like they’re crazy. Even Wyatt has to snort. Once he has been served by the landlady, and she has stepped out of the dining room with some of the dirty dishes, he says, “I just – I thought I could keep it under wraps until I found a way to get rid of it. Yeah, I didn’t tell you, I’m sorry. But do you think anyone would want to help me, or even be seen around me, if I’m like, cool story bro, I’m a werewolf? I asked someone what happened to them. They said they either went insane, got shot by hunters, or did horrible things and turned into scary stories. Funnily enough, none of those options sounded that great.”

“When did it happen?” Flynn asks, ruthlessly practical as ever. “How long has it been?”

“About ten months after I got here.” Wyatt rubs his face. “I was looking into some supposed associate of yours in Romania, I got lost in a thunderstorm, and had to bunk up in some ruined castle. Next thing I know, it’s a fuckin’ horror movie in there, and I…” He trails off. “I don’t remember most of it. I had to visit some crazy old witch and she told me what happened. That I had to get my hands on some special kind of medicine, or it was, you know. What went down the other night. That’s why I kept working for Rittenhouse. I needed the money for it.”

“You stayed in a ruined castle in Romania? At night, in a thunderstorm?” Flynn looks absolutely incredulous, as if Wyatt could not have more eagerly jumped up and down in front of the universe begging it to turn him into a werewolf if he tried. “You couldn’t pay me to do that. All of them are under Dracul’s curse. Some more than others, but everybody knows that.”

“Yeah, well,” Wyatt says, with a very sharp edge. “I’m not from here, am I? I didn’t know that.”

Flynn shakes his head, half in horror at Wyatt’s professional incompetence and half in grudging acknowledgement that he was terribly briefed for this job and it’s not his fault that he was dropped into a magical, dangerous world without so much as a memo. At that, however, Rufus looks up sharply. “Wait. So you – Flynn, you’re up to speed on the whole… thing? About where we’re from, and – all that?”

Flynn shoots an odd, oblique glance at Lucy before he says, “Yes. I’m aware that all of you are from a neighboring reality and have arrived here by different means and methods. I assume the question of how to get you home will be sorted out later.”

“There’s something called the Mothership,” Wyatt says. “It’s how I got here. Rufus said back in St. Petersburg that he knew how to drive it, if we could steal it.”

“It’s the only way we’re all getting out of here,” Rufus says. “The Lifeboat was only modified for one, and it’s back in New York anyway. The Mothership can take six. Plus, we’d leave Rittenhouse without a time machine, which kind of seems like an important strategic move.”

“But Emma could find the Lifeboat, if we left it here in Westworld,” Jiya points out. “She wouldn’t turn a hair in leaving everyone behind to use it for herself. We’d have to find it and destroy it, or remotely detonate it, or have someone go back in it separately. Maybe you or me, in case something went wrong.”

Lucy looks away. All this talk of how they’re getting home is, of course, very important, but it makes something odd and unhappy squirm like cold lead in her stomach, and she doesn’t even know why. She’s been here a while, maybe it’s natural that she’s ambivalent about leaving. She’s met Ada and the Sokolovs and other people she likes a lot, she’s had her time at Oxford, she’s even managed to enjoy herself between the kidnappings and monster attacks and other events that have consistently occupied her time since she got here. She reminds herself that she wants the Internet and jeans and modern life again, trashy television, proper medicine, not getting side-eyed by misogynists in monocles and top hats every time she dares to venture out of doors alone. (There is plenty to be said about the modern world still being misogynist, but at least not so overtly.) Her time in Westworld has been very interesting, but there’s no reason she can’t go, no reason that she’d feel some sort of inexorable gravity pulling her back, when her life, her existence, her friends, are all in her birth reality. When she can’t give that up for a man who doesn’t want to, who is still in love with his dead wife and devoted to –

Rittenhouse is in her birth reality. Her childhood, her entire life, the Cahills and the youth groups and Noah and the brainwashing. Her mother telling a ten-year-old that she was a princess, Henry Wallace’s face, I’m not your real father, Lucy – a week later, he was in the coffin, pale and stiff with formaldehyde, she wonders now if Rittenhouse killed him, had a hit put out to punish him for spilling the beans, anything that might lead her from her true destiny as –

Lucy can feel the breakfast threatening to come back up, and swallows heavily, bracing her hands on the table. Rufus and Jiya glance at her, concerned. “Lucy?” Rufus says. “Lucy, are you okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.” She manages a very forced smile, still feeling a little sick. “We really need to find out what Rittenhouse is doing here. What’s the plan?”

It turns out that frankly, they don’t have much of one, but they try to thrash out a few particulars nonetheless. Of their four Russian speakers, two (the Sokolovs) are in the hospital and one (Flynn) can’t walk. As before, that leaves Karl, so if anyone is going to ask questions and pick up rumors, it has to be him. Rufus is, unfortunately, conspicuous as a black man in nineteenth-century far-north Russia, so he’s going to draw a lot of attention if he walks around town. He is also very leery about being paired up with Wyatt, though Wyatt, as a private bounty hunter and ex-soldier, is pretty good at investigative work. “Look,” he says at last, sounding frustrated. “I can’t help that I’m a damn werewolf, but if we run into the Raven King’s magic and I start transforming again, just run really fast in the opposite direction. Otherwise, I have the medicine, it shouldn’t be a problem. I want to get out of here too, so… allies for now, all right?”

Rufus continues to eye him suspiciously, as if to say it’s always idiot white people that die in a horror movie, because their black friends are smart and know not to fuck with things that will kill them. Finally, however, he says, “Okay. So what, pee on the fire hydrant as a warning if you feel it coming on?”

Wyatt gives him a death stare, and Rufus raises his hands. “I only want to make sure we’re clear here. I’ve never worked with a werewolf before, I’m just trying to establish the rules. If we determine that I don’t taste like kibble, then – ”

Wyatt growls, sounding not-unlike his lupine self, and Rufus jumps, apparently deciding to can it with the dog references for now. There’s another awkward silence, and then they clear their throat and rise to their feet at the same time, jostling the table. Lucy and Jiya get up as well, as if sensing that interference may possibly be needed on any number of fronts, and go to get wrapped up, since they’ll be the other half of the recon team. As they’re pulling on coats, fur hats, and mufflers, Jiya says quietly, “So, what exactly is it with you and Flynn?”

“What?” Lucy was under the impression that she was managing to be generally circumspect about looking at him (or not looking at him) during breakfast. “What about Flynn?”

Jiya gives her a look. They haven’t exactly had girl talk about anything in a long time, especially not boyfriends, since there hasn’t been anyone in Lucy’s life remotely fitting that description. But Jiya and Rufus know Lucy well, and Rufus might have filled her in on some of the things that he observed while recovering in the warehouse. At last Jiya says, “You were more determined than I’ve ever seen you to get him back, and I’ve seen you be determined about a lot of things. You were stuck to him like glue that entire night on the train. And now you’re looking at him, like – well – ”

“Like what?” Lucy’s voice sounds briefly high and unnatural to her ears, and she tries to modulate it. “How exactly do you think I’m looking at him?”

“Like you…” Jiya looks as if she can’t decide whether to say this out loud, when she has a feeling Lucy already knows damn well what she’s going to say and is being deliberately obtuse. “Like you’re completely gone over him, and have no idea what to do about it.”

That, Lucy is forced to grimly admit, is an unfortunately accurate précis of her present situation. Even so, she feels some instinctive need to modify it, to push back on it, to make it sound somehow less consuming and terrifying than it is. “It’s not that,” she says quickly. “Not exactly. I just – all right, I guess I have a little bit of a crush on him. It’s been a long time, and he – he understands me. But it’s not – ”

“Crush, huh?” Jiya winds a long knitted scarf around her neck, pulls her dark braid out, and ties it. “So that’s what you do for all your crushes? Come on, Lucy. Is that why you were sitting there looking like you were being boiled alive when we were talking about how to get home?”

“I wasn’t,” Lucy says weakly. “Of course I want to go home with you.”

