#BUT there is something so lovely and human about vapor trails finding their place in cloud classification

[mezimraky]

hi, vapor trails are a kind of cloud, have a nice day .)

[fallinwitstyle]

In Your Arms

characters/pairings: Loki / Mobius

rating: general

word count: 4821

summary: Loki and Mobius find one another again in the apolycptic New York and while on the run, share a moment.

Notes: I am such shipper trash and in no way do I think this will happen, ever, but I needed to write some fluff for these two. Hope you enjoy.

Read on A03

They had been running for who knows how long. 

Loki didn't tire as fast as mortals and truly he could have kept running, his determination to escape this hellscape fierce but he was accompanied by a human.

A human man who, by all means, had done very well for himself in keeping up with Loki for as long as he could.

But eventually Mobius was starting to run on empty, his pace slowed and his breathing was far too heavy. 

When Loki looked back at him, his cheeks were red from exertion, and sweat beaded on his forehead. 

He had long since shed his TVA jacket and tie, undid a few buttons of his shirt and rolled up his sleeves.. 

"Loki," he gasped for air and Loki, despite where they were and the situation they were in, still got a little thrill that Mobius was alive and was able to say his name. 

"Loki….hold..." Mobius breathed again and slowly came to a stop and leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees.

"Are you alright?" Loki stopped, briefly surveying their surroundings for any signs of danger but quickly turned his attention to his friend. 

He was consistently amazed by how much he actually cared for this man. He could count on one hand how many people he genuinely cared for and all of them, save for Mobius, were gods. 

He had only ever seen human beings as inferior creatures who needed to kneel before him but right from the start Mobius had been different. He never seemed afraid of Loki, he was never intimated, and in fact was almost amused, intrigued and as time drew on, seemed to have some kind of affection for him. 

Mobius panted for a few seconds and Loki watched, his brow furrowed in concern. 

"I just…" he gasped between breaths, and waved a hand. "I need a minute."

Loki frowned and glanced around him. It was getting darker and the other Lokis had warned him of the dangers that lurked in that land. 

They had no protection other than Loki's magic, which could sufficiently protect them but, and he'd be loath to admit out loud, he still felt a little uneasy.

He took a few steps toward Mobius and put a hand on his shoulder and then once more looked around them. 

"Perhaps we should stop here for the evening." Loki suggested, spotting a bit of shelter that would sufficiently keep them safe, at least for the night.

He glanced back at Mobius when the man weakly grabbed onto his forearm. 

His face was pale, despite the pink in his cheeks and his eyes were slightly glazed over. 

"You look like death, Mobius."

Mobius scoffed breathlessly, his lips twitching very slightly at the corners. "Oh thank you."

He wobbled on his feet and Loki tightened his hold on him.

Once Mobius caught his breath, he shook his head, looking up at Loki. "We should keep going."

Loki pressed his lips together and scrunched his nose. "If we do, it leaves me with two options: carrying your dead body or leaving you here. Frankly, neither are attractive options for me."

Mobius blinked up at him and then gave a slight roll of his eyes. "I am not going to die, Loki. I'm a little offended that you don't think I can handle myself."

"I believe you can handle yourself just fine under normal circumstances. However, your body is still recovered from being pruned and we've been on the move for hours. You're only a mortal, you don't have the stamina…"

"Oh spare me the superior god speech…" Mobius breathed out and Loki raised an eyebrow at him. 

"It is the truth."

Mobius continued to glare at him in annoyance and then sighed. 

"If it will make you feel better, then we'll stop."

Mobius came off like he was doing Loki a favor but Loki could see the relief in his face, and felt the way his body relaxed, even slumping forward a little.

"Oh yes, for my sake then." Loki remarked sarcastically and Mobius nodded his head weakly. 

Loki swore the human could sometimes be as stubborn and hard headed as he was, which Loki admittedly admired and the smallest hint of an affectionate smile pulled at his lips, just out of sight of Mobius' gaze as he attempted to straighten himself up and turn.

Loki watched, his brow raised as Mobius began to stagger around aimlessly.

Finally, Loki cleared his throat. "Mobius?"

"Yeah?" Mobius paused and looked back at him and Loki pointed over his shoulder. 

"Shelter's this way."

Mobius grumbled something under his breath and turned on his heel and shuffled back towards Loki. 

The only truly safe space, that wasn't entirely covered by rubble and who knows what else, was a small room just barely big enough for the two of them. 

Mobius immediately took to one wall and let out a groan, his eyes closing, a grimace covering his face as he lowered himself to the ground.

Loki looked around but then decided to take a seat beside him.

Mobius opened his eyes and blinked blearily to Loki. 

"Any more cracks about  human fragility?"

Loki smirked. "Oh I have many. None that I'll say now. For another time perhaps."

Mobius let out a little scoff of a laugh and then leaned forward with a small groan and a large sigh. 

Loki's brow furrowed and he felt an odd pang deep within. Something he was learning was concern. That deep, visceral pain that cut into him. Of course the grief of watching Mobius be vaporized before his eyes thinking he was dead was much worse in comparison but he did care for his health as well. 

Mobius swallowed hard, closed his eyes and tilted his head back to lean against the hard wall. 

"I think perhaps you were right." Mobius muttered softly. 

"Of course.” Loki remarked quickly. “About what?"

Mobius' lips twitched slightly but he didn't open his eyes. "I need to rest. I need to…" he trailed off.

"Rest." Loki surprised himself again with how gentle the command was. "I'll watch over us."

Mobius let out a small hum, but that was the only energy he had left to acknowledge.

Loki kept a watchful eye on him until it seemed he fell asleep. 

Then he let out a small sigh, straightened out his legs and looked out of the small crack in the wall that was letting in what bit of light there was. 

His thoughts drifted - to how they had ended up here, to what the existence of all the other variant Loki's meant, which of course then brought his thoughts to Sylvie.

It wasn't too long ago at all that he was trapped in another apocalypse with her as his companion. 

It somehow seemed fitting he'd end up on some doomed distant moon with another variant of himself and yet somehow wind up on Earth, in New York of all places, with the human responsible for taking him to the TVA in the first place.

Sylvie kept up with him on Lementis. In fact she was very much his equal, perhaps even his superior in some ways. 

She was astounding to him and he wouldn't have minded spending more time with her. 

Having Mobius as a companion was entirely different and by all accounts he should have been annoyed that he had to slow down and take into account a human's shortcomings.

But he wasn't. No, he was entirely too grateful to have Mobius alive to be annoyed with his presence. 

He was extremely irritated, angry even at the TVA and the situation they had put them in but Mobius was just as much of a victim. 

His heart ached at the way Mobius talked about his life before the TVA and how he couldn't remember it. 

Loki vowed to somehow, someway get Mobius to remember. Whether that was somehow finding Sylvie and having her access his memories or learning to do so himself.

He deserved to know the truth. 

Loki suddenly startled when he felt a sudden, solid warmth pressed against his side. 

He turned his head to find that Mobius had leaned in toward him, his head landing on Loki's shoulder, his arm pressing against his. 

Loki stared at the top of his head and his lips parted in slight awe. 

He recalled the brief conversation with Sylvie and how he couldn't let himself fall asleep in her presence because he didn't trust her. 

He knew he had fallen asleep with Mobius before but he was truly stunned that Mobius trusted him enough to not only fall asleep in his presence but seek him out for comfort.

It was a new and thrilling emotion, to have someone so comfortable around him and to be so comfortable around someone else

He had been beginning to feel that way with Sylvie as well but Sylvie was not like Mobius. 

Sylvie was like him and he admired her strength, her determination, her cunning, and wit. She seemed to be the very best parts of him.

Mobius was different- he was human, he was kind, he was good, almost irritatingly so but it was also admirable to Loki and he felt himself drawn to Mobius in a way he had never experienced before. 

He hated the look of disappointment on Mobius' face when he chose to follow Sylvie through the time portal. He hated the anger and betrayal and hurt that Mobius tried to hide when he accused Loki of working with Sylvie...of being in love with Sylvie. 

A ridiculous notion. Loki scoffed to himself and he was loath to admit how much Mobius words to him had stung. Of course he cared for Sylvie. If he knew what love was he might even admit to loving her but not in that way. In the same way he loved his mother. Another being on the same level as him who understood him in a way that no one else could. That was Sylvie.

Sylvie was connected to him, a part of him and he didn't want to let her go but he knew what he felt for her was anything but romantic or even lust, though she was incredibly beautiful, but that was to be expected, as she was, of course, a Loki. 

No, what he felt for Sylvie was nothing like lust and nothing like the warm, soft feeling deep in his belly when he looked down at the man sleeping peacefully on top of him. 

He took a shuddering breath and cleared away those thoughts before he allowed his mind to go there. Those thoughts were frightening and just a little too much to deal with. 

He'd much rather just enjoy this rare moment of peace and comfort beside a man who seemed just as content to be with him. 

He knew he promised Mobius he would keep watch but as the hours drew on, and he reveled in the warmth of the body beside him, he slowly found himself drifting. 

He used just a little bit of magic to shield their little shelter and then closed his eyes, his head leaning to the side until his cheek was pressed lightly against Mobius' soft hair. 

He inhaled slowly, taking in the scent of smoke and sweat and the faintest hint of the most bland shampoo in the universe. 

He tensed only for a moment as Mobius shifted against him but he only moved closer, his hand lightly falling against Loki's thigh. 

A small smile tugged at the corners of Loki's lips and he allowed himself to get lost in the moment, even if it was just going to be just this once. He clung onto it and sank into it, the feeling of Mobiua warm beneath him and slowly drifted off to sleep. 

--

Mobius felt like he was hit by a train. 

He had had particularly arduous missions that left him tired, chasing Variants through time but nothing like this. 

His mouth and throat was so dry that it hurt to swallow.

His whole entire body ached down to his bones and he felt completely drained. 

His head pounded as if there were a thousand hammers trying to knock out his skull.

He now regretted ever having anyone pruned, not only because of what the TVA was, how they had stolen his life, but because it was not an experience he would wish on anyone. 

Yet despite all of this pain, he felt strangely comforted.

His eyes seemed glued shut so he dare not try to open them yet.

As his mind woke up he began to feel his surroundings, it was hot and humid, and there was a tinge of smoke in the air. 

He could feel that he was lying against something solid, yet soft and warm and there was a comforting pressure against his head. 

Loki. He suddenly realized and his chest tightened. 

He finally managed to crack open his eyes and blinked past the initial blurry vision. 

His eyes scanned the area, dimly lit by that smoky haze. 

He vaguely remembered stopping there for the night, but he had been so far past the point of exhaustion that everything was a blur. 

He cast his gaze downward and his heart leapt when he found his hand rested on Loki's thigh and what's more, Loki's hand lightly covered his own. 

He realized then that while he had fallen asleep against Loki, Loki had also fallen asleep against him. 

He was beginning to feel the ache in his neck and back from his position but he didn't want to move. He knew as soon as he did Loki would also wake up and he wanted to marvel in this moment for a little while. 

Loki - the God of mischief. The variant he took control over, the narcissistic, infuriating being who tested his patience at every turn.

Loki had fallen asleep in front of him before, a few times in those early days when they were scouring through files, searching for the other Loki variant. 

However, Loki had never fallen asleep beside him, holding him even. Protecting him, just as he said he would.

Loki's promise had suddenly come to him and his chest tightened again. 

He'd never forget Loki's cry as he was pruned, never forget the look of awe and relief on his face when he saw him again, the smile that lit his face. 

Whatever transgressions Loki had committed against him, the betrayal of leaving him to chase after the Variant - Sylvie - were all forgiven. 

The last thing Loki had said to him before they were confronted by the TVA was the promise of friendship and this time, perhaps despite his best instincts, he believed him.

And so far, Loki hadn't done anything to lose his trust. He stuck by his side, made certain he was alright and watched over him, all the with the air of genuine concern.

Loki easily could have made his escape. Left him behind without a second thought but he didn't. He sat down beside him and went to sleep, holding onto his hand like he wanted to do the very opposite of run away - as if he was holding onto Mobius with all he had. 

The thought warmed something inside of him - sparked the ever growing flame of fondness he was gaining for this Loki. 

Someone good. 

He knew he could have stayed there for hours, his head rested comfortably on Loki's chest. 

That is where he was, he realized, when he became aware of the soft thumping of Loki's heart beneath his ear. 

He couldn't remember the last time he had been this close to another being. Certainly never at the TVA and before that…

His stomach twisted at the harsh reminder that he knew nothing of his life before the TVA. His only memory was that of a jetski and it only came in his fascination with them. He didn't know if he had ever ridden one. 

Finally the ache in his neck became too painful to stay where he was and he slowly lifted his head. 

Just as he suspected, Loki's head shot up, his body tensing as he leapt to the defensive. 

"It's only me." Mobius croaked and winced at his scratchy and sore throat. 

Loki turned his gaze downward to him and instantly relaxed.

Mobius was still aware that their hands were still together on Loki's lap but he couldn't keep his eyes off of Loki's face. 

His eyes were tired which put just a touch of humanity in him but he was most certainly a god and most certainly looked like one. 

Mobius took in a breath and finally broke their gaze and slid his hand away into his own lap. 

Loki's brow pressed together, his lips pursing as he looked down at his own lap. His fingers stretched where Mobius hand had been under his and then he clenched them in a slight fist. 

He forced a tight, small smile to his lips and looked back at Mobius.

"You stayed." Mobius said quietly, looking back up at Loki and his breath caught again at the look in his eyes. 

His gaze had softened, a rare look on Loki but one he had been seeing more and more often, particularly directed at him. 

"Of course." Loki answered like it was the most obvious thing in the world, like he hadn't been known for consistently stabbing people, Mobius included, in the back. 

There was a smirk on Loki's lips but he said with utter sincerity, "I'm not going to abandon you."

Mobius mouth went impossibly dryer and he couldn't speak, just stared at this marvelous being in wonder. 

"Not when you cannot fend for yourself." Loki continued and Mobius released a breath. 

"You still look utterly horrible."

Mobous clenched his jaw and attempted a swallow but his throat was like sandpaper and he only winced and Loki frowned. 

His hand lifted and hovered in the air, almost looking like he was going to reach out to grab Mobius but then his hand fell back to his lap with a small sigh. 

"I'm fine." Mobius insisted, his voice barely recognizable to his own ears and he knew that he wasn’t. His whole body felt like it could combust any moment if he moved.

Yet still he tried. He attempted to push himself up but his head spun and his legs shook and he fell back down. 

Loki's hand did move that time, pressing a steady hand to his back which then slid around his middle to rest on his side.

Mobius closed his eyes tightly, holding his breath while the world spun around him and his stomach churned. 

"I very much doubt that." Loki commented but he could hear the concern in his voice. 

"What do you need?" Loki's voice was quiet at his ear and though he dare not open his eyes to look at his companion, Loki's presence was comforting. 

"Water." He rasped and rested his head between his knees as waves of nausea rolled over him.

"Right." Loki muttered and then his hand was gone from Mobius. He sat in silence, concentrating on his breathing and trying not to throw up, vaguely wondering where Loki was going to find water.

He jumped, letting out a painful screech as suddenly ice cold water poured over him like the heavens had opened up in a personal rain cloud above him.

His head shot up and he ignored the splitting headache and glared in disbelief at Loki. 

The god was standing beside him impishly, his hands hovering in the air where he had conjured the water. 

"To drink, Loki." Mobius hissed at him as the water trickled down his back.

Loki raised his brow. "But do you not feel better?"

Mobius opened his mouth to yell at him but instead took a few seconds to take in what he was feeling. The cold water not only cooled his body but shocked his system back to somewhat functional. His head was still pounding but he no longer felt nauseous and could focus on something other than his pain. 

He huffed, pressing his lips together and ran a hand over his face, pulling the water down from his hair and towards his chest. 

"A little warning would have been nice." He grunted. 

Loki merely shrugged but then waved his hands again and in them appeared a small container of water. 

He extended it toward him and Mobius eyed it suspiciously. 

Loki rolled his eyes at his hesitance. "I'm not going to poison you Mobius. If I wanted you dead there are a million other ways I'd do it."

Mobius lifted his eyebrows at that.

"I won't." Loki quickly added. "But I could."

"I don't believe you would intentionally poison me." Mobius said and the surprised look of what might almost be joy in Loki's eyes made his heart soar. "But in case you haven't noticed, we're in an apocalyptic wasteland. I don't think anything is safe to consume here."

Loki gave him a small smile and extended hisnhand further. "Trust me."

Mobius' got a taste of the water that dripped off his nose onto his bottom lip and was too parched to think about it further. There were worse ways to die he supposed.

He eagerly grabbed it from Loki and at first took a cautious sip but once the cool water hit his throat, he guzzled the rest of it down.

"Thank you." 

He looked back up at Loki and Loki's hand was still outstretched, now palm up for him to take. 

He placed his hand into Loki's and Loki helped him up. He got a brief flash of memory of their first day at the TVA and how Mobius had done the same for him. Their eyes met and Mobius could tell he was remembering the same moment. 

"Like I said…" Loki started, his eyes never leaving his. "I don't feel like carrying around your dead body."

Mobius lifted his brow, a slight smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Is that the only reason?"

There was a flash of something in Loki's eyes that made his stomach flip. Then Loki blinked and his smirk returned to his lips. 

"Should there be another reason?"

Mobius shook his head slightly, pulling his hand out of Loki's and moving it to his hair. He quickly rubbed the water out of it and got a little burst of amusement at the droplets of water that sprayed across Loki's face. 

Loki shot him a faintly annoyed look, a few drops of water rolling down his cheeks.

Mobius chuckled lightly and taking a quick, deep breath, then moved to swiftly wipe then away with his knuckles.

Loki reared back in surprise at the sudden contact and Mobius swore he could have heard his breath catch and stutter. His eyes widened slightly and his eyes followed Mobius' hands as he then patted Loki's chest. 

"Well, friends do typically care for each other's needs."

Loki visibly swallowed and his eyes drifted back to Mobius’ and his gaze softened once more and Mobius felt his heart ache just a little.

Loki always seemed so surprised by gentle, intimate, genuine touches and words and Mobius made it his goal to make sure he did those things more often around Loki. Especially if it earned him the look Loki was giving him now. 

"Yes." Loki murmured slowly, as if he was just realizing this fact.

He realized then that his hands were still resting on Loki's chest. He gave Loki another small knowing smile and then began to pull away but Loki's hands quickly shot up and brought them back. 

Mobius blinked at him, his eyes widening slightly and Loki stared back at him, just as wide-eyed. 

"Mobius….I…" he choked over his words, his mouth hanging slightly open and Mobius smiled at him. 

"I understand Loki. You don't have to say anything."

Loki's brow pressed together and he shook his head. "But I do because I've...I've never had anyone to ever say anything to and now that I do…" he trailed off again and something warm flourished inside Mobius chest as he stared at the god in anticipation.

Loki's face scrunched in slight frustration and he tilted his head up as he searched for the right words. 

Feeling just a little bit daring, Mobius lifted one hand to Loki's cheek and pulled his attention back to him. Their eyes locked and Mobius gave him an encouraging nod. 

Loki was silent for another few seconds, his eyes exploring his. 

"Whatever you need to tell me, Loki, I'm listening."

Loki opened his mouth, taking a breath and then closed it again. His eyes quickly darted back and forth as he clearly argued with himself about something and then he quickly grabbed a hold of Mobius' shoulders. 

Mobius brow shot up and he opened his mouth to question Loki when he was suddenly silenced by Loki's mouth upon his. 

He froze in pure shock but then quickly felt himself melting into the kiss. 

He wouldn't deny that it had crossed his mind once or twice what it would be like but all of his fantasies paled in comparison to the feel of the pressure of his lips, the burning of his hands against his shoulders, the heat that grew within.

It was over just as nearly as it had begun and Mobius was left wobbling on his already weakened legs. His mouth still hung open as he blinked up at Loki. 

His eyes were alive with a spark of desire, and awe and surprise of his own actions. His intense eyes burned into him and he was breathless as he stared back. 

"You are perhaps one of the most irritating and stubborn humans I've ever met." Loki said and mobius blinked a few times, trying to connect his actions with the words. 

"Extremely complimentary Loki…" he breathed.

"I'm not finished." Loki cut him off and Mobius shut his mouth, staring at him silently. 

"I have never encountered a man like you before. You never give up - even on someone like me."

Mobius pressed his lips together in a slight smile. "You're worth it." He said quietly and Loki's eyes widened and he took a breath. 

"You are the only one to ever think so." His voice broke a little as he spoke and Mobius' thumb brushed across his cheek and Loki shuddered beneath the intimate gesture. 

He took a steadying breath and grabbed Mobius’ hand in his. 

"I've never cared about anyone, not really, but somehow you...you...you and all your ridiculous human quirks…." He shook his head and lifted his head. "I find myself caring more than I ever thought I could and it's...very unusual."

"It's good, Loki.” Mobius countered. “Embrace it. You don't have to hide your feelings with me. I promise, no matter what, you are safe with me."

Loki stared at him in awe, searching his eyes for any sign of deception but he'd find none and his eyes began to glisten. 

"You know…" Loki spoke finally, his voice slightly raspy. "I rather think I like you."

Mobius laughed quietly and glanced down wrinkles and then back up at him. "I rather think I like you too. For everything you are, Loki."

Something flashed in Loki's eyes again and he leaned forward toward him when a large explosion suddenly shook the small, faulty shelter they were standing in. 

They fell into one another, Mobius pressing himself against Loki's chest while one of Loki's arms surrounded his back and the other slid to the back of his head securing him to him. 

They closed their eyes as rubble fell around them and Loki created a bubble of protection around them. 

"I think we'd better keep moving." Loki said, once they opened their eyes and found themselves standing in a pile of rubble, now exposed to the smoky open air. 

Mobius frowned as he looked around them, suddenly reminded of where they were and how much danger they were in. 

A brand new cloud of smoke was billowing in the distance, rising from the explosion caused by who knows what. 

"I think you're right."

Loki turned to him, a serious look in his eyes. "I will get us out of here, Moby. Whatever it takes."

Mobius' heart flipped at the nickname. Loki certainly wasn't the first one to use it but it held something special coming from him. 

Mobius nodded hisbhead and lowered his hand, grasping Loki's in his tightly. "I'll be right by your side through it all."

Loki's eyes flashed, a mischievous glint that Mobius had seen countless times but it was accompanied by a certain fondness that was absent before and then he smirked, tugged at his hand and they were off again, prepared to face anything together. 

[claudiarya]

Hey guys, I’ve written a post RoW fanfiction. I warn you that it has a death trope in it, so beware.

You can also read it on Ao3 as well. 

Count words: 5990

Hope Suite

They didn’t know the moment when it all went wrong. Had it been when Kaz had accepted the job? Had it been when Inej had left Pekka Rollins alive, or when they had kept going despite all the adversities, they had encountered? The events of the last days were starting to become a blurring reel, that had done nothing but confuse them. What had started as a fairly easy job for the queen of Ravka, it then had turned out to be a major standoff with their enemies, which was putting not just one country, but the whole world as they knew it in peril. Maybe it had all gone downhill when Jarl Brum had managed to escape his prison cell at Hellgate, aided by one of his most trusted Drüskelle, his mind already too corrupted by the former General’s manipulations.

By the time he had been set free again, and had sought revenge against his detested neighbors, specifically against the witch queen and her monstrous husband, Inej, Kaz and his crew had already been too involved with their task to worry about it. How could they have known that once out, Brum was going to use everything in his power to bend Ravka? The Fjerdan man was aware that he couldn’t compete with its ruler, so he had worked out a different strategy entirely: if he couldn’t hope to win in a direct confrontation, he was going to annihilate her and her subjects from within, even if it would cost the destruction of his own country and more…

They didn’t know how Brum had gotten the information, but he had travelled to the mountains and had somehow liberated a certain shadow summoner from his sacrifice of eternal of pain, well before Zoya could do as she had planned. The shadow summoner in question had disappeared without a trace, only the Saints knew where he could have gone to hide away.

Needless to say, the darkness and its vampiric actions had started to spread again, at twice the speed. It looked like a ravenous beast had been set lose. It had extended in other countries as well, a silent and unannounced menace ravishing everything in its wake, that terrified even sailors at sea. If that wasn’t enough, Brum had also found out about Dirtyhand’s ‘involvement’ with the queen, and had made an ally with an ex Barrel boss, who had lost all his fortunes and power to a teenage crippled kid. Two powerful and dangerous men driven by their thirst for revenge had revealed themselves to be even more unstoppable than any of them had originally believed.

***

Inej remembered when Kaz had asked her to take a short leave from her sea voyages, to run one last time with him and the other crows in this task in which her skills at gathering information were going to be fundamental. Jesper had, of course, already accepted his friend’s proposition, and if at first Wylan had been skeptical, he had ended up joining the crew for the job. Perhaps for his natural instinct to follow wherever the gangly sharpshooter went, or maybe for the fact that he had made friends with the King consort, their shared love for science and ‘infernal gadgets’, as Kaz would call them, a fertile ground for common understanding.

“I won’t force you to do anything,” he had rasped to her while sitting on the roof ledge at the Slat to watch the tepid Ketterdam sun slowly blinking into existence in front of them; their intertwined fingers a testimony of how far they had already conquered together. The only thing that hadn’t won yet was their insomnia.

“Your particular set of skills is needed for this job, but I understand if you don’t want to be dragged into this,” Kaz had continued, and she had known he had slightly turned his head in her direction, as she had kept her eyes on the dawn.

After a while and still no answer from her he had sighed.

“Inej, what I’m trying to say is that we need you. I need you. I don’t think I can do this without you, so please tell me now, so I can send back a definite answer to Her Royal Pain.”

The Suli girl had marveled at his words: she didn’t think she had ever heard Kaz admit out loud that he couldn’t do something without the help of someone else.

“I’ll do it,” she had exclaimed, now turning her gaze on his stone-carved features. “But on one condition: I want Queen Zoya to help me fight against the slave trade in Ravka, and I want her to promise me that human traffickers are going to find the justice they deserve in her country.”

Kaz had squeezed her hand, the look in his eyes an oath to himself as well as to her.