Jiya eyes her for a moment longer, then shrugs, pulls on her mittens, and steps to the door. “Well then,” she says. “We’re not going to have much daylight, we shouldn’t waste it.”

Grateful for the abrupt change of subject, Lucy follows her out, winces as the full blast of the cold hits her in the face like a fist, and can feel it even through her multiple layers of heavy clothing. She and Jiya trundle through the several inches of fresh spindrift, glancing back to make sure they know where the boarding house is, as Wyatt and Rufus emerge on their heels and they split in opposite directions down the street. Lucy swings by the gang’s accommodation to chivvy Karl off his ass and out into the cold, which he does with a deeply resentful look at her, and then tries to guess where Rittenhouse might have been expecting to stash Flynn. Not that they can storm it with just her and Jiya, and the last thing they need is another Sibley’s-office fiasco, but they have to start somewhere.

The day remains a low, chilly shade of blue as Lucy and Jiya search through the warehouses on the waterfront and some of the outbuildings around the railway station. The port is locked in with ice, an eerie white carapace spreading out to the horizon, and all the ships are in dry-dock to avoid being crushed, making Lucy think of Shackleton and the Endurance. That, of course, was at the literally polar opposite side of the earth, but it has the same wild winter ferocity, the sense of a place only incidentally lived upon by humans, where the might of nature could rise up and flick these insects off its back at any time. The tip of her nose has gone numb, she hopes she doesn’t get frostbite, and while it’s not as cold here as the interior of Siberia, at Yakutsk or some other place where you can throw boiling water out the window and it freezes instantly, it’s more than damn cold enough, and Lucy is feeling cramped and sluggish. “This is pointless,” she says, breath gusting in white billows. “Rittenhouse has some other safe house. They’re not – ”

At that moment, they’re cut off by the crunch of footsteps from just around the corner, and Lucy throws out her arm, pushing Jiya back against the wall, as she draws her gun with the other. It’s too cold to run automatons regularly around here, since their joints and gears would freeze up, which means that the approaching entity is likely human. It could just be a confused merchant or whatever, but as the man appears, face just visible under a fur hat, Lucy recognizes one of the thugs who was with Emma in Mr. Li’s opium den, back in London. They stare at each other, it hits in the same moment, and then he goes for his gun.

He’s fast, but he has to get it out from under several layers, and Lucy, who has hers already out and ready for action, is faster. She nails him right in the kneecap, and he goes down with a crash, spraying snow. He’s still fumbling, trying to get his gun one-handed, so she strides over and kicks it away, spinning the revolver and pointing the barrel dead at his head. “I wouldn’t.”

“What the h – ” The Rittenhouse goon grabs at his bad leg, groaning with pain. “What the hell are you doing here, you crazy bitch? You’re supposed to be in England!”

“Yeah, well, doesn’t look like I am, am I?” Lucy is tempted to shoot him again for the crazy bitch part, but she is savagely enjoying having the drop on Rittenhouse for once, and she needs a lot of answers. Not that she thinks this one will provide them without acute persuasion, and she isn’t someone who will torture a suspect into talking, but there are other ways. “Sorry to mess up Emma’s evil plans. And you were here, what, to get the sacrificial altar ready? Kill a few black cockerels first?”

“I don’t know what Emma’s doing.” The goon tries to find something, to no avail, to wrap around his shattered knee. “Just go and – ”

“I think you do.” Lucy keeps the gun trained on him. “Why are you in Arkhangelsk? Is Emma supposed to join you here? What did you have planned for Flynn?”

“Go to hell, I’m not – ”

At that, again, something very weird happens. There’s a shift in the air, a faint smell like wet earth and starlight (she didn’t know that starlight had a smell, but she does), and then another man steps into sight from behind the brick wall. He is handsome, black-haired, and very pale, almost the same color as the milky sky, and is wearing a long black fur coat. His brows are thick, his strong nose reminiscent of a raven’s beak, and it might be Lucy’s imagination, but he doesn’t seem to leave footprints in the snow. Despite the cold, he isn’t wearing a hat or gloves, and comes to a stalking halt in front of the whimpering Rittenhouse agent. “You. Thomas Brent?”

Both the agent – Thomas Brent, apparently – and Lucy gape at him. He’s spoken in English, but with a strong Slavic accent, and with a conscious cadence as if thinking hard about it. Something about his voice makes you want to kneel down in front of him, and Lucy finds her legs starting to bend unconsciously, before she stops. Jiya shoots a look at her in complete bafflement, and Lucy shakes her head, mouthing, I have no idea. The mysterious black-haired, black-dressed newcomer stares down at Brent, who winces for seemingly more reasons than his smashed knee. Then the man says, “I recognize you. You were the one that the woman sent to search the dark places in Slavonia. You were searching for my books.”

Brent stares blankly at him, drop-jawed, as a sudden realization hits Lucy. This is probably a very bad idea, but she can’t help it. Shocked, she blurts out, “Matija Korvin?”

“You know of me.” He turns his head, cocking it as a bird does to look at her, as the full force of his uncanny eyes train on her. They are just as black as the rest of him, with no visible pupil or iris. “I know you as well, Lucy Preston. Perhaps you are surprised to see me here, in this mortal ken, in a form that can be perceived by your eyes. I have been less obvious until this moment.”

“You helped us the other night, on the train,” Lucy says. “With the ravens destroying the tockers, and – and making the locomotive move. Thank you.”

Matija Korvin seems amused that she thinks he wants her gratitude. The edges of his form blur slightly when she looks at him directly, as she remembers Flynn telling her that they believe the Raven King never really died, only took up a throne in Faerie instead, and now lives forever beyond the gates of the human world. Sometimes he still returns to wander his old domains, and to assist those who call upon him, but he must always go back. “I know this man,” he says, turning that stare back on Brent, who now looks thoroughly unnerved. “His mistress wants my library. She has many plans for it, apparently. Is that so, creature?”

“Y – yes?” Thomas Brent might not be great at making life choices, judging by his employment as Rittenhouse bruiser, but even he is smart enough not to lie to a terrifying fell being. “Look, man, I don’t know anything about this magic shit, I just do what Emma tells me. I knew there were some books she wanted me to find, some raven guy, but – ”

“Silence.” Matija does not raise his voice, exactly, but it’s distant and rumbling and inexorable as a thunderstorm, and Brent shudders. “Do not profane yourself by speaking of what your filthy tongue and your rodent brain cannot begin to comprehend. You greedy, vicious, short-sighted mortal, ruled by your baser impulses like the rest of them. I should kill you, Thomas Brent, since the lady is too gracious to do it. But I suspect first that she has some questions. Is that not what I interrupted you in, Lucy Preston?”

“Ah – yes, you did.” Lucy does want Brent to talk, but she is also oddly wary of getting too close to Korvin himself. The air feels still colder around him, and she has that brief sense of the forest, as if the revenant is drawing close again. Lucy isn’t sure what the protocol here is exactly. Finally she says, “So, we were on the subject of what you were doing here in Arkhangelsk.”

“I don’t – ” Brent’s gaze flickers fearfully between her and Korvin. “My leg, I can’t – ”

Korvin utters an exasperated noise and waves his hand, and Brent howls as the shattered pieces of bone snap back into place with an audible, wet pop. “There,” the Raven King says. “You humans and your much-troubled legs. I was unaware that the leg had any bearing on the ability of the mouth to speak. Now answer her, or I will break it again, and others.”

“We – ” Brent licks his lips, breathing fast and shallow. “There’s something here called the Angel’s Gate. Emma sent me to find it. It’s the place where we can establish a permanent passage back to our world, once we have enough aether, and once we worked out how to stabilize the singularity. She thought it and the rest would be in the library, that’s why she wants it. That way, we wouldn’t have to risk taking the Mothership back and forth every time, and with the railway in operation, we’d have a constant pipeline for. . .” He hesitates. “For magic.”