***

Inej clutched her hand on her injured arm. She could feel the blood on her palm, as she watched Kaz keeping at cane point the last of the men who had tried to kill them. Their lead for the relic of Santk Feliks’s heart had taken them here, in an obscure abandoned, or so they thought, monastery on the Ravkan coast, right on the border with Fjerda. They had found out that centuries before, the order of religious men inhabiting the place had been the resting place of the only remaining part of the Saint. An easy reconnaissance job, an easy trail to follow. But ever since the spreading of the blight, of the Kilyklava, nothing had been easy.  It was as if for every movement they made, their enemies were ten steps ahead of them. Inej had never seen anyone outsmart Kaz like that. Usually, he was the one who had everything under control, who could predict every outturn, every maneuver his opponents were going to make. But instead, everywhere they had attempted to gather information, they had encountered a setup of sorts: mainly the place they had intended to scout, burnt to the ground. Had they a spying traitor in their mix? Inej had never seen him more on edge than she had in the last month, but now they had passed the pretense of this being another job. It had stopped being that when the world hab been threatened by an unstoppable force and Pekka Rollins had entered the picture. It was personal. And she suspected that he was also trying to keep true to the promise he had made her.

Inej had thought they had planned this out so carefully, she was sure they would not encounter any unpleasant surprise this time. After the too many (not) coincidences, they had started scheming their way for the hunt of the heart with only the four of them and Nikolai and Zoya, who had had to, although begrudgingly, leave out the Triumvirate and their closest friends from this particular matter of international importance. How was it possible then, that their traces had been tracked even here?  Kaz and Inej had offered for the job, a quick break in into the abandoned archives of the monastery, while Nikolai, Jesper and Wylan would wait for them on the Volkvolny to pick them up and leave after they had completed their task. Perhaps a smaller party was going to attract less attentions, their rouse of a devoted young group of people had served them well in the little town around the old holy building, and they had played their parts too well that Inej had forgotten for an instant that they had a bigger goal in mind. She was never going to forget the easy talk, the laughs they had shared around the table of the little tavern they had resided in, her hand clasped together with Kaz as a sort of lifeline for the both of them; her head resting delicately on his chest as they were lying down on the little bed they shared.

The four men that have been sent to kill them had caught them by surprise. Again.

Kaz had just uttered “We’ve got what we need, let’s go,” when the first thug that had tried to sneak up on him. Inej had made a quick work of the assassins, if her knives embedded in two of the men’s throats were of any indication. Despite that, one of the others had managed to graze her arm with a bullet, when she had momentarily lost her focus because the remaining one had kicked Kaz’s bad leg, eliciting a sound of pain from him. If only Jesper and Wylan had been there with them.

As she hobbled to where he was standing, Inej realized that Kaz was shaking from the effort of not to keel over in pain, his hand gripping the crow’s head of his cane so tightly, she feared he was going to snap it in half.

“Kaz...” she started

“You’re bleeding,” he rasped, diverting his gaze from the man to her, for the briefest of moments.

“It’s nothing,” she said. But she could see that he wasn’t really convinced, and with a soft grunt, he fished from his pocket a handkerchief and handed it to her, before asking to the person on the ground.

“How did you know we would be here?” his eyes two unforgiving coals.

The hired assassin didn’t answer at first but gave away in a little chuckle instead. Suddenly Kaz, still balancing his weight mostly on his good leg, brought down his cane on one of the man’s own legs. His scream of pain echoed around them in the old room.

“It doesn’t feel good, does it?” he said. This was Dirtyhands himself, any trace of the young man he had been with her at the tavern, vaporized.

“Now, tell me how you knew we were here, or I’m going to break every bone you have, and we both know how pleasant that is.”

The man chuckled again, but then he started talking.

“At times one shouldn’t look for spiders,” he said with a sickening grin. “At times, it’s the little insects nobody sees or cares to check because they’re believed to be harmless that tip the scales.”

Inej could see Kaz’s mind trying to figure out the man’s words, his gaze distant.

In that moment she realized that she was never going to tire to see that look on his face. Nor any other looks for that matter. Wobbly, the boy in question turned to her, he took the kerchief she had been pressing on her wound from her hand, and before she could realize what he was doing he tore it a bit and tied it around her bloody arm.

“Let’s get out of here,” he stated, wincing visibly as he made to move towards the door.

The man started laughing again as if Kaz had said something so funny he couldn’t control himself. Inej was on him before she could think. A knee on the thug’s sternum and her blade pressed to his throat.

“What’s so funny?” she inquired, looking down at him with disdain. She was tired, and she wanted to bring Kaz back to the Volkvolny, to get his leg looked properly after.

“In the end, you really are nothing but two delusional kids,” the man said, and Inej could feel his voice reverberate from under her knee.

“Stop speaking in riddles, or I swear to all the Saints known I’ll cut your throat right this second.”

He raised one hand in a gesture of mocking surrender. “Let’s just say that nobody is leaving this place alive,” he conceded.

“What do you mean?” asked Kaz from somewhere behind her, his tone menacing yet on guard. The tip of Inej’s knife scraped the man’s throat when he didn’t immediately answer back, two droplets of blood slid down the blade.

“This place and the whole town are about to be razed down by bombs and cannons. General Brum’s ships are approaching. They wanted to make sure our precious king consort and his flying machine didn’t leave this place unscathed. There’s no escaping your tragic fate now.” He snarled. His voice couldn’t conceal the hate he had for Nikolai, so he must have been one of those Ravkans from the West, unhappy with who was ruling over them now.

“No,” Inej said softly, and shaking her head in disbelief. “You’re lying!”

The man’s eyes lit with a manic light. “The world shall end in flames and darkness before being ruled by Gri –” He never finished his sentence, as Kaz brought down his cane once again, this time on his head.

The silence that followed could have lasted a minute or an eternity, Inej couldn’t be sure.

“Kaz,” she started again while standing.

“You need to leave. Now. I can’t walk, I think my leg is broken, but you need to leave me here and run from this place.” Kaz said, turning to look at her, the desperation palpable in his voice

“I’m not leaving,” she approached him. “We need to warn Nikolai. Tell them all to leave.”  

“Inej – ”

“Either pick up the comm and call them, or give it to me, Kaz. We’re only losing time like this.”  Her tone was unmovable.

Without any more protests on his part, he took out the little ingenious device Wylan and Nikolai had come up with. It permitted them to communicate even from quite long distances.

“Crow 1 and 2 to Too Clever Fox, do you copy?”

For the briefest of instants only there was only the sound of static, but then.

“Too Clever Fox here, I copy you. Kaz? What’s going on?” came the king’s voice.

“Nikolai, listen to me: you have to leave. Now. Get the Volkvolny and depart. This monastery, this town is about to be razed down by bombs. They knew we would be here; Brum’s ships are approaching. You – ”

“We’re coming to get you,” Nikolai interrupted him.

“No, there’s no time for that. You have to leave here now, or it will all be for nothing.” He looked at Inej then, his eyes searching hers in the dim light of the room with evident resignation.

“No! Kaz, Inej, no, we’re coming and we’re all surviving this.” Another protest from a different voice, Jesper’s.

“No! You have to listen and be quiet. I know where the thing we’ve looked for is. It’s hidden somewhere under the little place you train your soldiers. I also know how they’ve been able to predict our every move. Bugs. Check the war room for devices of the sort we’re using right now.”

“I will,” was Nikolai’s response.

There was another brief pause of static, Kaz spoke again, before he could be interrupted

“Jesper, Wylan,” he said. “The Crow Club and everything else is yours and Nina’s. You’ll find all the documents in my office back at the Slat. Do with them whatever you think it’s right.”

“Kaz, please we still have time, we can come and get you.” It was Wylan’s voice now that came from the other side.

Inej got closer and circled the hand in which Kaz was gripping the device with her own. “Wylan, you have to leave. Right now, ring the alarm bell of the town and go.” She started and then said:

“Guys… find my parents, tell them – tell them what happened, and that it was all for something better. We love you.”

Another anguished call for their names echoed around the room they were standing.

Inej took a breath a finished what she meant to say. “Nikolai the Wraith… take good care of her, and don’t forget our promise.  When you see Nina and Zoya tell them – ”

She couldn’t finish the sentence the threat of tears pricking her eyes. Luckily the privateer answered back.

“I’ll tell them, and I promise everything we did by far will not be in vain. Thank you, my friends. We will never forget what you did for Ravka and for all of us.”

Kaz and Inej could also hear the subtle sounds of distress of their friends, their family. She realized in that moment how much all of them meant to her. Funny how life had a tendency to remind you how deeply you loved someone when you’re about to lose everything.

Kaz brought the device back on his lips and in a clear voice said: “No mourners…” and before they could hear an answer coming from the other side, he had already thrown on the ground the device and smashed it with the tip of his cane.

The movement made so that he lost his balance. He would have crashed on the ground if Inej hadn’t been there to prevent the fall. She brought his arm over and shoulder and steadied him.

Kaz looked at her intently, his face turned in her direction, his eyes scanning her features and she knew what he was about to tell her even before he spoke the words.

“Inej, you can still make it, you’re fast, you have to run and save yourself.”

“I knew you were going to say this, but if you think that I could ever leave you behind you’re sorely mistaken.”

He did not relent, and as stubbornly as ever he removed his arm from around her shoulder, he gripped his cane with all his might so as not to fall again and faced her.

“Inej, please. Run now. Live. You have so much you still have to give to this wretched world.” Kaz Brekker never said please, never. Yet here he was, a broken boy standing in front of the girl he had grown to love.

“I can’t do that,” Inej simply replied while shaking her head in denial.

“It was all my fault, and you can’t pay my foolishness with your life, I won’t allow it. It’s not worth it. I’m not worth it.”

She took the short distance separating them and put her hand atop his on his cane.

“None of this was your fault, you have to get that straight. We’ve done something good, we helped our friends, our countries. And you’ll always be worth it to me.”

At her words she felt his breath hitch, but still his eyes held behind them a strange resolution.

“I can’t be the reason why you die here today, why can’t you understand that?” Kaz’s voice cracked, perhaps with the effort of holding back his desperation. Inej brought her free hand up and gently cupped his face with her palm. Her thumb grazed his cheek in a loving gesture.

“I’m not afraid to die, Kaz. But I’m terrified at the idea of a life without you in it. So, no. I’m not leaving, not now, not ever.”

***

As they stumbled outside the musty room of the monastery, Kaz with an arm draped around Inej’s shoulder for support, the Autumnal sun had started its descent. The soft orange and purple hues of the rays reflected on the sea surface, and the waves created a gentle melody. Inej couldn’t help but think that this was the Saints’ way to lead them onto their next job, their next adventure…

They dragged their feet until they were near the shore and lowered themselves down. For a moment that felt like an eternity, they gazed to the horizon, the sheer but peaceful resignation palpable in the air.

When Kaz clasped her hand and looked at her, she remembered a conversation she had overhead between the boy and Zoya.

They had adjourned their meeting after having gone over their plan again, everyone had stepped out of the room except for Kaz and Zoya, who had prevented him from exiting with a question. Curious as to why he hadn’t joined her outside, she had stayed behind the closed door, waiting in the long corridor. She had known that Kaz, and probably the queen too, were aware that she was there, but she hadn’t cared much.

“Just out of curiosity, why are you doing this Mr. Kerch rat?” she had asked, her voice reverberating even outside.

“I thought it was pretty obvious, Your Highness. It’s for the reward.” He had replied in that wry tone of his that she knew drove Zoya crazy.

“Oh, but I don’t think it’s just that.” Even without having been inside, Inej could picture the other woman taking one of the positions she had learned the queen preferred. Arms crossed and a frowned expression to better look down on him. In the crows’ time at the palace, the two Suli women had formed an easy and quiet friendship. The captain of the Wraith had helped her queen to reacquaint herself with her Suli heritage and Inej had even told Zoya that once the situation was over, she was going to bring her to her family caravans, to spend some time amongst their people. They had become sisters at heart and by blood.

“Enlighten me with your glorious knowledge then.”

Kaz had always liked playing with fire, but he was always walking a fine line with the sovereign of Ravka. Perhaps he wanted to see how much she could take before she decided to strike him out of existence on the spot.

“When you saw that this was getting dangerous, that it wasn’t going to be an easy job, you could have easily dropped everything and return to Ketterdam with you crew. Why didn’t you? Why stay when you knew the risks?”

Inej had heard genuine interest in Zoya’s voice that didn’t bore any resentment.

“I don’t know what you want me to answer.”

“Try with the truth, I know it’s hard for you, but indulge me. I know you’re not doing this just for yourself and your own benefit, as shockingly as it may seem. You’re still here for Inej, for the promise we had sworn to keep.” The queen had said as if she had found out the deepest secret of the man standing before her.

“Let me get this straight,” he had rasped. “I’ll always do what’s best for me, but I’m also a man of my word and I made a promise.”

There had been a few seconds of absolute silence, in which probably Zoya had studied him with those piercing blue eyes of hers.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but under certain aspects we’re not that different you and I. Your prickly behavior can only last so long, Kaz, but eventually you’ll have to let go. I’ve learned that even the thickest thorns have their purposes.”  The queen had said with a wisdom that at times made Inej wondered how many lives the queen had already lived.

“Ah, but here’s where your wrong, Your Excellency. In this scenario you’re comparing me to thorn wood, while actually I’m just barren land on which nothing grows.”

His lapidary answer would have been enough to render speechless anyone, but not Zoya the Grisha queen of Ravka. In her spectacular talent at having always the last word she told him: “You’ll realize that you can’t keep up this cold demeanor forever. I just hope it won’t be too late when you do.”

***

Inej squeezed Kaz’s hand tighter and looked him straight in his brown eyes, a shade lighter in the orange sun. From a distance they heard the sound of bells. Their friends had managed to give the alarm, she only hoped they were already on their way back to the palace. The tolls were shortly followed by another sound: propellers guiding the Fjerdan ships to face the town and the monastery. With a small smile grazing her feature she told him said.

“You were wrong. You were wrong that time when you spoke with Zoya.” If at the beginning of her sentence he had seemed confused, now she could see he understood what conversation she meant.

“You’re not just barren land, Kaz. You managed to build something from nothing, you survived all those terrible things in your life and in the process, you managed to grow, to thrive, to do something good for Ravka and your friends. I’m sure your brother would be proud of you. I know I am.”  He didn’t reply.

The rumbling of the aircrafts was almost cacophonic, in contrast to the peace they had basked in not a few minutes ago. Despite that, it was as if the two of them had been placed in a protective bubble of their own, in which not even those machines of war could destroy.

Perhaps it was the lightening, but Inej swore those were unshed tears glinting in Kaz’s eyes. In all the years she had known him, she had never even seen him get emotional or choked up about something, but here, now, on this shore with her, Dirtyhands was doing just that.

“I’ve never wanted for it to end like this – his shoulders shook as he held back a sob – for us, to end like this. Inej, believe me when I tell you that if I could go back, I would do so many things differently. If I could go back, I would start to show you how much I admire you, how much I love you so much earlier than I did.”

Inej’s hand found his face again. The tip of her fingers skimmed his lips in such a tender gesture that they parted under her touch.

“There’s no need for that, Kaz, I already know. And it doesn’t matter how early or late you started. You show me you love me every day.” Her limb continued on her exploration: she touched his brow, his eyes, his cheekbones. “I propose a deal: I’ll find you in the next life Kaz Rietveld, and even there I’ll be waiting for you perched on your windowsill feeding the crows.”

Still looking at her straight in the eye, he let go of her hand, removed his gloves discarding them on the sand and rubbed her disheveled braid between two trembling fingers.

“The deal is the deal. I’ll find you there then.”

The rumble of the ship cannons had reached a deafening peak as their beams struck mercilessly on the monastery in an unescapable trap of fire.

Before the very end, the two held themselves up on trembling knees and embraced the other. A small smile of resigned happiness on both of their faces.

“Stay with me,” Kaz whispered, and unlike another and far time her answer was clear.

“Always.” Inej swore.

Saints protect us both, was the last thing she thought.

And then there was nothing but searing light.

***

In Os Alta the feast on Sankt Nikolai was fast approaching, but even if she was the queen Zoya didn’t feel much festive. The white, still landscape of her country at this time of the year was an accurate representation of what she had been feeling ever since they had managed to find the heart of Sankt Feliks, save Ravka from the plague and its enemies with another peace treaty and bring the Darkling – or Aleksander as he insisted to be called – back to the little palace where they could control him. She knew they were taking a risk, but it was safer to have him closer than not knowing where he was. It had been a hard decision, but she wasn’t going to murder him in cold blood, she was not going to turn into a monster, as he had in his lust for power. In his loneliness.  

When everything had come back to a pseudo- normality, when she had had time to think and just be, it was then that everything she had been holding back for the sake of her country hit her with tenfold the force.

Zoya had understood that keeping emotions bottled inside you, was going to eat you alive in the longer run. It was something she was learning every day, and that she was willing to change, if only a bit. She had started letting go in the small gestures of affection she shared with Genya, in the loving words she had with Nikolai, in the playful banters she occasionally allowed herself to have with the rest of her friends. Her family.

And so, as the Grisha queen strode towards her garden, the winter sun barely a strip on the horizon of a new morning, she couldn’t help the tears that fell down in two cold streaks down her face. Zoya brought an arm up to dry them, the sensation of the thick wool of her winter kefta both prickly and a reassurance.

She opened the door of the little corner of her world. Nobody entered this sanctuary except for Nikolai, since she hadn’t allowed anybody else to see her soul from that close. The structure her king had built for her always managed to leave her speechless. The glass and iron were combined in perfect harmony, and when Zoya worked in it by day, the sun would cast and create a series of little mesmerizing rainbows. However, what would always speak to her were the walls, painted by Alina. The roaring dragon flying, the little fox, the ship resembling the Volkvolny mastering the sea, the colors and symbols of the Grisha orders were her most trusted companions during the solitary hours of her gardening.

It was there where Nikolai found her, tending to her plants and flowers. She heard him enter her safe haven, and she supposed he had come out to her when he had awoken and hadn’t seen her resting beside him.  He approached her and kneeled beside where she was on the ground, a rather small pot between her hands. Nikolai knew that when she was working here like this, he would have had to let go of his privateer side, and just be the man she had fallen in love with and married. In short, he needed to be her anchor.

“Those are nice flowers,” he said, pointing to the little thing with red petals. A genuine interest coloring his voice.

“They’re wild geraniums.” Was Zoya’s noncommittal answer. Her eyes hadn’t looked up at him.

“And what is that other sprout beside the flowers?” Nikolai prompted her again, indicating the smaller, yet visible plant growing alongside the geraniums. It looked like it was enveloping the geraniums in an embrace, its green leaves a stark, yet so right, contrast with the red of the petals.

This time she raised her gaze, and her blue orbs found a pair of comforting hazel ones staring back at him.

“It’s ivy.” Again, she didn’t let herself go into any sort of explanation.

“I remember you with a vase like this when you left for the Suli caravans.”

So, he had noticed, of course he had. Zoya was always taken aback by the fact that when it came to her, Nikolai was even a closer observant than he already was.  

As soon as everything had settled after the whole ordeal, she had decided that she was going to be the one to bring the news to the Ghafas. Her and only her with no escort and no Nikolai in tow. She had told him that she had to do this particular thing alone, and he had just hugged her and encouraged her to go. It had been a spiritual journey of sorts; one she had promised her other Suli sister they would take together…

“Yes,” she said in a whisper. “They were Inej’s favorite flowers. I brought a pot to her parents when I visited the camps. It was the least I could.” With her hand she showed him other three little vases with the same brightly colored flowers and green little sprout of ivy on the side. “Those are for Nina, Jesper and Wylan. It’s their present for Sankt Nikolai.”  

“Zoya,” he started. She knew they’ve been over this before, and yet she couldn’t seem to let her sense of guilt leave her.

“They knew what they were doing, it was their choice.”

“Yes, but it doesn’t make it any easier, Nikolai. When I met her parents – she shook her head – they treated me like their own. Like I was family. I’ve never felt so accepted, so… seen in my life, except for when I’m with you. And yet I’m part of the reason why their daughter has been taken away from them. They both have been taken away from them.” A small moment of silence, and once again she couldn’t stop the little tear escaping the corner of her eye.

“I just don’t understand how there can be such kindness after so much loss.” Zoya wondered out loud.

“It’s the nature of human beings, and also our strength.” Nikolai said. “Even after losing everything, we find it in ourselves to get back on our feet and fight for something new, something worth all the suffering.” He dragged himself closer to Zoya with his arms and then raised a hand to cup her cheek, gently steering her face in his direction. His thumb brushing away the stray tear marking her face.

“As long as there is life, there is happiness, Zoya. There is hope for a brighter future. And that’s exactly what Kaz and Inej had brought us: hope to build something better from the ashes.” He paused and behind his eyes she could see the same emotions that had been haunting her, testimony of the fact that he too had been grieving his friends.

“Don’t let your sorrow squander the hope they enabled with their sacrifice, because you wouldn’t be honoring their memories in that ways.”

“Oh, Nikolai,” she exhaled before throwing her arms around him with such a force he momentarily lost his balance. “Thank you!”

“Any time, my queen. I’ll always be here.” He promised.

“And besides, you know how much I love when I’m being all smart and wise. I couldn’t let this occasion to show it to you slip by.” He finished with a much brighter tone. Zoya softly chuckled, something she hadn’t thought being capable of mere months ago and told him with fake exasperation.

“Of course, you couldn’t. It’s your modesty I fell for after all.”

They remained in each other’s arms for an indefinite amount of time. The only indication of the time passing was the sun which har finally risen, and now was beating on the glass panels of the garden. Zoya continued tending to her plants, all a part of her in some capacity, as Nikolai watched her in a comforting silence, seated on the ground and with his back against a small tree.

“Why the ivy?” he asked her all of a sudden. His eyes returning once again on the pots near him.

“It can grow even in poor soils and although it requires more time for it to bloom than other plants, when it does its resilience it’s unmatched.��� Zoya saw Nikolai nodding in understanding.

“I also found the meaning behind it fitting,” She added.

“What’s the meaning?”

“It symbolizes the constancy of love.”

There was a brief silence in which she saw him taking in the information.

“It is as fitting as it is beautiful,” he said, while he rose to his feet and brought her closer once again, placing a soft kiss on her dark mane.

As they left to go back to the palace, hand in hand, Zoya thought to herself that in life there were people whose souls were connected and strung in ways that couldn’t be explained by logic. She looked at Nikolai walking alongside her and smiled softly to herself, sure she had found the missing piece of her complicated puzzle in the golden boy beside her.

Her gait hadn’t felt this light in months.

In a glass garden, in a country ruled by a powerful Grisha queen with the heart of a dragon, a plant of geraniums and ivy grew stronger by the day, forever entwined in their embrace of constant love for the other.

[tl-notes]

Kobayashi’s Maid Dragon S2 Episode 5 Notes

Better late than never! Hopefully I’ll catch up with these before next week’s episode hits.

私は、種族全体の目的よりも自分がやりたいことをやっているエルマに、興味がありました。

当時の私、そんな感じでしたし。

What Tohru is saying in these shots is a little different in the Japanese:

“I had an interest in Elma, who was doing what she wanted to do instead of advancing the goals of the species [her faction]. Since that’s how I was at the time, too.”

That is, for the first sentence, Tohru is saying Elma wasn’t interested in the broader dragon goals, not Tohru herself.

Then in the second sentence, instead of a wishy washy “I think that’s how it was?” Tohru says that she was like that too, hence her interest.

So it goes from like:

 “I was interested more in Elma than in faction goals, because she was acting freely. I think, anyway.” 

to more of a:

“I was interested in Elma because she was acting freely, not bound by faction goals. That’s what I was like too, after all.”

Not sure if it really counts as a translation note, but since I had some questions about it, here’s a few words on the Tohru/Elma disagreement scene.

Tohru thought Elma was like herself: acting not according to what dragon (or human) society asked of them, but according to their own personal set of values. Elma, by allowing herself to be placed in the position of “god” by the humans, had changed that; she locked herself into permanently being a (large, important) cog in the human society. From Tohru’s perspective, she’d lost the one person she felt kindred with, her fellow “free actor.” She doesn’t particularly care what happens to the humans, hence the 私が言いたいことはそういう話ではない (“That’s not what I’m trying to talk about”) when Elma says she’ll just stop the wars from happening: that’s all well and good, but it doesn’t solve Tohru’s issue.

Hence Kobayashi’s response: both grand (involved the fate of nations), and petty (Elma got “trapped” by food, and Tohru’s initiation of the fight was for personal reasons).

喧嘩するほど仲がいい kenka suru hodo, naka ga ii

This is one of those sayings that is often a giant pain in the butt to translate, because it’s not an odd concept in English, but for whatever reason* there is no common pithy saying for it like there is in Japanese, so it’ll almost come off less smoothly. 

The idea is that, in order to “have a fight” with someone, you have to already have an established relationship that’s at a certain level of closeness.

Two strangers? Why would you even have a reason to fight, who cares. Two acquaintances? Why deal with it, just smile and nod and go on with your day. Two close friends though? You probably care enough to want to convince them of whatever it is, and/or you don’t want to have to hide your real thoughts/feelings around them like you might around, say, just random coworkers or something—meaning more chances for friction.

*My theory on this is that it comes from the same place as the “wow Japanese people are so polite” stereotype and stuff like honne/tatemae as discussed in a previous episode’s notes: in a situation where two strangers/acquaintances might get into a shouting match in the US, in Japan there’s a comparatively higher chance they just tatemae it up to prevent direct conflict and end the situation early—hence less likely to “have a fight” per se. As always this stuff is just on a continuum though.

What do you call these “clouds” left by planes as they fly? In Japanese, they’re called 飛行機雲 hikoukigumo, lit. “airplane clouds.” And they’re not a season word! 

Officially, anyway. 

However, they are heavily associated with summer, to the point where you if you google around to find out if they are a haiku season word, there are a whole bunch of sites to tell you no, they’re not, stop asking. That doesn’t mean they’re not a great way to tell the audience it’s summer anyway, though! 

If you’re curious as to why the summer association: how long vapor trails like this remain visible depends heavily on how humid the air is. More humidity, longer trails. And Japan has very humid summers (and very dry winters!).

If you’ve heard the song Tori no Uta, the OP to Air (also animated by Kyoani), hikoukigumo is the very second word in the lyrics—no coincidence given the heavy summer theming! If you haven’t heard it, I suggest giving it a try.

“Candy shop” here is 駄菓子屋 dagashi-ya, which is a kind of store that specializes in very cheap varieties of “candy” (maybe more accurately snack foods?): dagashi. If you’re seen/read any of the series Dagashi Kashi, you’re familiar with this variety of snack. 