“Oh?” Lucy recalls what Anton told her, the legend of Arkhangelsk standing on the spot where the Devil was defeated, and her thought that there might be some kind of shield wall between the branches of the multiverse. Apparently, that is essentially it, but this is where Rittenhouse intends to permanently jam that door open, to drain away this world’s magic into ours. “So that is what you wanted Flynn for? The sacrifice to open the gate?”

“Emma doesn’t know how to open it for sure.” Brent has turned almost as pale as Korvin himself, though Lucy can’t tell why. Maybe shock, or cold, or something else. “I was supposed to help figure that out. She said that most of this old kind of magic would take a human sacrifice, and Flynn’s a pain in the ass. Once we finally got him, yeah, I was gonna see if killing him would finally do something useful for us and – ”

Lucy stares down at him. She is aware of her blood beating in her ears, rushing in her head, in a way that almost frightens her – not least because she wants to pull out her gun and finish Brent off on the spot, interrogation or no interrogation. It is briefly all she has space for inside her, the knowledge that this man would have killed Flynn as part of some attempted black-magic ritual for Rittenhouse’s ultimate power if he got the chance, and it takes her a very long moment to recover herself. At last she says, “Where is Angel’s Gate?”

Brent hesitates. Korvin clicks his fingers. Something snaps in Brent’s leg with a crunching sound, and he gags. “Ah! Dammit! Solovetsky, dammit! Solovetsky Monastery! On the island! About a hundred and fifty miles west of here, in the White Sea! I was trying to figure out how to get there with everything frozen up, so – ”

Lucy is dimly familiar with that name from somewhere. She thinks Solovetsky might have been the prototype for the gulag system; it was a place of exile for the enemies of the tsars beforehand, as well as religious objectors to Russian orthodoxy, and many writers were imprisoned there after the Russian Revolution. The monastery has a spirited history of independence and idiosyncrasy, and in this reality, the monks must also be magicians, the guardians of untold mystical secrets, including a gateway between worlds. However, as Brent says, getting a hundred and fifty miles out into the frozen White Sea at this time of year is not a walk in Hyde Park. Lucy thinks briefly, and wildly optimistically, that this logistical difficulty might also stymie Emma, but that would be extremely foolish to assume. She’ll probably ice skate out there if she has to.

“Anything else?” Lucy asks. “Anything else at all?”

“No.” Brent gulps. “No, come on, that’s all I know. I swear, I swear. Come on, just – ”

Lucy eyes him coolly and pitilessly, unmoved by his pleading. Nobody stirs, until Korvin clicks his fingers again. Brent convulses, as fine black cracks spread up his face, like a piece of porcelain dropped on the floor. Then he smashes like glass, and a flock of ravens come soaring out of him, screeching and cawing, as his body crumbles to dust. In an instant more, there’s nothing but a heap of grey ash in the snow in front of Korvin, who bends over and regards it dispassionately. Then he straightens up and turns to Lucy. “My apologies for that mess,” he says, with grave, old-fashioned courtesy. “But it was a maggot, not a man. He should have known better than to be discourteous to you.”

“Ah – thanks?” Lucy was prepared to kill Brent herself for a moment there, but it’s still slightly disconcerting to see him literally dusted. “Your – Your Highness, this has been very informative, but maybe we should – ”

“Why do you hasten away?” Korvin has the air of an immortal to whom time is only a vague and mildly irritating concept, like the distant buzzing of a fly. “There is more that we could speak of, Lucy Preston. You are an impressive woman, and clearly most powerful. For a human,” he adds, as if she shouldn’t go getting too carried away. “Yet you grieve. You wear heartbreak like a shadow on your brow. Why is this?”

“I – ” Lucy isn’t sure if the goddamn Raven King just asked about the dismal state of her love life, but that was what it sounded like. “It’s nothing. I’m fine.”

“Is it a man who turns you the color of woe?” She has to admit that he has an unusual, poetic way with words, though that probably comes from being a very well-read, four-hundred-year-old magician. “You should wear a crown of roses, not of thorns. I could fashion you one, like so.”

With that, Matija holds out his palm, and a delicate silver tiara materializes it in, bedecked with fine, tiny pearls and a diamond as clear as cut ice. Lucy has an urge to put it on, as reflexive as the insistence to kneel earlier, which startles her. She is aware, however, that that would be a bad idea, and if she did so, it would be very difficult to take it off again. She is aware that she is being enchanted, and it is a strange, dissociating, giddy feeling. “It’s beautiful,” she says, having to work harder for words than usual, “but no, no thank you.”

“Is it the warmth of human flesh you wish?” Matija raises a hand, as if to set it alongside her cheek, but not quite, and she can feel the chill radiating off it. “Yes, I forget. I could make it so for you. My last wife died many years ago. I was quite fond of her and did what I could, but she never took to Faerie, not entirely. You, though. I think you would. You would be a dread and lovely queen, and no man would ever mistreat you there, or speak you ill, or give you anything less than what you deserved. Certainly not this one who seems so ignorant of what he has, so determined to stubbornly spurn you, as Garcia Flynn. He owes me a debt, you know. I have recently been to remind him of it. Shall I ask for you as my payment?”

“What?” Lucy has been struggling to stay awake, as her eyelids are starting to feel heavy and she can hear the distant, unaccountable sound of bells. That, however, jolts her back to consciousness. “What do you mean, your payment?”

“I have done great magic for him.” At close range, Korvin’s eyes are matte black, with no reflection or light in their depths at all. “He owes me something of equal value in return. Those are the laws. Those have always been the laws. I think it would be an arrangement not to the dissatisfaction of either of us. Shall I ask for you?”

“I. . .” Lucy’s head is still fuddled with the scent and weight of magic, like heavy incense, but at that, she manages to shake it. “I – no. No, thank you. That’s very generous, but no.”

Korvin does not answer for a long moment, looking her up and down. She has the sense he is not used to being refused, which indeed probably doesn’t happen when you’re a demi-god prayed to for centuries by your people, their patron saint and their legendary hero. Nor does he seem very pleased by it. “Neither of you can break the laws,” he says. “You would be most unwise to try. You would be a most powerful Raven Queen, Lucy Preston. It is a great destiny I offer you, a choice given to few. I will ask again soon. Perhaps you will have reconsidered. I urge you so.”

With that, with no further ado or pyrotechnics or movement whatsoever, he isn’t there anymore. Lucy feels as if she’s had a bucket of cold water dumped on her head (in this already-too-damn-cold place), staggers, and blinks very hard. She glances around, sees that she is still standing in the rundown warehouse, and she takes a few anxious steps. “Jiya? Jiya!”

In a few more moments, she finds Jiya, who seems strangely unclear on what has just happened or where exactly Lucy was. She can vaguely recall that there was someone else there, and that she saw him, but can’t put it exactly to words. “Was it – did we just meet some sort of major Westworld cryptid? Is that what happened?”

“Honestly, I think that’s probably the best way to put it.” Lucy rubs at her eyes again, trying to chase off the remaining haze. “Did you hear the part about Angel’s Gate?”

“I. . . think so?” Jiya frowns. “It was. . . somewhere?”

“Solovetsky,” Lucy says. “Solovetsky Island. That’s where Rittenhouse wants to go, that’s where they want to set up their permanent wormhole and magic supply route to our world. Emma doesn’t know how to open it – yet – but she’s probably not far off. That’s what Flynn was for, a test human sacrifice. We need to figure out how to get there.”

Jiya frowns at her. “Where did you learn all that?”

“From the Rittenhouse agent,” Lucy says, which is true enough. “You were there, do you not remember any of it at all?”

“It’s just really fuzzy,” Jiya says. “Who was that man in black? Was there a man in black?”

“That was the Raven King.” Lucy debates how much to explain. It occurs to her too late that she didn’t ask him about the revenant, about how to free Amy, while they were face-to-face, and yet she can’t help but feel that that information would definitely not have come for free. “He’s a famous magician, kind of a big deal around here. I found out a little about him, but Flynn told me more. You don’t think I still have any of his magic on me, do you? The last thing we need is to go back and set Wyatt off again.”