Dagashi is so called because, back in the Edo period, quality white sugar was super expensive and not something commoners could typically eat. Cheaper brown sugar was, though, so you ended up with different terms for stuff made from each: the expensive 上菓子 jougashi and the cheap 駄菓子 dagashi. 

Later, in the Showa period after WW2 when the average person was able to afford a bit more, the term stuck around but more generalized, referring to a wide variety of cheap snacks. These snacks are not necessarily always sugary, and they often have some sort of gimmick so it wasn’t “just” a piece of candy—toys attached, or games/puzzles, or requiring some interesting way to eat/drink them. If you grew up with Dunkaroos: that kinda thing.

Similar to “penny candy,” dagashi was/is cheap enough for children to afford several different varieties of with just a bit of change from their parents, and small stores specializing in them—dagashi-ya—sprung up all over the country, quickly becoming a popular spot for kids… and, not too long after, a symbol of childhood nostalgia. 

They’ve been on a big downtrend in the last few decades however. The spread of convenience stores as a competitor for snack buying is often cited as one reason, while a greater variety of ways for kids to spend their playtime now (video games etc.) is another.

You’re probably aware, but of the many reasons to bow in Japan, to show humility when making a request is a big one. 

Of note here is that Tohru doesn’t push Ilulu’s head down, which other characters in other shows might have done here, but just lightly reminds her: yeah okay you’re a dragon talking to a human, but you’re the one asking—act like it. She does, and her sincerity is rewarded.

The word here is ぱねぇ panee, which is a heavily abbreviated form of 半端(では/じゃ)ない hanpa nai, ~lit. “not halfway/half-done/half-assed.” 

hanpa ja nai→hanpa nai→hanpa nee→panee

It’s used probably how you’d expect: describing something intense af.

(I’m mostly just bringing it up because I love super-shortened slang like this!)

The phrase for “like” here is 気に入った ki ni itta, which is basically to have an interest in something/someone, to take a liking to, to say something is a favorite, etc. When said of another person, there’s typically an air of the speaker considering themselves in a higher position. It generally isn’t “like” in a romantic sense.

Take’s “hey that’s my line,” comes from the fact he’s (in his mind) in the position of power and was judging her on whether he’d try to kick her out of the job. You can tell he was thinking of it as “I like the cut of your jib. I guess you can stay.” kind of thing.

Normally a new employee would not say this about their new boss/job, even if they did like it, though a boss/senpai could of a new employee, hence the “what?”

Notably, Ilulu used “like” earlier in the episode to refer to Tohru as well. In that case it was 好き suki, which is a more literal “like,” with the various implications that may or may not have. Personally, it strikes me as a little odd to translate them both as “like” in the same episode.

And that’s it for episode five! I’m

[echoes-of-the-clockwork]

Book One: Gold (Prompto x Reader) Chapter VIII

Prompto placed one of his hands on the back of her neck, holding her in place as he basked in the softness of her lips. When she didn't push him away, he deepened the kiss. However, he snapped out of his blissful revere a few seconds later and immediately pulled away. He stumbled backwards, realizing he'd push himself on to her. "I-I-I..." Prompto tripped over his own feet and landed on his butt. He sat up, running his hands frantically through his blonde locks. "Six, why did I do that?! I-I'm so sorry, (Y/n)!"

The girl stood up and approached him. She squatted down in front of him, smiling. "Calm down. There's no need to apologize, Prom." She took his hands out of his hair and held them gently with hers. "I do want to know... What did that kiss mean?"

"W-Well..." Prompto casted his gaze to the ground, unable to look her in the eye. He took a few deep breaths, trying to calm himself down so he could say those three important words. He grasped her hands, exhaling with a shaky sigh. "For a long time, I've...I've really liked you. More than a friend. You've been there for me through thick and thin. You never gave up on me and you're still by side even now. I mean, I have Noct and the others, but they aren't you. I know I haven't been the easiest person to live with all these years, but I-I'm glad you've decided to stick around. I haven't had the easiest life, but you made every moment worth while. You're irreplaceable to me. I...I love you, (Y/n)."

(Y/n) clung to every word, taking each one to heart. She remembered every memory she's made with Prompto, cherishing them all. She may have been bound to him because of her status as his guardian, but those memories were made because she cares deeply about him and was infatuated with him. Even if she wasn't his guardian, she would still dedicate herself to him because of how much she cares for him. He too was irreplaceable.

The girl smiled warmly at Prompto. "You've made my life worth while, as well. I cherish every second we've been together and wouldn't trade them for the world. For the longest time, I convinced myself that you were a human and someone who deserved better than me. But still, I found myself falling for you as the days passed. I'm so happy you feel the same way. I love you too, Prompto."

Tears of joy sprang from Prompto's eyes. He grabbed (Y/n)'s hands and tugged her towards him. She lost her balance and fell against him just as he wrapped his arms around her shoulders. He embraced her tightly, burying his face into the crook of her neck and thanking her for loving him over and over again. She placed her hands on his back, trailing her fingers up and down his spine.

(Y/n) pulled away just enough to move her hands from Prompto's back to his cheeks. Sitting on her knees between his legs, she cupped his cheeks in her palms and used her thumbs to wipe away his tears. Smiling, she leans forward and presses her forehead against his. Her golden eyes darted down to his lips for a split second before locking with his cerulean ones. She didn't hesitate to lean in closer and press her lips against his, kissing him sweetly.

It was a brief yet intoxicating kiss. (Y/n) pulled away a few seconds later after noticing the many questionable stares they were receiving from bystanders. She got to her feet, offering to help Prompto off the ground. When he placed his hands in hers, she pulled him to his feet with a smile. "As much as I would love to continue this, we have to meet up with the others. Ready to go?"

Prompto nodded, smiling. "Yeah."

The duo walked down the road a little ways away from the Cauthess Rest Area. (Y/n) transformed and Prompto climbed onto her back. He pulled out his phone and checked Ignis' directions, sharing them with the guardian. Knowing they had just ate, the fox gently trotted in the direction of Aracheole Stronghold. She refused to use the roads in order to prevent another ambush like yesterday. They ran into many packs of voretooths and sabertusks while traveling through nature, but they fled at the sight of the spirit.

Once arriving at Sothmocke Haven, Prompto sighed in relief when seeing the others were safe. He slid off (Y/n)'s back and ran towards his friends. The fox reverted back to her human form, joining the blonde.

"So, what'd we miss?" Prompto asked.

"Besides a talking daemon and other two runestones, nothing much," Noctis shrugged his shoulders. "What about you guys?" He glanced between his best friend and guardian.

"We kicked some imperial ass! Well, only some. There were way too many to handle by ourselves." Prompto slung an arm over the girl's shoulders and pulled her into his side. "(Y/n)'s the reason why we were able to escape without so much as a scratch."

"What took you both so long to get here, then?" Gladio inquired.

"We were hiding from the empire and Prompto's phone was water-logged from the storm," (Y/n) answered. "We didn't see the messages until a couple hours ago."

"We are simply relieved you both are unscathed," Ignis said.

"The same goes for the rest of you. We were worried there for a little bit." The (h/c)-haired girl, once Prompto released her, turned around to face the stronghold. "So, what's the plan?"

"We were just about to discuss such matters."

Noctis, who was sitting in one of the chairs beside Gladio, looks up at his advisor. "So, any bright ideas, Ignis?"

"A dark one, as it were," Ignis stated. "A frontal assault would leave us exposed. But, if we move under cover of night, we might be able to infiltrate the base unnoticed."

"And until then?"

"We learn all we can about the base's design and narrow down the Regalia's location. I'll analyze what intelligence we have available to find us a way in."

Noctis nodded. "Sounds good, Specs."

"All right! We're gonna get our wheels back!" Prompto cheered as he sat down in the chair beside Noctis. "Guess we gotta wait for night fall now." He pulled out his phone and booted up the King's Knight app. While waiting for it to load, his eyes drifted upward. They locked on to (Y/n)'s back and watched her every moment as she offered to help Ignis.

Noctis caught the blonde staring at the girl with a joyous smile etched across his face. "Did...something happen between you two?"

When Prompto realized he was talking to him, he did his best to look everywhere but at (Y/n). "Why would you think that?"

"Besides the fact you're staring at her, no idea."

The sharpshooter lowered his phone, knowing he couldn't hide the truth from his best friend. "I...may have told her how I feel."

Gladio, who'd been eavesdropping, spoke up. "Guessing by the look on your face, it went well."

Prompto sighed dreamily. "It went better than well. It went perfect."

"Who knew you had it in you, string bean."

The younger boy rolled his eyes with a groan at the ridiculous nickname. He looked back down at his phone and saw the game finished loading. He focused his eyes on the screen, but his mind was reminiscing in the kisses he shared with (Y/n) only a couple hours ago. His cheeks were dusted with a light tinge of pink as he played King's Knight until it was time for them to infiltrate the stronghold.

The group left Sothmocke Haven and made their way towards one of cargo entrances located on the side of Aracheole Stronghold. They snuck through rows of storage containers until arriving just outside the cargo entrance. Two soldiers were patrolling the road and inspecting the outgoing cargo. While hiding behind two storage containers, Ignis instructed Noctis when to kill the soldiers. Warp-striking each one, he killed the enemies without alerting the stronghold.

With the way clear, they walk through the cargo entrance. They quickly duck behind stacks of boxes and storage containers when spotting the search lights located on the ramparts. They ducked their heads lower as a MA-X Maniple marched directly towards them with its headlight pointed directly at the cargo they were concealing themselves with. Holding their breaths, they patiently waited for the mech to pass by their hiding spot. It turned to their right, strolling away.

"It's gone," Noctis sighed, relieved it didn't spot them.

"Magitek armor," Ignis whispered.

"Don't wanna mess with one of those," Gladio commented.

"We shouldn't have to if we keep to the shadows." Ignis led the group through the rows of cargo in the direction the mech walked in. Three more soldiers sauntered by, which didn't go unnoticed by the group. Noctis times their movements before warp-striking and killing them one by one.

Now the way was clear. They made their way over to a gate located beside a deactivated MA-X Maniple. Noctis deactivated the barrier keeping them from going any further. While the boys continued forward and ran into another group of soldiers, (Y/n) climbed up a stack of storage containers and stalked the enemies' movements from above. She watched Noctis closely as he managed to take down four of the six soldiers patrolling the area.

The girl snuck across the top of the metal storage containers until she reached the second gate. She glanced over the top and spotted the Regalia not too far away. Her attention was redirected back to the prince when he alerted the last soldier by killing the other one. Before the adversary could raise his gun and shoot Noctis, she manifested a dagger made of pure flames and leapt down on top of the soldier. She jammed the fiery blade into his back, killing him instantly. The dagger vaporized as she stepped away from the soldier's corpse.

Noctis glanced behind him before looking back at her. "Where did you...?"

"Nice save," Gladio complimented, the raven-haired boy's question going unanswered.

"Aw, yeah! That's my girl!" Prompto chanted.

"Well done, (Y/n)," Ignis said.

"The Regalia is just through this gate," she said before turning to the panel and deactivating the translucent barrier. They walk into the next area and immediately spot the car they'd been searching for. However, they were spotted by a MA-X Maniple. As the mech rose to its feet and set its sight on the group, soldiers and magiteks encroached on their position. All the search lights were aimed at them, revealing them in the darkness.

(Y/n) transformed and leapt onto the mech while the boys dealt with the soldiers and MTs. She latched on to one of the missile cannons attached to its shoulders. She growled menacingly as her fangs sunk deeper into the machine's metal exterior. Shaking her head, she managed to tear the missile cannon from the MA-X Maniple and toss it aside. She jumped off its body, using her weight to knock it down to a single knee.

Prompto and Ignis dealt heavy damage to the mech after seeing it had collapsed. Noctis and Gladio kept their attention on the soldiers and MTs trying to surround them. Vaulting a safe distance away from the battle, the fox spirit concentrated her energy into her tails and paws. They ignited with bright flames and she rejoined the fray. She charged through a horde of soldiers and MTs, using her blazing paws and tails to swipe and them left and right.

Noctis saw the others were handling the enemies and decided to take it upon himself to warp up to the watchtower. Using the turret located at the top, he targeted the energy tanks. Explosions shook the ground as the tanks blew up one by one, taking enemies with them. When all the tanks, the MA-X Maniple, soldiers, and magiteks were annihilated, Noctis returned to his friends. Discussing their next target, they headed towards the magitek generator located in the rear of the stronghold.

The sun was beginning to rise. (Y/n), still in her spiritual form, split off from the boys to deal with the overwhelming amount of enemies swarming from all directions. She dealt with them while the others headed straight for the generator. She fought against more soldiers, MTs, and MA Veles-Bises, keeping them at bay for a short time before destroying them. She went to rendezvous with the others when her attention was drawn to the magitek generator. It had been destroyed and weakened the entire garrison.

Running as fast as she could, (Y/n) searched for the boys just as Noctis summoned the mighty Fulgurian, Ramuh. She stopped in her tracks, her slitted eyes traveling up to the sky when seeing the Astral appear. She watched in silence and awe as the god used his power to annihilate the remaining enemies in Aracheole Stronghold. Before Ramuh vanished, she could've sworn he glanced at her.

When the god was gone, (Y/n)'s ears perked up when she sensed a strange presence in the distance. Her golden eyes scanned her surroundings when the presence was slowly moving toward the direction of the Regalia. Instead of pursing the person, she used her connection to the gemstone on Prompto's bracelet to find the boys' current location. What caused her fur to stand on end was both their presence and the stranger's were closing in on each other. She couldn't understand why she could sense the stranger's aura without needing a connection. Pushing the thought aside, she made her way back to the Regalia.

The moment the guardian caught a glimpse of the car in the distance, she saw Noctis, Prompto, Gladio, and Ignis were being approached by a man with a sword drawn she'd never seen before. With her sensitive hearing, she listened in on their conversation while keeping her distance.

"Long has it been, Noctis," Ravus, the man who she detected earlier, hissed.

"Ravus," Noctis growled.

"You receive the Storm's blessing. And yet, you know nothing of the consequences." Ravus raises his sword and points the sharp tip at Noctis's throat.

Gladio was enraged at the sight. "Watch it." He moves to get between them, causing Ravus to reposition the blade with its edge now along Gladio's throat.

Ignis starts to move toward Ravus, but the other man raises his left hand. "Be still. All of you," the man warned.

"Not good..." Prompto muttered.

"Heir to a crown befitting no other. Witness his splendor and glory. All hail the Chosen King."

Noctis, although being threatened by Ravus, stood his ground and snapped back. "Awful high and mighty for an imperial rat, serving the enemy to hunt down Luna!"

Ravus suddenly grabs Noctis' throat with his left hand. "I do not serve. I command!" He shoves the boy backward and Gladio gets between them. The high commander glared at the brute. "The king's sworn shield."

"You better believe it," Gladio snarled.

"A weak shield protects naught." Ravus slowly raises his sword above his head, then brings it down fiercely. Gladio briefly blocks it with his own sword before Ravus parries the weapon away and slams the pommel of his sword into the shield's chest, sending him flying into the side of the Regalia. Prompto runs to check on Gladio while Noctis gets between them and Ravus.

"Wanna go? Let's do it," Noctis remarked in a low, threatening tone. He summons the royal arms and they begin spinning around him.

"Should the Chosen fail, that too is fate." Ravus raises his sword again and went to strike the prince. Before he could bring it down, his blade was deflected by another. He stumbled backwards and casted his glare towards the person who parried his attack, ready to swing his sword a second time.

(Y/n)'s slitted eyes narrowed at Ravus' movements. Raising the cosmic blade gifted to her by Brahma, she ducked under his sword and slammed the pommel into his gut. The high commander collapsed to a single knee. The oxygen was knocked from his lungs and his grip on his sword slipped, resulting in him to drop it. It clattered against the ground. She kicked it out of his reach, pointing the tip of her sword at his throat. She stared down into his heterochromia eyes with a stoic expression. "How does it feel to taste your own medicine?"

Ravus went to snap back, but his eyes fell on the blade she wielded. His eyes narrowed, gritting his teeth. "The Creator's Blade..." He then took note of the gemstone embedded in her upper right arm and her slitted eyes. "You are-!"

"I'd say that's far enough," a voice spoke up. Everyone turned their attention to the owner of the voice and saw Ardyn sauntering towards them. Beside him was Callyx. The auburn-haired man smiled at Noctis. "A hand, Highness?"

"Not from you," Noctis scoffed.

"Oh, but I'm here to help," he innocently replied.

Ignis was suspicious of the chancellor's and Callyx's sudden appearance. "And how is that?"

"By taking the army away."

Gladio glowered at him. "You expect us to believe that?"

"When next we meet, it'll be across the sea. Just so happens we have business of our own with the tutelary deity. Don't we?" Ardyn then took a few steps toward (Y/n), who was still pointing her blade at Ravus' throat. He took off his hat and bowed. "Please do forgive my acquaintance, my dear. He has quite the temper."

The guardian stepped away from Ravus, withdrawing her blade. She noticed Ardyn and Callyx were staring at the cosmic weapon. The chancellor's face remained stoic while the emerald-eyed spirit gaped in shock. He went to step forward, but Ardyn stopped him.

"Ardyn, but she's..." Callyx began.

"We are leaving," the chancellor interrupted the guardian. He then helped Ravus up and said his goodbyes. "Fare thee well, Your Majesty, and safe travels." Ravus, Callyx, and Ardyn walk away.

"You guys know that guy?" Prompto asked.

"Ravus Nox Fleuret, first son of Tenebrae...and elder brother to Lady Lunafreya," Ignis explained.

(Y/n) dispelled the sword with a heavy sigh. "What a weird trio..."

"I'll say," Noctis said.

"They were really into your sword, (Y/n)," Prompto commented. "Where did you get it?"

"That's...a story for another day," she forced a smile.

Gladio rubbed the spot where Ravus hit him with his sword. "I don't care where the damn thing came from. Nice moves back there, by the way."

"Consider it payback for what he did to you and Noctis." She combed a hand through her (h/c) locks. "Now then, let's get out of here."

"Yes, please!" Prompto chanted.

Previous Chapter || Next Chapter || Masterlist

[madasthesea]

Trope: Age Regression

The first Tony said to him when the smoke cleared was:

“My father won’t pay the ransom.”

His voice was about three octaves too high and his head a foot and a half too low.

Peter’s heart was so loud in his ears he could barely hear.

“What?” he rasped.

Tony’s dark eyes darted around the room, his chest visibly rising and falling with each frantic breath. When he spoke, his voice trembled, but he straightened his shoulders and jutted out his chin like he wasn’t afraid at all.

“My father won’t pay you to get me back. He told me.”

Suddenly Peter’s heart was pounding for a whole different reason.

“He told you?” Peter hissed. Tony flinched and Peter took a step back, taking a deep breath.

He looked around him, at the time travel device he and Tony had been working on. Peter wasn’t sure how it had gone so abysmally wrong. But the evidence was standing in front of him, fidgeting and trying not to cry.

“I didn’t kidnap you,” he said after a long moment.

Tony looked dubious at best.

“I swear I didn’t,” Peter insisted. “I was doing an experiment and it went... wrong.”

Despite himself, Tony glanced back at the device, looking curious. He hesitated, glancing back at Peter, then asked, “What kind of experiment?”

“A complicated one,” Peter hedged, crossing the room to examine the device. Half of it was still smoking slightly, the complicated wiring burned and shriveled. Peter sighed.

“Well, clearly you screwed it up,” little Tony said, crossing his arms over his thin chest with a huff. Peter raised an eyebrow.

“Clearly,” he said, unimpressed. Tony’s eyes darted away again, nervous color on his cheeks. When Peter shifted, Tony automatically flinched away, his eyes flashing to the door like he was considering running.

Peter looked at Tony a little closer. He looked exactly like he did in the pictures Peter had seen, him with his circuit board, his computer, the things he’d built at such impressively young ages. But even without those pictures, Peter would have known instantly who was standing in front of him: His eyes were exactly the same—dark, intelligent, sizing everyone and everything up within seconds.

“How old are you?” Peter asked.

Tony hesitated. “Eight,” he finally said.

Peter took a deep breath, letting his cheeks puff up as he blew it out.

“Um, FRIDAY, let Pepper know. And Bruce.”

“Of course, Peter,” FRIDAY answered, and Tony jumped, looking up at the ceiling with wide eyes.

“That’s FRIDAY,” Peter said, then bit his lip. Could he tell eight-year-old Tony about the AI he would create in thirty-five years, or would that affect the timeline of Tony’s life? Was the Tony standing in front of him a fifty-three year old turned eight? Or had Peter pulled the eight-year-old Tony out of his time and sent the adult Tony back to 1978?

He changed the subject. “Are you hungry?”

Tony shook his head, looking wary, but then his stomach audibly growled. Peter snorted.

“Come on. I make some mean grilled cheese.”

“How do we fix it?” Pepper whispered, glancing back at the child with Tony’s eyes, kicking his feet as he sat at the kitchen island eating a grilled cheese sandwich.

“I... I have a few ideas, but I don’t know for sure,” Peter hissed back, his voice high. Pepper had taken the news rather well—better than Peter, at least, who was panicking more and more with each question.

Bruce rubbed his forehead.

“I’ll take a look at the time-travel device,” Peter stammered. “See if I can reverse the polarity. That might do the trick. Maybe.” He groaned, dropping his head into his hands. “This is all my fault.”

Pepper laughed a little and rubbed his back. “Sweetie, I’ve known Tony way too long to believe he wasn’t at least eighty percent responsible for this little snafu. We have three geniuses living in this building and another four on speed dial. We’ll figure it out.”

Peter gave her a small smile, then glanced back toward Tony, who had finished his sandwich and was now watching them, the hesitance in his expression slightly lessened. He smiled at Tony and got a twitchy little grin in return.

 Tony was pouting as he rubbed his arm where Bruce had drawn some blood. Peter steered him out of the medbay with a hand on his narrow shoulder, having overseen the ‘torture’ (as Tony called it, his little voice cracking a little bit when he’d seen Bruce coming toward him with a needle) since Pepper was busy taking care of Morgan and alerting the other residents of the tower about what had happened.

Peter looked down at Tony and rolled his eyes. Tony had apparently always been a drama queen. He led the kid up to the common floor, not quite sure what to do while Bruce was running a few tests, hoping to establish just which Tony they had with them.

A few of the team were there, talking quietly on the couches. Natasha was standing a few feet away, on the phone with Scott, judging by the voice coming from the other end. Tony fell a few steps back, taking in the new space. Peter let him, knowing that the kid was still skittish, unsure if he could actually trust these people.

“Steve?”

Everyone whirled to see Tony, his eyes wide with shock. Peter's heart sank. He turned back to watch as Steve saw who had addressed him, his face falling just a little bit as he looked at the boy. He stood from the couch, coming closer.

“I-I mean, Captain Rogers, sir,” Tony stammered, his hands twisting behind his back.

Steve put on his best Captain America smile.

“You must be Tony,” Steve said, crouching down and offering a hand to shake. Tony took it, his own hand dwarfed by comparison.

“How…” Tony said, looking around. There were tears in his eyes. “My… my dad will be so happy to see you, sir.”

Steve’s smile turned a little pained. “And I would love to see your dad again. But let’s get you taken care of first, ok?”

Tony nodded, still staring at Steve like he was the greatest thing he’d ever seen.

“I’ve gotten the things you listed, Peter,” Bruce said, coming into the room, and Tony’s attention quickly changed over to him. He was a little tightly-wound like that, Peter realized—anything that changed, any new noise or sight immediately attracted his attention and it wasn’t until Tony decided that it was safe that he tuned it out. “We can work on fixing the device tonight.”

“I can help,” Tony said, his young voice confident and eager.

Peter and Bruce shared a glance. Tony seemed to interpret this as doubt, because he huffed and frowned, stopping just shy of sticking his bottom lip out.

“I can. I’m smart. Probably smarter than you.”

Behind Tony, Pepper and Rhodey both bit their lip to keep from laughing.

“We know, Tony, that’s not what we’re worried about,” Bruce quickly soothed. In reality, it was an insanely complicated piece of technology, and while Tony was a genius, he was still eight years old. And any small mistake could make the difference between bringing their Tony back and not. “But having you around the device might set it off, due to the rift in space-time centered around you. You’re an anomaly.”

Peter also had to bite back a smile. That was a good bit of off-the-cuff bluffing.

Tony looked slightly pacified, but his pout was still in place.

“In fact,” Peter said. “I’m not sure I should help either.” He made eye contact with Bruce, telling him to just roll with it. “Since I was in the room when it happened, I might be exposed too. Bruce, maybe Rhodes and Scott can help you and Tony and I will steer clear, so nothing goes wrong.”

“That’s probably for the best,” Bruce agreed.  

 “A planetarium?” Tony asked skeptically, looking up at the glass-plated building in front of them.

“Heck yeah!” Peter cheered, holding onto Tony’s hand—to great protestation—as pedestrians pushed passed them. He’d needed something to get Tony out of the tower while Bruce and Rhodey worked, because he kept trying to sneak down to the lab. Lucky for all of them, his babysitter also happened to be Spider-Man and was able to catch him each time. “Think about how much new stuff we’ve learned since 1978, kid.”

Curiosity lit up Tony’s eyes. “Do people live in space now?”

“Come find out,” Peter said, pulling him toward the entrance.

Despite Tony’s original protests, Tony was instantly captivated by everything in the planetarium. He and Peter jumped on the Geiger counter simulator to mimic an earthquake, and they played the little video game to try to land their rockets on the moon. Peter took a picture of Tony walking on the faux-Mars surface and sent it to Pepper to let her know they were ok.

Tony spent nearly 15 full minutes sticking his hands in the cloud synthesizer, letting the water vapor swirl around his hands as he trailed them along, a look of wonder and peace on his face. Peter watched him, wondering how Tony would react if Peter told him that when he was older, he would invent a suit that let him fly amongst the clouds, through the atmosphere and out past the stars.  

Peter hesitated when they got to the stairs leading up to the fourth floor—the one they’d added after the Invasion of New York in 2012. It was all about the discovery of extraterrestrial life and interplanetary travel. And, as the only person on Earth to have travelled through a wormhole and lived to tell the tale, Tony Stark was an important part in that era of science. Would knowing somehow mess up Tony’s life and by extension all the people he didn’t save?