“I guess not?” Jiya says, in a tone of voice indicating that this is way past anything that even she understands. Almost any kind of science or math, she can get, but magic was never on the curriculum at Caltech. “Lucy, you’re feeling okay, right?”

“I’m fine.” Lucy is surprised by the question, since Jiya is the one who doesn’t seem to remember anything that just happened right in front of her. “Look, at least we have something to report, and it’s still freezing. Let’s go back.”

They trudge through the frozen snow to the main promenade, as Lucy looks out at the ice sheet of the White Sea and tries to think how they are ever going to get to Solovetsky Island. She has definitely been put off the idea of calling on the Raven King again, since what he said about the debt Flynn owes has considerably rattled her. That is definitely not something that Korvin is going to just graciously put aside and forget about, and it sounds very much as if he knows exactly what he wants to settle it. Lucy said no once, but is she going to be able to do it again? Fucking off out of reality to go be an awesome fairy queen and live forever in a magical land is not a terrible fate (you know, if the alternative was coming home to Trump, maybe she should seriously consider it). And yet, Lucy knows it’s not what she, at her deepest and most fundamental level, really wants. It’s not something she appears likely to get. But it still is.

The sun has edged very low on the horizon, even though it’s only midafternoon, by the time Lucy and Jiya, huffing and puffing with cold and exertion, plod back up the steps of the boarding house and knock to be let in. The landlady opens the door, and the air inside is almost scalding in comparison, so Lucy strips off her wraps too quickly and then feels her body complaining vehemently that it doesn’t know what temperature to be. She is somehow both shivering and sweating at the same time as she walks into the kitchen, which is a very stupid state of affairs, and stops short at the sight of Flynn sitting at the table, bent over a stack of books. “Shouldn’t you still be in bed?”

“I told you that I wasn’t staying stuck in there like some weakling.” He answers without looking up, turning the page and frowning at whatever he sees on the other side. “I haven’t been walking, like a good boy. What did you find out?”

“Several things,” Lucy says. “Apparently you were supposed to be sacrificed to see if it would open something called Angel’s Gate. Rittenhouse wants to use it to move aether into my world. It’s on Solovetsky Island, and I have no idea how to get there. And. . .” She hesitates. “And I met the Raven King.”

“What?” It’s only at that last one that Flynn looks up, with a rather wild expression. He pushes back his chair and jumps up, bad leg or not, as if to run toward her. “You – are you – you’re not, he didn’t – ?”

“I’m fine.” Lucy debates whether to mention the rest of it, as she herself is increasingly unsure if it happened, and it is starting to turn jumbled and unclear in her head. “He appeared while we were. . . talking to the Rittenhouse agent I caught. He helped get him to talk. That was how I found out about Angel’s Gate. He said something about a debt you owed him.”

Flynn has an expression of total and badly managed panic on his face at that. He raises a hand as if to run it through his hair, stops, starts to say something, and likewise can’t get it out. “You didn’t. . .” He seems to be forgetting all the words he knows, in any number of languages. “Did he ask if you. . .”

Lucy wants to say that he did, but she can’t remember, and she’s a little thrown by his apparent horror, since this doesn’t seem to be where she recalls leaving things off with them. “I decided against it,” she says. “Whatever he was asking.”

This appears to do nothing for Flynn’s ambient terror level. He mutters a curse under his breath and turns away, almost losing his balance on his bad leg, and has to grab for the table to steady himself. Back to her, he says, as if needing to put it into words to see how unbelievable it sounds, “You rejected the Raven King.”

“Would you rather that I didn’t?” Lucy takes an angry step. If he’s going to tell her that he wished she did vanish into Faerie forever and never saw him again, she’s going to – she doesn’t know, but there will be a lot of slapping involved, which he is possibly fortunate to have evaded. It hasn’t felt sporting to hit him when he’s been in such decrepit shape, but still. “Did you want me to say yes? Or just – go?”

Her voice chokes on the last word, she can’t quite get it out, and she thinks just then that if he says yes, if he does say anything remotely in that vein, it will in fact break her heart, and she doesn’t know what to do with that. It’s not a crush, it’s not a passing fancy, it’s not something casual and commonplace and easily replaceable. As she stands there, staring daggers at Flynn and strongly tempted to kill him – which you’d think would not be the correct moment for this realization, and yet, that is Garcia Flynn for you – Lucy feels it settle into her like the snow itself, as cold and frightening and unshakable, elemental, unbearable. Oh shit, she thinks. Oh, shit.

At last, slowly, Flynn turns around and meets her eyes. “I don’t,” he says, as if still struggling to remember how to words. “I don’t – I don’t want you to go. Lucy, how – Lucy, I don’t, I can’t – that’s not why I’m here.”

“Oh?” Lucy takes another step. They’re almost nose to nose despite the height difference. “Then why are you here?”

Flynn opens his mouth. The look on his face is hard to categorize, aside from a blend of shock, confusion, alarm, and consternation, none of which feel like a prelude to an impassioned love declaration. He raises his hand to cup her cheek, as if it’s too hard to say it aloud and he is going to struggle with all his might to demonstrate it instead. That’s not a kiss, right? It can’t be a kiss. But the look in his eyes is heartbroken and tender and more devoted than Lucy thought was possible for one human man, and she rises on her toes, opening her mouth, closing her eyes, ready, so beyond ready to give herself to him, if he will have her, and –

Just then, the kitchen door bangs, a snowy Wyatt and Rufus barge in, and Lucy and Flynn spring apart as if they’ve been electrocuted. It’s good to see that Wyatt is in fact un-wolfed, but Lucy practically wants to throttle him herself for the interruption – even as she is, ridiculously, almost relieved. If it was then, if it was real, if it was what she thought it was just then. . . she doesn’t know if her heart could bear it. She knows it, she knows it, and it’s possibly the first time in her life that she’s been absolutely sure, and she is terrified. She’s in love with Flynn. She’s in love with him. She feels sick at the idea of leaving this reality because it means leaving him and never seeing him again. That every step they get closer to beating Rittenhouse, if they can even flatter themselves that they will, means one step closer to permanent goodbye.

“Well,” Rufus says. “I’m really not sure how much use that was, because we didn’t learn anything. Aside from the fact that it’s freezing, which was obvious. Lucy?”

“Yeah?” She struggles to recollect herself. “What, Rufus?”

“Did you find anywhere about where we’re supposed to go, or do, or – or what?”

“Yes.” Lucy doesn’t know for sure what’s waiting out there in the dark, in the frozen sea, in the night and the wild, and yet. All the woods belong to him. She might not know what, but she does know who, and it gives her a chill beyond all sense or speech. “Solovetsky Island.”

#timeless #timeless ff #lucy x flynn #garcy #garcy ff #starlight & strange magic #steampunk au #fun fact! this is now as long as tangled web #are we done?#no #no we are not #i don't know why they're like this either

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littlekroshkakartoshka · 6 years ago

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Kitsune Tsuki

When they heard her speaking in Japanese, they were not so concerned. It was a longing for her past or something, they rationalized, and it was not hurting anyone. When they saw her reading a book in Chinese, the same could be said. It was only a sad – perhaps even pitiful – longing for an era long since passed. However, when they heard her speak in Russian, this sentiment quickly changed. As far as they knew, she was not familiar with the language in the way that she spoke it – as if she had lived in Russia her whole, immortal life. There was even an odd, unnatural intonation in her voice which was even more off-putting. Then, she started speaking Greek.

Something was definitely wrong.

No one was quite sure how to handle the situation, as when they attempted to speak with her, she would reply in a language they did not know. Worry began to manifest and grow in the hearts of her people. What was happening to Taiwan?

It only became worse from there. About a week into the strange behavior, she began switching languages more frequently. In fact, nearly every other word she spoke was in a different language. She would greet them in Japanese, ask how they were in Russian and English, alternating with each word, and then continue the conversation in this horrid combination of Greek and Latin.

Then came the outbursts, which were random, unpredictable, and quite frightening, to say the least. They were highly uncharacteristic of her, and they were akin to those of a mental patient. She would get hysterical over the smallest, most insignificant things, such as the temperature of the room. She had once cried and wailed for a full hour due to this reason alone.

The country was at a standstill and a complete loss. Every high-ranking official, including her president, met in secret and away from her to discuss her concerning behavior. That was when a pattern was found, and an odd, yet somehow convincing, theory was formed.

“Every time she greets us, it’s in Japanese. Do you think this has something to do with Japan?”

“I don’t know what it has to do with, but it isn’t natural. It’s… It’s supernatural.”

“You must be joking. There is no such thing as supernatural phenomena.”

“I don’t know, but I think getting Japan up here is worth a try.”

***

Japan had just settled into a nice warm bath. His beloved shiba inu, Pochi, was resting by the tub, nearly snoring at this point. Both of them jumped as his phone rang, frightening them out of their relaxed stupor. He had to be quick; this call must have been important – he could feel it somehow. He was right.

On the phone was Taiwan’s president, who explained the situation as calmly as she could. It was clear that she was panicking; her voice was tremulous and she would occasionally pause to think about what she was saying. Time was precious here, and she had to convey everything in the proper manner. The call ended with Japan agreeing to help, draining his bath, and boarding the next flight to Taipei.

Once there, Japan was led to the last place Taiwan had been seen. Luckily, she was still there, and she smiled brightly upon his approach. Japan’s Taiwanese escorts moved away, almost as if in fear of her, leaving him to continue his approach alone.

“Kon’nichiwa!” she said brightly. “Kak dela?”

Japan studied the features of her face. Once more delicate, they now appeared angular and animalistic somehow. She appeared almost catlike, or perhaps she appeared fox-like. Her teeth even seemed sharper than before, but perhaps he was imagining the small, triangular points in her mouth, some of which seemed to lightly graze her pastel lips. No, his – whatever it was – was real.

It was such an odd phenomenon, but a vaguely familiar one as well. He could faintly remember this happening frequently many centuries ago, but why was this? He then surmised that there must be something about it written within the old tomes of one of his libraries. With a promise to return, Japan flew back to his own country to do his research.

***

It took five and a half days of constant reading before he finally found something that matched. The description lined up with Taiwan’s odd behavior, but… weren't these just myths? Myth or not, Japan decided that it would not hurt to attempt an exorcism of sorts. Boarding a flight to Taipei once more – this time with Pochi in tow – he set out to free his fellow nation.

The book said that they were called kitsune, and that they were mischievous fox spirits who sometimes possessed people. It never said anything about them possessing a national personification, but this was to be expected. They caused their hosts to understand other languages and act erratically, and they sometimes altered their physical appearance. The fox spirit took the form of a small lump on the host’s body which would move when they felt threatened. Kitsune apparently perfected to possess poor women, which Taiwan was not. Due to this small fact, Japan believed that this one was attempting to send a message.

The safest, most painless way to exorcise a kitsune was to introduce it to its natural fear: the dog. Japan’s loyal companion Pochi was perfect for this job. He might have been small, but he liked Taiwan quite a lot and was never stingy when it came to giving her little puppy kisses. This was the entirety of his plan, and if it failed, he would have to resort to more dangerous methods that he did not even want to consider. Often the other methods included attempting to physically harm the kitsune, which usually killed the host.

Taiwan’s reaction to Pochi was all Japan needed to confirm his suspensions and quell his skepticism. As the dog bounded forward innocently and happily, Taiwan pressed herself against the wall. She attempted to make herself appear as small as possible, hoping that the horrifying creature would not notice her. However, Pochi had already set his sights on her and was pattering forward to show her some doggy affection.

To her great dismay, Pochi began licking her everywhere he could reach; her face, her hands, even her shoes were not safe. Japan wondered if he could sense the foreign presence within her. He scarcely had time to ponder the thought, however, as the kitsune quickly released her, revealing itself to him.

It was a beautiful creature with golden fur and nine tails that flowed gently behind it. It stood like a human, dressed in a traditional white kimono adorned with cyan leaves and flower patterns.

“Get it away from me!” it shrieked in an ethereal female voice. “Get that thing away from me, please!”

He was not sure why, but Japan complied. He lifted the wiggling dog into his arms. Pochi gave a slight bark of protest, but did nothing more to indicate his dislike of his master’s decision.

“Why did you do this?” Japan asked gently, still uncertain of his own actions. He did not know why he was being so kind to the creature which had possessed his friend. Perhaps it was this odd sense of familiarity that continued to haunt him.

"I just wanted to speak to you,” the kitsune answered, voice still slightly tremulous, “but you could never see me when I appeared to you alone. There used to be a time when you could see me; you could see me and many other yokai. We lived among your people for many years. However, as generations passed, the humans began to forget about us. They stopped believing in us, and, in turn, so did you.”

Japan closed his eyes. Was this true? His memories of such things seemed so fuzzy, but her words slowly brought them back to him. Kappas, noperra-bõ, otoroshi, komainu, zashiki-warashi… All of these creatures used to call his land their home, and while not all of them were friendly, many of them simply coexisted peacefully with his people.

There was so much he wanted to tell the kitsune. He wanted to thank it for opening his eyes again, for not harming Taiwan, for speaking to him. He wanted to ask if he had been friends with it in the distant, foggy past. However, all he could manage was two words.

“I'm sorry.”

“I am, too,” the kitsune said calmly. “I just did not want to remain forgotten. Please… Please remember us. Please don’t forget us again.”

“I do,” Japan said with a nod, “and I won't.”

The kitsune bowed respectfully as a brilliant golden light surrounded it. “Arigato.” With this simple word which reverberated around the room, the otherworldly being vanished, leaving Japan and Pochi alone with Taiwan.

Taiwan stood slowly and looked around, eyes falling on Japan. A small smile crossed her lips and she approached. “It was so strange,” she said after a moment. “It was like I could hear and see everything, but nothing else…”

Japan nodded, matching her smile with a smaller, tired smile of his own. “It is over now,” he said softly. Though it was truly over, Japan had vowed never to forget the incident or the yokai, and he knew that he would not.

“I should thank you for this,” Taiwan went on. “Come on, I'll buy you a drink or two.”

“There is no need for that,” Japan stated, studying her delicate features. It seemed that no damage was done at all and she was truly herself once again.

“I insist,” she said simply. Then, in one swift motion, she moved forward and planted a small kiss on his cheek. After this she turned away, walking out of the room in hopes that he would follow… and he did.

@hwdevents @bubbleteahime

#hetalia #aph Japan #aph Taiwan #JapanxTaiwan #kitsune #Secret Spectres #hwdevents #drabble #writing #fanfiction

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paulisweeabootrash · 6 years ago

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Book Review: Princess Holy Aura

An earlier version of this post was published on Facebook on April 30, 2018.

PAUL IS WEEABOO TRASH; or, Paul Reviews... A Book?!

Q: A book? So, like, you're reviewing based on the first volume of a manga series or something?

A: No, a novel.

Q: A novel.

A: Yeah.

Q: Why not manga? You have a problem with it? Are you being snobby about what kinds of books are better than others?

A: No, not at all. Manga is just another kind of literature. I just felt like doing this novel because it's relevant to--

Q: How? Oh! Is it a novel that an anime is based on? One of those outrageously-long light novel serieses?

A: No.

Q: A visual novel? That seems like something you'd review.

A: No, it's a Western print novel, and there's no anime based on it. But I swear it's relevant.

Q: Relevant...? Hm.

A: Because it's--

Q: Is it something mentioned in an anime or something else you'd review? Oh! Is it "Hyperion"?

A: No.

Q: ..."Portrait of Markov"?

A: That's not a real book.

Q: Well what then?

A: It's a novel about a magical girl.