Tony didn’t have any such apprehensions though. He bounded up the stairs before Peter had decided if they were going or not, and Peter was forced to follow, nearly running into Tony where he stood stock still at the top of the stairs.

Tony’s wide eyes looked around at the exhibit signs that read ”The Confirmation of Extraterrestrial Life” and “The Future of Alien-Human Contact” in bold letters.

“Aliens are real?” he asked, nearly breathless. Peter couldn’t tell if all the pictures and videos were interesting or scary to him, but he crouched down anyway so he could talk to Tony without having to speak over the crowd.

“Tony—” Peter started, only to be interrupted by the sound of jeering, pre-pubescent laughter. He turned to see a group of four boys, around 12 or 13, all with mocking expressions. They were looking at Tony.

“Aliens are real?” One mimicked in an exaggeratedly high voice.

“Were you born yesterday?” Another asked, laughing and shoving the shoulder of his friend, egging him on.

“See any family resemblance?” The first one spoke again, his voice breaking slightly as he snorted, gesturing toward a nearby picture of a Chitauri.

Tony took a step back as if in shock. His little shoulders stiffened and his eyes widened before his face set in a poorly constructed mask of indifference. He didn’t say anything, which was so different from the Tony he knew now, who made it his goal to be brasher and louder and snarkier when he was hurt.

Peter stood and even though he was shorter than most his age, he towered over these little pre-teens. He put a hand on Tony’s bony shoulder, holding him close to his side.

“Hey,” he snarled.

All four faces fell in sync, as if just seeing Peter for the first time.

“Get lost,” he snapped at them, glowering, and all four hightailed it down the stairs.

Tony’s mouth was pursed in a thin line, his eyes determinedly dry.

“Tony,” Peter said, crouching down again in front of Tony.

“I want to go,” Tony said imperiously, but his voice was too high to sound natural.

“Hey, no, we don’t have to go. We want to learn about aliens, remember.”

Tony turned his head away but Peter put a hand under his chin and guided it back.

“Don’t worry about them, ok?” Peter told Tony. “You’re smarter than all four of them put together.”

Tony looked a little surprised, then offered a fleeting smile.

“Do you want to stay?” Tony bit his lip, but nodded. When Peter started walking again, Tony stuck just a little closer to him than usual.

Peter hurried a little faster than he had on the previous floors and managed to keep Tony from reading the various quotes and informational signs. He therefore missed his own name be referenced a couple times. They played one last game, stopped off at the cloud simulator again, then stepped out into the bright sunshine, squinting.

They crossed the plaza, teeming with people and Tony looked around in curiosity.

Peter noticed Tony repeatedly glancing at a street vendor selling ice cream and cotton candy.

“Do you want some?” Peter asked. Tony immediately looked straight ahead, his ears red.

“No, sir, I’m sorry.” Peter made a face at being called sir by Tony.

“Well, too bad,” Peter said, and Tony’s shoulders drooped despite Peter’s light tone. “Because I want some, which means you have to help me eat it whether you want any or not.”

Tony perked up, looking up at Peter in surprise, a hesitant smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

It made Peter think of something Tony used to say—when he was his actual age, not eight. Anytime Peter protested to Tony buying him something, Tony would scoff and say, “Are you really going to deny me the chance to see your face light up? That’s mean, Parker.”

Peter grinned, happy to turn the tables, just for a little bit.

“Come on,” Peter urged. Tony happily trotted alongside Peter as they went and bought some blue cotton candy. They sat on the edge of the fountain, tearing off pieces with sticky hands. Peter laughed at the face Tony made with his first bite, his eyes bright with delight as the treat dissolved in his mouth.

They finished their cotton candy, Tony swinging his feet as they dangled a few inches above the ground. Peter washed his sugar coated fingers off in the fountain, and Tony followed suit.

“All right, buddy, we better head on back.”

By the time they’d gotten off the subway, Tony’s sugar high had worn off and he started lagging behind as they walked the last handful of blocks. There was a moment of terror where Peter glanced over his shoulder and couldn’t see Tony. He stopped dead, ignoring the disgruntled looks people threw at him. After a second, where Peter’s heart pounded against his ribs, Tony’s small figure became visible among the crowd. Exhaling heavily, Peter quickly grabbed Tony’s arm and tugged him up against the building.

“You scared me,” he admonished gently.

Tony blinked up at him, a befuddled mixture of confusion and exhaustion. “Sorry.”

Peter just shook his head and crouched down next to him. “Hop on.”

Tony stared at him.

“Come on, piggy back ride.”

Hesitantly, Tony clambered onto Peter’s back, letting out a small laugh as Peter quickly stood, hooking his hands under Tony’s legs.

Tony was a barely noticeable weight to Peter as he started walking again, the tower looming ahead of them. He was warm though, reassuring Peter that he hadn’t actually lost young Tony Stark in the middle of New York.

“What do you want for dinner, buddy?” Peter asked.

“I get to pick?” Tony asked, his bony chin digging into Peter’s shoulder.

“Sure,” Peter said, shrugging and making Tony yelp and grip onto him tighter. Peter smiled to himself.

“Anything I want?”

“Anything,” Peter confirmed. “As long as it isn’t too spicy. Morgan doesn’t like spicy food.”

“Who’s Morgan?” Tony asked, his voice going high with his curiosity.

Right. Peter had forgotten that Tony didn’t know Morgan, just like he didn’t know any of them. It felt so wrong.

“She’s my little sister,” he said simply.

“Oh,” Tony mumbled, then went very quiet, all excitement at the prospect of picking dinner gone.

“What’s up?” Peter asked.

More silence.

“Tony?” Peter craned his neck, looking over his shoulder only to see Tony’s dark curls.

Tony shook his head.

“Don’t make me tickle it out of you,” Peter warned. “In the middle of the street where everyone can hear you squealing.”

Tony’s head shot up. “No!”

“Alright, so tell me,” Peter commanded, bouncing on his toes to make Tony laugh and take any sting out of the order.

Tony’s little arms tightened around Peter’s shoulders.

“I wish you were my brother,” he muttered, burying his face against Peter’s back.

Peter swallowed, his chest warming. It was a little weird hearing his father figure say he wanted Peter for a big brother, but having his father figure be turned into a eight-year-old was a little weird, too. But it was nice to know that regardless of age and history and responsibility, Tony thought of Peter as his family.

“Yeah?” he asked. Tony nodded. “I’ve always wanted a little brother.”

 True to most eight-year-olds when given the chance to choose dinner, Tony asked for pizza, which they were happy to oblige him with. His eyes nearly bugged out of his head when he was told they were allowed to eat in the living room while watching a movie. He settled down on the couch wedged next to Peter, his hair still horribly messy from the impromptu wrestling match he’d had with Steve while they waited for dinner. Peter shared a look with Pepper, silently agreeing that he was really freaking adorable.

Peter, who had done the math with Tony’s age and realized that, in Tony’s mind, only one Star Wars movie had been released, eagerly suggested they watch the next one. Tony perked up, looking excited for a second before shrinking in on himself.

“Dad says it’s a stupid movie. Space doesn’t work like that.”

Every adult in the room frowned, but Peter did one better.

“Has your dad been to space?” he asked, one eyebrow raised.

Tony shook his head.

“Then what does he know?”

Tony’s jaw dropped, his eyes lighting up with impish delight at the insouciant remark.

“So, Star Wars?” Peter suggested again. Tony nodded so hard he looked like a bobble-head.

By the end of the movie, Morgan was asleep in Peter’s lap and Tony was barely conscious, leaning against Peter’s side. Pepper almost melted into a puddle when she looked over at them and dutifully snapped a picture while Peter rolled his eyes, blushing.

“I’ll take this one,” she whispered, carefully lifting Morgan into her arms while nodding at Tony, “if you take him.”

“Yeah, I’ve got him. Goodnight.”

Pepper leaned over and kissed the top of Peter’s head, then Tony’s, who stirred slightly. Then she disappeared into the hallway.

“Petey?” Tony slurred as Peter picked him up. Peter smiled a little at the nickname Tony had adopted as soon as he heard it from Morgan.

Peter took Tony to Rhodey’s currently unused room, since it was closer to him and Pepper than the usual guest rooms. When he tried to set Tony down, however, Tony clung to his t-shirt.

“Tony?” he whispered. He was shocked to see tears clinging to Tony’s dark eyelashes. He sat on the bed, settling Tony against the pillows, the boy still clutching his sleeve.

“Don’t send me back,” Tony pleaded, his words thick and heavy with sleep.

Peter’s gut twisted, his mouth parting in surprise. He’d known Tony had had a rough childhood; Tony was doing better about being honest about that, about his unhappy relationship with his father. But to want to stay here, with strangers, rather than go back to his parents and his home and everything he knew? It must have been worse than he thought.

What should he say to that? How could he tell Tony “I like you, but I want my grown up Tony back now, sorry?” Would explaining that Tony was actually meant to be fifty-three help or hurt? He didn't know.

Luckily, he was spared from having to say anything, because when he looked down again, Tony was asleep.

Sighing heavily, Peter gently pried Tony's hand from his sleeve and laid it on the bed. He pulled the covers up to Tony's chin, then left, shutting the door silently behind him. He'd deal with that later. Right now, he had a time machine to build.

 Peter woke up late, having only gone to bed at four AM when Bruce had tricked him into going and getting snacks and he’d come back to find that FRIDAY had locked him out of the lab. The machine was coming along fairly well—they assumed, considering the blood results had been unable to determine exactly which Tony they had with them right now.

Peter headed to the kitchen and grinned when he saw Tony and Morgan both already there, Morgan regaling Tony with a very longwinded and very elaborate story about the trip to the zoo she’d taken a few weeks ago. Tony seemed more interested in his pancakes than the story, but he nodded along diligently between bites.

“Peter!” Morgan cheered as he walked in, which always made him feel pretty good. Tony looked up and smiled too, perking up a little bit.

“Hey, squirt,” he said, ruffling Tony’s hair. “Good morning, Momo.” He tickled her side and she squealed in delight.

Peter piled his own plate with slightly cold pancakes from the tray left on the counter, sitting across from Tony at the table before drowning them in syrup.

“Petey, when is Daddy coming back?” Morgan asked suddenly. Peter froze, his fork halfway to his mouth.

“Back?” he repeated stupidly.

Morgan nodded, pouting. “Mommy said there was an emergency he had to fix, but shouldn’t it be fixed by now? I miss him.”

Peter glanced over at Tony, who was watching them from under his lashes, like he was pretending he wasn’t listening.

“Well, sometimes emergencies take a while to fix, M.” Peter paused, looking at Tony again, who looked back up at him, his eyebrows drawn down in a miniaturized version of Tony’s scowl. “I’m sure he’ll be back soon.”

Tony’s mouth twisted into a frown and he suddenly jumped off his chair, leaving the room. Peter sighed, then stood too, following him out.

Tony was sitting in the living room, on the same couch he’d fallen asleep on last night. His toes barely scraped the floor.

Tony jutted his chin out when he saw Peter, his thin arms crossed over his chest.

Even at eight, Tony was a genius. He clenched his jaw, looking straight at Peter with a furious pout that didn’t quite hide the way his bottom lip trembled.

“Am I—” he started, his high voice breaking. “Morgan’s dad, that’s gone, I...”

Peter sighed, then came and sat on the coffee table in front of Tony.

“You were building a time travel device,” Tony said.

“Yeah.”

“And it went wrong.” Peter nodded.

Tony sniffed, then demanded: “Am I your dad?”

Well, not technically, Peter thought, but he wasn’t going to get into that complication with an already distressed eight-year-old.

“Yeah,” Peter said softly.

Tony hiccupped, wiped his nose with his hand.

“Do... do you like me?” He asked, quietly like he didn’t actually want Peter to hear.

Peter’s first instinct was to assure Tony that he loved him, but he remembered Tony talking about how he loved his dad almost as much as he hated him and realized that to Tony, an abused, neglected kid who had spent most of his life thinking he could never be a father, liking and loving were very, very different things.

Peter knelt on the carpet in front of Tony and smiled. “You’re my best friend,” he said honestly.

Tony’s eyes went huge, filling instantly with tears. Peter held his arms open and Tony threw himself into them, burying his face against Peter’s shoulder as his little body shook.

Peter rubbed his back until Tony calmed down, sniffling only a little bit as he sat back in Peter’s arms.

“I’m supposed to be 53?” he asked in disgust. Peter nodded with forced solemnity. Tony’s nose wrinkled. “That’s so old.”

“I know. You have gray hair and everything,” Peter agreed, wrinkling his nose to match Tony’s, making the kid giggle.

“Do I groan every time I stand up? Jarvis does that cause he’s ancient.”

“Every time,” Peter whispered, like it was a secret. “And you fall asleep watching TV.”

“No,” Tony gasped, looking so horrified Peter couldn’t help but laugh.

“Peter.” Peter turned and found Bruce watching them with an almost sad half-smile on his face. “It’s done.”

Tony’s smile dropped and he looked at Peter with wide eyes.

“It’s ok,” Peter assured him.

“Am I... am I going to remember?” Tony asked.

Peter sighed, standing and taking Tony’s hand. “I don’t know, kiddo.”

Tony paused as they passed the kitchen, where Morgan was still sitting at the table, playing with her stuffed Spider-Man toy.

“Ok.”

“Ok,” Peter echoed.