Q: Oh. Huh. Weird. Proceed. -----

EPISODE 8: Princess Holy Aura (2017)

Princess Holy Aura by Ryk E. Spoor is a magical girl story for people who are familiar with the genre and find its absurdities at least as endearing as they are frustrating. It's a sort of affectionate parody. We follow the normal progression of certain famous magical girl anime — the mascot (a magic rat named Silvertail) giving our heroine her powers, the escalating danger of fights with an otherworldly enemy (an assortment of creatures derived from Japanese and American pop culture and folklore), meeting and bonding with a whole team of magical girls (the Apocalypse Maidens) — with some added twists and an awareness of the rules of the genre that allows the main character to succeed because of his ability to deconstruct what's going on.

The deconstruction is justified--

Q: Wait, did you say "his"?

A: Yes. I'm getting to that. And the pronouns are going to get confusing.

See, the reason Holy Aura is genre-savvy is that her secret identity is Stephen Russ, an impoverished thirtysomething otaku and Air Force veteran. Chosen for his intense willingness to help others and his experience with the stresses of adult life, his knowledge of magical girl shows also turns out to gives him the preparation he needs to understand and anticipate his enemies. Why? Because, as I was going to say before, the deconstruction is justified by magic-users' beliefs about magic affecting how magic works — so it's susceptible to the magic-related memes of whatever culture(s) the current crop of Apocalypse Maidens are from. This means Holy Aura and the other Apocalypse Maidens apply knowledge of various media conventions to figure out, and sometimes anticipate, their enemies.

The other four magical girls, for magical plot contrivance reasons, are actual teenage girls, so Stephen must go undercover as "Holly Owen", Holy Aura's eyeroll-inducing normal human girl form, to find and recruit them. Stephen/Holly deals with the strangeness of abandoning his old life and adjusting to his role — not just physically, but because of how his status as small, young and female now drastically change how others interact with him. This leads to one of my favorite things about the story: how it describes Stephen/Holly's adjustment. Each Apocalypse Maiden is partially herself, but also a cumulative reincarnation of every previous version of the Maiden they are. So Holly not only has Stephen's memories, but those of every previous person to become Princess Holy Aura, all of whom up to this point have apparently been actual teenage girls. As Stephen adjusts to the radically different physical form of Holly, and the differences in treatment that come with it, he also finds himself feeling more and more "right", as if Holly is the "original" and Stephen the assumed persona. This is true not only of acting like a high school girl but also true of her physical body. Stephen's crisis of identity as he realizes he is becoming Holly to the point that his own male body becomes just plain disorienting to walk around in feels genuine and understandable.

The gradual shift from Stephen to Holly eventually leads to (sigh) an inevitable romantic subplot between Holly and another student, because the genre demands it. But I actually like how uncomfortable this is for both Stephen and the reader. At this point in the story, Stephen is in a truly alien and frightening situation. Since Holly is not just a persona adopted by Stephen but has traces of the personalities and feelings of all people who have ever been Princess Holy Aura in the past, Stephen is more and more a passenger in Holly's body rather than the "driver". Stephen is becoming subsumed into Holly, a brand new person born out of the combined experiences of many. So of course Holly has feelings Stephen feels alarmed by and does things Stephen doesn't fully control, and the reader should be creeped out by contemplating what that would be like.

As the book goes on, however, its flaws also become more apparent. Expository conversations (both between heroes and between villains) are an expected part of this genre, and given that there have been many iterations of the Apocalypse Maidens vs. Lovecraftian Aliens battle in the past to learn from there is at least an in-universe justification for them, but there are so. many. of. them. Silvertail's advice in particular gets increasingly tiresome, sometimes feeling as if we're reading "Silvertail's Walkthrough Guide to Magical Girl-ing" instead of a novel, and he has far too many conveniently-helpful magical abilities despite his alleged weakness. The premise also leaves itself vulnerable to an obvious in-universe problem, which it tries to address, but not convincingly. For reasons to do with how magic works, the Apocalypse Maidens reveal themselves to their parents, and this includes them learning that Holly was previously Stephen. As you might expect, this does not go over well. Stephen is genuinely a nice guy, not a "Nice Guy", and attempts to get that message across, but the most convincing argument he can muster is basically "your daughters are safe around me because they could kill me easily if I tried to molest them even if I was in full Holy Aura mode", and worse, parents accepting the situation is explained mainly as a mixture of that reassurance and magic itself keeping the Maidens together. There is, apparently, nothing Stephen can possibly say or do to reassure them he's not a sexual predator. Maybe that's the point of those scenes? It's unclear.

That takes us most of the way (and slightly out of order) through a broad overview of the plot, and I don't want to give any spoilers for the resolution (go read it yourself!). Suffice it to say that it continues along a pretty much "first season of Sailor Moon" trajectory. And of course, the whole book ends in a way that leaves it open to a second season-- er, I mean, sequel, but still definitely ends this particular story arc. Exactly as you'd expect. Exactly as it must, according to the memes controlling magic.

-----

[Classic] W/A/S Scores: 4(+extra) / 1 / 4

Weeb: This is very much a book by a geek for fellow geeks. Although I previously said the Magical Girl genre does not have a high a barrier to entry in terms of general cultural knowledge, and although Princess Holy Aura also incorporates tropes and characters from, and makes references to, a great deal of American media, knowledge of both Japanese and American horror and fantasy tropes is really helpful to "get" what anyone is talking about. Not only is it taken for granted that characters recognize the source material for what's going on, they also sometimes make leaps of logic that I have trouble following, and I don't know if that's a problem with the story or with my own background knowledge so that if I'd seen the right show(s) I would've caught on immediately. Plenty of things are explicitly spelled out, especially in early conversations between Stephen and Silvertail, but familiarity with several magical girl shows or manga would probably be helpful if only to know more specifically what Stephen is talking about. I'd rate this a 4 on the Weeb scale, but also at least a 4 on a scale of American Geek Media — knowledge of H.P. Lovecraft and recent internet lore, and to a lesser extent general knowledge of RPGs and major works of sci-fi and fantasy, are probably essential to not staring blankly going "what is this?" Like certain interminable live-action shows I could name, it mashes together monsters from a variety of source materials with mixed results.

Ass: As if directly responding to common complaints about men writing women in inappropriately-sexualized and deeply-implausible ways, descriptions are actually descriptive rather than gratuitous, and Stephen-as-Holly really only talks about his/her own body in the context of getting used to it, and does so in less-sexualized terms than I've heard women I'm friends with use in moderately-polite company. In fact, although Holly is understandably portrayed as having sexual feelings, Spoor rather aggressively avoids sexualizing her to the audience, which is an important distinction.

Shit: The whole "trust me, I'm not a pervert" interactions with the parents, some way-too-convenient things about the way magic works, and OH DEAR GOD THE EXPOSITION just end up making me go "is that really the best way you could think of to resolve that?". Also, the Cthulhu mythos seems shoehorned and incongruous. It's not great, but it is entertaining and coherent, unlike some things I've reviewed so far, so I'll give it a middling score. I still recommend it if you're in the target audience of "gigantic fucking geek", which, face it, you probably are if you read my reviews.

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Stray observations:

- The action scenes are described well enough that I can pretty much imagine how they'd go shot-by-shot in an anime. Or maybe I've just seen enough anime to know what common shots Spoor is talking about.

- SLENDER MAN IS NYARLATHOTEP. (This is barely a spoiler. It takes about one page for the characters to make the connection.)

- If "Silvertail's Walkthrough Guide to Magical Girl-ing" were a real book, I would totally read it. It would go on my shelf right next to Hate You Forever: How to Channel Your Rage Into Effective Supervillainy, which is also not that good but quite entertaining if you're the right flavor of geek (which, again, you probably are if you read my reviews).

#weeaboo trash #book review #princess holy aura

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ikiaikainen · 6 years ago

Text

Changeling

Winter has always known there was something strange about him - and not just his name. When a new student arrives with looks similar to him, he is instantly drawn to the strange new boy. But where this encounter leads is not something Winter had expected, for better or worse. (2017)

Featured on my oneshot collection Something Strange on Tapas.

Winter had always known there was something wrong with him - something more than just his peculiar nature name, of course. It wasn't that he didn't feel like "not fitting in" with others of his age: he did, he had friends, and in general he had a good, healthy social life for a 15-year-old boy. Rather, it was the way he looked that caused not only curious looks from other people, but also confusion in Winter himself whenever gazing at himself from the mirror: he had strong, sharp teeth (the dentists had been forced to polish them by Winter's parents, but Winter himself had refused them to be completely flattened; at that age he had thought his fangs were cool), his nails always kept growing in odd ways and he constantly had to cut them, and the texture of his hair was strange at best, feeling like animal fur rather than human hair.

What was even stranger, however, was the hair growing on his lower back, and what undoubtedly looked like a scar on his lower back.

Winter knew it was normal in puberty to notice hair growing in strange and often unexpected places the sex education classes didn't cover, but he had had this strange, white hair there as long as he could remember, and the same applied to the small scar.

Winter had often asked his parents about these and other strange things:

"Why are my teeth like that? Why do I have to flatten them?"

"Why is there fur growing on my lower back?", a question immediately met with an agitated response of "It's not fur, it's hair; your great uncle was the same."

He'd further ask about the odd shape of his ears, and the the scar on his lower back; about the nails and the way his hair felt, and the weird, small bumps on his head.

The answers always varied.

The strange, white hair was said to be an unspecified genetic disorder that ran in the family, but all the relatives with the condition were long gone by now. Likewise, the scar on his lower back was initially claimed to be a scar from Winter falling badly as a child. The bumps on his head were somehow related to his skull's structure, and the sharp tips of his ears were simply a remain from the more primal past of humans - it happened sometimes, with kids being born this way due to how their normally inactive genes were somehow activated in birth.

As younger, Winter would always play with the idea he was some sort of monster child who had then gone through surgeries to look more human.

However, such thoughts were quickly buried until logic and reason when he matured, and for a good while Winter had basically forgotten his odditions. Things changed when his puberty started: with the new changes his hormones brought with them, the strangeness of his body became much more apparent.

"Maybe you're intersex?" one of his school friends had suggested: Winter's strange medical past and secretive parents seemed to align with what he had read regarding the topic.

"No, no, that's not it," Winter had replied. "It's not like that; it's definitely different. I have read about it and I can't find myself relating to most of the things the books mention, let alone what people say on forums."

Things came to change, however, when a new boy arrived to the school.

He was a year older than Winter was, but although they weren't in the same class, it was easy to notice the peculiarity of the new student: he was tall, his ears shaped so similarly to Winter's it was almost uncanny, and when he laughed a row of almost predatory teeth could be shown.

All this interested Winter greatly, and a week later, during one lunch break, he sat opposite of the young man.

"Hi," he said as he placed the food tray in front of of the new guy's own. "Is this place free?"

"Uh, yeah," the other mumbled, somewhat awkwardly: he hadn't expected Winter specifically to come here and was a little confused.

"You're the new student, right? What's your name?"

"It's, um," the boy started somewhat awkwardly and paused, as if to think very hard. "It's Ethan. I'm Ethan. And you are...?"

"Winter," he replied and smiled. "I know, it's a weird name: my parents had strange tastes."

"I think it's cool," Ethan answered. "It's kind of otherworldly somehow, I like it."

Not wanting to teeter around the issue any further, Winter decided to risk it all and asked as casually as it was just possible for him in the situation:

"Speaking of otherworldly... I couldn't help but notice your teeth. What's up with them?"

Like out of instinct, Ethan covered his mouth with his hands and looked at Winter with an alarmed expression.

"No, don't worry, I'm not making fun of you!" Winter hurried to explain. "It's just that... Well, look," he then said and opened his mouth, moving his lips a little with his fingers to show his teeth in their full, animal-like glory.

"You have them too?" Ethan asked, eyes wide and blinking faster than what was normal - he seemed to be very particularly abashed by the sight. "Are you perhaps... " Ethan started carefully but then shook his head. "No, nevermind."

"Your ears, too," Winter continued, now intrigued by the reaction he had gotten out of Ethan. "They're kind of sharp, aren't they?"

"Well, yeah..." the other admitted.

"What about your nails?"

"What about my nails?"

Winter showed his hand and the sharp nails he hadn't cut off in order to show them to Ethan. "Do you also have nails like mine? They grow really fast, I usually cut them and file the tips of them to make them less sharp, but I couldn't be bothered lately. So many school things to focus on - you know, that sort of stuff."

Ethan hesitated for a moment, looking at Winter's fingernails and then his own.

"I cut and file them too," he finally said with a low, careful tone. "But they look almost like yours, although they don't grow all that fast, thankfully."

Winter was overjoyed upon finding someone who shared these strange traits with him, and as the curiosity got the better of him, he continued asking: "Do you have any other strange things?"

"Strange things?" Ethan raised his eyebrows.

"Like, well, um... Surgery scars, or something like that? Especially around lower back?"

Ethan was silent, looking at Winter with a strange expression the other boy couldn't quite read or understand. Had he spoken too much? Was Ethan weirded out? Gods, he shouldn't have spoken this much after all.

"Is there... something strange with your lower back?" the new student finally asked upon being silent for so long. "Like, anything?"

"Do you promise not to laugh?" Winter asked solemnly. "Or be weirded out?"

"I promise," Ethan said and raised his hand to make a gesture of a vow. "I don't think I have any right to make any comments about the bodies of other people anyway, no matter how strange."

"Good. See, I have a surgery scar there, but also this... strange white something, like fur? I don't really understand it, mum and dad just claim it's some sort of rare condition, but that's basically it - I can't find any information even online."

Ethan looked extremely thoughtful as he listened to this. Then, out of blue, he asked something Winter had not anticipated.

"Were you adopted? Are you the biological child of your parents?"

"What kind of question is that?" Winter snapped. "Of course I am! I have almost the same hair colour as my father too!"

"Hmm... If you say so," the boy replied and took a bite of his food he had momentarily forgotten to focus on. "I just wanted to make sure."

"Why?"

"I just... wanted to, that's all."

He moved the fork around his salad absentmindedly.

"Hey Winter."

"Yeah?"

"Do you believe in ghosts? Things like that?"

Winter shrugged. "Can't say I do."

"I see..."

"I mean it's not like I can't deny them either, but since I have never seen with my own eyes... I'm not that inclined to believe."

"What would you do if you did... see a ghost or something along those lines?"

The boy laughed nervously. "What kind of question is that?"

"Just answer," Ethan replied but looked away from Winter as he said this.

"I guess I would. I mean, if I can have a condition like this even though the rest of the world doesn't seem to even know it exist, then I guess I could understand a ghost or a demon too - it'd be strange, but not too strange, you know?"

"Gotcha."

Ethan stood up from the table, still half finished food on his plate.

"You finished?" Winter asked, not having even touched his food yet.

"Yeah. But Winter..." Ethan murmured, and once more lowered his voice. "If you want to talk more about that condition thing whatever... Meet me after school at the school gym."

Winter nodded obediently, and fast forward 3 more hours, he was standing inside the empty school gym. It was part of the main building so it was locked only when the school was also closed, and so getting inside was absolutely no trouble for him. Even better, it was also never supervised, so sneaking in was easy, and he had no fear whatsoever about getting caught by a teacher.

He walked around, the dimly lit room so dark he could barely see: the windows of the gym had been blocked with large, black curtains, and only the small holes time had bitten into them gave him any light to see around.

And then he heard Ethan's voice.

"Here, Winter! Let's go to the changing rooms, it's better there."

His voice was silent and raspy, and Winter felt something akin to anxiety rise from within him: just what was Ethan planning to do? Was he really going to talk more about this condition of what they both seemed to have? Or was he going to punch him and steal his money? Or assault him? Was that it?

Winter hit his cheeks with both of his hands to cast off such thoughts, and Ethan heard the slapping sound.

"Winter, what's wrong?" he asked worriedly.

"Nothing, nothing!" Winter replied and stopped hitting himself.

"You don't need to be nervous," Ethan spoke as he stepped inside the back of the gym hall, into the small stairway leading into the changing rooms. "I'm not going to murder you or anything. This is just the best place to talk without anyone interfering. And if someone does come, we are sure to hear it well in advance."

"You're absolutely right," the other nodded. "I would never consider you murdering me. No way."

They were now inside the changing room, and once Winter had closed the door behind him (making sure it was not locked, just in case), Ethan switched on the lights.

"Alright, look," he started, voice shaking a bit. "What I'm about to tell and show you is very, how do you say it... personal. So whatever you say or do, don't make a ruckus, alright? I'm sure you understand."

Nervous but perfectly understanding the concern of Ethan, Winter nodded. However, as soon as the other boy started pulling his pants down, Winter yelped loudly.

"H-hold on!" he cried. "W-w-what do you think you're doing?!"

"I'm not going to take all my pants off!" Ethan replied, flustered as he opened his belt. When his pants fell down on the floor with the belt clicking against it, Winter saw something so strange none of his earlier scenarios of what could happen couldn't even compare to the sight.

Sticking out from his back was, undoubtedly, a thin, blond tail. It was not particularly long but one couldn't have called it short either, and it resembled a lion's tail with a tuft on the top of it, except it was much thinner. Ethan then turned around to reveal his back and lo and behold: blond fur was growing just around the same place as where Winter had it.

"What's... the meaning of this...?" Winter finally let out after moments of staring. "Ethan, you're not pulling my leg, aren't you? This is not a prank?"

"It's not a prank," the boy replied and his tail twitched a little. However, probably feeling self conscious or maybe getting cold, he soon put his pants back on and hid the tail inside.

"What... are you?" the other boy finally asked, still staring at where Ethan's tail had previously been in.

"A changeling, I think."

"A what?"

"Did your parents never read you fairy tales as a child?" Ethan asked.

"Not really..." Winter mumbled. "So please, explain me..."

"Changeling is someone who has been traded to another child," the young man explained in a very a matter-of-fact way. "A troll mother takes her own baby and trades it to a human baby, so the troll raises a human, and the humans raise a troll. That's how it usually goes in stories. Sometimes it's the fairy folk too, or elves."

"So are you a troll?"

Ethan laughed and shook his head. "No, I'm a human."

"But humans don't...." Winter started, but decided not to say anything after all - he couldn't find the right words.

"I was taken from my human parents as a child by a demon mother. It's said that when you spend long enough with them, your body starts to change too to resemble them more. But this is all I can do - I don't have horns or anything similar."

"Then..." Winter started slowly, looking at his shaking hand he had rose over his face. "Then that means... I must be a changeling too?"

"If you grew with humans, it means you must be a demon child, unlike me, who is a human."

Winter put his hand over his mouth and stared at the floor so hard he could have made a hole into it through the sheer intensity of his pierce.

Of course, that'd make sense. It would explain the surgeries, the two lumps on his head that seemed to have grown in the recent years; the secretiveness of his parents and the fact that aside from the similar hair colour, Winter didn't have much else in common with his family or relatives. Granted, there were some similarities, but didn't most people have some? If you took a stranger from the street that vaguely resembled you and told someone you're relatives, surely they would find at least one similarity.

"It must be a lot to take at once," Ethan's spoke and his voice pulled Winter out of his haze. "But since you seemed to be completely left into the dark with this, I thought it'd be the right thing to tell you."

He rubbed the back of his head sheepishly and then looked away.

"I thought there was a possibility that... maybe we were swapped or something, but then I remembered it would have required us to be the same age. And there is a year difference between us, right?"

"Y-yeah... I'm pretty sure I'm exactly the age my parents claim me to me; there were no secrets, hush-hushes or murmurs regarding that topic."

"So... What are you going to do now?"

Winter looked at Ethan.

"I don't know," he then replied and looked away from the changeling. "This is kind of a lot to take. When I came here... I, uh, absolutely didn't expect this to happen."

"Sorry about that," the blond apologized.

"It's fine, now I understand everything that has been puzzling me since I was a kid. But tell me, Ethan, what are you doing here if you were raised by demons?"

"I learned I'm a human only some time ago myself," Ethan admitted with an awkward laughter. "And so I wanted to know what kind of life humans really lead so I came here. Some of my demon friends came too, although they're in different schools - this one refused to take more in due to lack of space and resources."

He laughed again, but this time his cheeks reddened slightly as he continued: "It's not easy being a human, you know? I keep saying and doing weird things all the time; we look similar, but there are a lot of differences between how we and humans behave."

"Like?"

"Like, the demons I grew up with were really playful, in the same way cats and dogs are regardless of their age. Humans aren't like that, people my age are supposed to be much more collected."

"I'm not playful," Winter commented. "Even though it seems I'm a demon."

"It's not entirely biological - it's in the culture too. You have been raised to control your feelings and stuff, haven't you?"

"... you're correct."

"Then... do you prefer to live as a human, or do you want to find your biological parents and live with the demons?" the boy suddenly asked.

"I-I must think about it," Winter breathed. "It's all very sudden, and I'm perfectly accustomed to this kind of life, so I doubt I'd like to change the pace now. But... "

He took a short break and looked at Ethan before speaking: "But I'd like to meet my other parents, one day. Not now, maybe not soon, but some time... And I want to talk to my parents about this too and about them keeping it a secret."

"Sounds like a plan. But say, have your horns grown out yet?"

"No, just two bumps on the head. I was always told it's just my skull being weird."

"Hm, then you definitely want to get something done with them - they should grow out anytime soon. Usually even children have them but maybe the human influence has made you into a late bloomer..."

"O-oh great," Winter stuttered and instinctively touched the two bumps on his head, imagining them bursting out one day to reveal horns. "Um, does it hurt?"

"It might sting at first, from what I have heard - I never got any horns."

"O-okay..."

The two stood there in silence then, looking awkwardly at each other, then the floor and then each other again. Only Ethan's suggestion to leave finally broke the silence, and they both agreed their business here was done.

They sneaked out, made sure to shut off the lights and went outside through the backdoor, as the front door was probably already locked, and the back exit directly led them outside.

"If you want to, like, call or anything or just hang out, just tell me. I can give my number," Ethan spoke once they were outdoors.

"That'd be nice," Winter replied and took out his phone, and Ethan then proceeded to give his phone number.

"Do you like video games?" he then asked, and Winter nodded: "I'm not very good, but yeah, I do."

"Want to hang out in the arcade tomorrow? I can introduce you to the other demons as well - they're all really chill."

Winter hesitated, but only for a moment, and eventually nodded: "I'd love that."

"Great, it's a deal then. Tomorrow, after school, see you there!"

"See you!"

And the two parted their ways. Only then the entire situation where Winter now was in washed over him, and he had to take a hold of the nearby building's wall to keep his balance.

"I'm... a demon?" he thought to himself. "Those surgeries, those secrets, all those were to pretend I'm a human?"

Frankly, Winter didn't mind the fact his tail had obviously been removed as he wasn't very keen on the idea of keeping such a thing a secret. Nevertheless, the fact his parents had never told him the truth upset him beyond words: telling the truth would have saved him from so much suffering and agonizing over a body he certainly liked, but couldn't quite understand.

Once back at home, he would talk about all this. He'd make his parents tell the whole story so that Winter could understand the circumstances of his birth better.

And, the next day, he would meet with Ethan again and talk to demons... Those he was also one of, despite the fact the idea felt absurd at best.

"But Ethan is there," Winter told himself as he now kept walking back home on the silent evening road. "He seems like a good guy, he explains things calmly and so that I understand them too, and he seemed to be happy to be able to meet with me again."

He stopped and took a deep breath.

"What more, he wanted me to understand my circumstances, despite not knowing me at all. He put himself at risk by revealing himself to me, a stranger, just so he could reassure me and show I'm not alone."

Winter smiled, cheeks burning a little.

"I think he is a good guy, truly."

#changeling #original fiction #young adult #oneshot #2017 #hymnia #short story

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