They went down to the lab, where Rhodey and Pepper were waiting. They both gave Tony a hug while Bruce set up the machine. Tony gave Peter another long hug as well, then dutifully stood where Bruce told him to.

There was a flash, some smoke, and eight-year-old Tony was gone. In his place stood the Tony Peter knew so well, with his crows feet and gray hair and reading glasses.

Tony blinked, looking around. “Pep, when did you get here? Bruce? What happened?”

Peter stepped forward and hugged him. He’d liked young Tony but he’d missed his Tony every minute. He liked being the one to bury his face in Tony’s shoulder, having Tony cup the back of his neck and hold him there.

“Kid? You ok?”

“Yeah,” Peter sighed. He could hear the others making a tactical retreat behind him, but still didn’t pull away from Tony, and Tony didn’t make him. He’d learned to appreciate Peter’s clinginess.

“Hey, are you and Pepper going to have more kids?” Peter blurted.

Tony did pull away now, a look of surprise on his face. “Where did that come from?”

Peter shrugged, tucking himself under Tony’s arm as they made their way out of the lab. “I’ve always wanted a little brother.”

Tony snorted. “I already have two absolutely terrible children, I can’t handle a third.”

“Hey.”

Tony shook his head, tightening his arm around Peter’s shoulders. “I guess you never know, kiddo. Life is full of surprises.”

Peter huffed a laugh, thinking about the last day he’d spent with a miniaturized Tony. “Don’t I know it.”

[mugiwara-rosewolf]

Hiiii💚hope ur have a good day/night if it not to much to ask can i have Zoro with a female reader who to shy to confess her feeling for him. You could end it anyway u want 💚

Hello Anon! I loved the concept you sent me, but it turned out a *little* different than I anticipated. If this isn’t what you were hoping for, feel free to Bop me in the DM’s and I’ll try again. Hope you enjoy!

Timid Confession

Zoro x Shy!Reader

6 Romantic Do’s and Don’ts--Swordsman Edition

(Warning: mild cursing. Stupid pirates.)

There comes a time, when every soul on Earth must be open and unbearably honest with another. A time when you must expose yourself. A time where you must open the ribcage of your chest to reveal the butterflies in your stomach, the fluttering of your heartbeat, and the way your breath hitches when a certain silhouette walks by. There comes a time when you have no choice but to lay your life--mind, body and soul--on the line and take a risk. In theory, this is something you know quite well. As a warrior of the Straw hat crew, this willingness to put everything at risk for your dreams is an everyday reality. But what about when that risk is a person? Surely the basic gist is still the same...right?

Wrong. Johnny and Yosaku used to laugh about this a lot--to your face--about how you are an absolute disaster outside of battle. The stoic, competent warrior shown on your bounty poster would vaporize as soon as you sheath your sword. Otherwise, you were a bashful, stumbling mess. And once a certain moss-haired hunter joined the crew...you were finished. With the flash of his sword, he caught your attention. With his wicked-sharp slit of a smile, he punctured the deepest parts of you. Your fate was sealed. Roronoa Zoro would be the death of you. 

Everyone seemed to know what this strange phenomenon was, but to you, it was a goddamned mystery. It was a miracle that you were ever able to speak more than a dozen words to him on any given day. When your paths diverged for the first time, it was almost a relief. But from then on, there was always a gap in your plans. An empty bunk on your ship that used to be filled with snores at the most random hours. Your chest always ached at the memory. 

It was in that space of absence that you realized--you loved him. The thought alone was enough to turn your whole world turned topsy-turvy. Then the Baratie happened. Then Mihawk, then Arlong and then--this peculiar straw-hat pirate, this boy that Zoro had sworn his fealty to--invites you along on his grand adventure. After all the things you’d seen and done, seeing the anticipation glistening in Roronoa’s eyes...how could you say no?

Life since then has been the wildest ride you could ever dream of. Marines, mercenaries, Giant whales and dinosaurs--it’s like something out of a fairy tale. And during all that time, one thing hasn’t changed. Zoro. Your heart pounds in your chest when you hear his footfalls approaching. Butterflies swim up to your throat every time you hear his voice. butterflies in your stomach. Your breath hitches, just from the way he looks at you. There were so many nights, hunkered down with Johnny and Yosaku in some tavern somewhere, where you wondered what you would say to him. To Zoro, if your paths ever crossed again. 

Now here you are, reunited, chasing your dreams together. And yet you still can’t speak, let alone freaking breath in his presence. It was a nightmare. Stuttering every line, palms sweating, knees trembling, face catching fire--every possible symptom under the sun now seemed to increase ten-fold. How the heck were you supposed to genuinely bond with the man you loved when you could barely talk?

Nami was the first to catch on. Of course, she was. Her suggestion was to trick him into confessing his feelings for you. The moment she said the words you just stared at her. You swore right then and there this lady was crazy. Like, ‘dingo ate my baby’ crazy. There was no way in any of the Blues that Zoro had feelings for you. How could he? Every interaction was stilted and awkward. The only reason you two fought well together was that you’d done it before. God, how you’d missed it, in the time he’d been away. You quickly shook yourself free of the thought.

 “Z-Zoro doesn’t work like that,” you’d told her. “Anything underhanded is either--is either gonna fly over his head or piss him off. I-I can’t, I can’t do that…” 

The second time was Chopper’s idea. He hadn’t meant to overhear, but his curious little ears were very sensitive and… “well, I want to help you and Zoro”. 

Which--okay. Zoro and Chopper adore each other. The swordsman is always co concerned and gentle with the young doctor. But he never belittles your resident reindeer for his age or size. That was something you already admired about the elder swordsman. He maintained gratifying respect for everyone in the crew--even Sanji. Nevertheless. You found it very endearing that Copper wanted to help you confess your feelings. As you soon discovered, however...that sweet, innocent winter reindeer had no clue about human romance whatsoever. 

“Well, that was a waste-a--” 

“Wonderful lesson in reindeer culture!” You interjected. Cutting off the cat burglar before she could finish her sentence. “But, uh, m-maybe there are other ways I can go about...er, ya know.”

And so, Nami called in reinforcements. Usopp the Liar. The long-nosed sniper was dragged into the room by his ear. Nami recounted the situation as I hid my face in my hands. His eyes practically sparkled with excitement.

 “Ooh! Okay! I have a great idea! How about I go up to Zoro and start bragging about you, ya know, all the awesome adventures you went on before you saw each other again. Then he’d know just how awesome you are and he’d have to ask you out. I mean, he’s already in lo--” 

“L-loudly snoring in the galley, I’m sure,” you excused quickly, shaking your head. “But if you interrupt his nap, all he’s gonna do is skin you alive.” Ussop visibly paled at the matter-of-fact statement. “I don’t--I don’t want anyone else getting hurt on my behalf so let’s just--I’ll figure something else out.”

Leaving the little pow-wow below decks, you bump into none other than your beloved’s worst enemy--Sanji, the ‘Ero-Cook’. “Ah, Y/N!” He cried in jubilation.

“Sanji!” You squeaked out. Your sudden alarm gave him pause.

“You look distressed, mademoiselle,” The observation alone was enough to turn his expression into a stormcloud incarnate. “If that damned Marimo broke your heart, I swear--”

“N-n-n-n-no!” You hurried to reassure him, waving your hand before Sanji could start kicking anything. “That’s not it at all! I mean, we were talking about--but he didn’t--I mean, he wasn’t even--” after so many fumbles you eventually just gave up, heaving a heavy sigh. “It’s nothing. I’m just bad at being brave.”

“I don’t believe it,” The cook’s immediate reply has you looking up at him in surprise. You saw him pull a cigarette from the pocket of his suit. “Not in a million years. You are one of the bravest angels sailing the seas, Y/N--whatever it is that scares you, they should be ten times more afraid.”

“You still talking about Zoro?”

“Damn right I am,” Sanji growled, his vitriol for Zoro overpowering his typical decorum. His lighter flickered to life as his eyes met yours. “It’s a gentleman’s job to court a lady, make her feel precious and desired. That brute can’t tell romance from a brick wall.”

“Whatchu talkin’ bout bricks for?” Another voice queried. Both you and Sanji turn. There, at the other end of the hall, is your captain. “Bricks got nothin’ to do with Zoro.”

“L-Luffy,” You stammered. “I thought you were at the figurehead, with Zoro?”

“I was, but then he decided to nap somewhere else. So I came here.” Luffy stated clearly, hands perched proudly on his hips. He looked between you and Sanji again, still curious. “So, why you guys talking about Zoro and bricks?”

“Because that’s how dense he is,” Sanji retorted. “Moss-head can’t tell that our darling Y/N is head-over-heels for his dumbass.” a trail of smoke slithered from between his gritted teeth. 

At the mention of your name, Luffy turned and cocked his head. “But your head is below your heels. Isn’t that how people work?”

“M-most of the time, yes,” Sanji let out a sigh and a low curse. You bit your lip a moment before electing to explain. “But that’s not--what he means is, er, that I....uh, oh how do I explain this? Um. I want to tell Zoro something. But I’m not sure how.”

Your captain stared blankly at you. As if you’d smacked yourself in the face with a plank of wood and he couldn’t sure why. “Why are you so scared?” He asked, point-blank. “Whatever’s the most you thing to do, do it that way. Don’t worry about anything else, Y/N.” 

Both you and Sanji shared a glance. The cook’s narrowed eyes told you he was a little bit sceptical. But he shrugged. He knew better than to question your captain’s logic. You, on the other hand, felt as if the sky had suddenly opened up. The next time you looked back at Luffy, your smile was as bright as the midday sun. “I think...I think you got the right idea, Luffy. I’ll give it a shot!”

Walking past both young men, you found your way to one of Zoro’s favourite napping places. Nami’s orchard. When you find him there, time seems to pause for a moment. The wash of the waves against the ship, the scent of the sun and the salt of the sea. That tang of citrus and those bright spots of colour in the trees--all those things seem hushed now. All you see is that head of mossy green hair and the entrancing rise-and-fall of his breath. You found a rake near Usopp’s garden boxes. It was like you had told the sniper earlier. If you prod a sleeping swordsman, you’ll get skinned alive. That is if you stand within swords-length. 

Blades of grass softly crunch under your shoes as you tip-toe your way to the tree where Zoro is resting. When you’re close enough to reach, you turn the rake over in your hand; electing to poke him with the wooden tip instead of the metal points. If he felt the metal he might mistake it for a weapon and a genuine threat. Goodness knows you and your old bounty-hunting crew had plenty of threats to your sleep over the years. 

One poke. No response. Two pokes. A groan and a slight shift. Then the snoring returns. You poke him three times; poke-poke-poke. He groans and shifts, his brow furrowing at the disturbance. But he still doesn’t open his eyes. You huffed to yourself. You really thought the three-pokes would work. Three was Zoro’s favourite number, after all. Patience fizzling along with your nerve, you finally jab him in the side. 

“Zoro!”

The swordsman jolts awake. He looks up, seeing the broomstick near his shoulder, and traces it to you. “Why are you poking me with a rake?” 

The moment his eyes land on you, all your fizzling patience and brazen nerve seem to vanish into the air. Butterflies surge from your stomach in a tidal wave, suddenly clogging up your throat. Your heartbeat jolts in speed at the sudden onslaught. The rake clatters from your hands as you flounder in embarrassment. “T-to, to avoid being fileted by a grumpy swordsman.”

Zoro huffed. “Put that thing away,” You hurry to do so. It is a vain hope that you might beagle to drain the warm flush from your face by the time you return. All the while, your fellow swordsman scrubs the sleep from his face with one hand. “Why’d you wake me up?” 

“I-I, I wanna talk to you.” You abruptly drop yourself into the grass beside him. Standing above him in this orange grove somehow made you feel weird. If you were gonna have this conversation, you felt you needed to be on the same level.

“Okay, then talk.” 

“Er, okay. So…Zoro, I-I mean I’ve been meaning to tell you that I--” you hesitate. But this time you swallow the lump in your throat, summon your courage--and expose your beating heart. “--I love you.”

Zoro is silent for a long moment. His eyes never waver from where you now sit beside him. Swords propped on his other side, he has his arms wrapped around his knees. Ever since he woke up, his expression hasn’t changed. He just looks at you, plain and straightforward as can be when he says; “Okay.” 

You splutter. The single word response is nearly enough to throw you into conniptions. “Wha-what do you mean just, ‘okay’? I’ve been agonizing over how to tell you how I feel for-for ages! And all you have to say is ‘okay’?!” 

The swordsman snorted. “Like words are the only thing that matters. Your actions speak for you, Y/N. I thought my actions made it clear that I--” 

“...You what?” You blink, watching the spark of a blush rush vividly across the swordsman's’ cheeks. 

“I-I love you, dammit! There. You happy now?” 

The instant those words reached your ears, your smile bloomed like a sunflower. After all the ideas and voices and fears you’d heard today, you could hardly believe it--they were right! After all the years preparing for this moment, you could finally look someone in the eye and speak your truth. “I couldn’t be happier.”

[mostweakhamlets]

SummerOmens: Grass

More fileflies! I hope no one minds what I did with the prompt and the wordplay that allows me two types of grass in this fic. Prompt by @thetunewillcome

-- 

Crowley and Aziraphale insisted that they could find something interesting for both Beelzebub and Dagon that weekend. Really, they had managed to find very little that the four of them could do together in their attempts to rebuild the burnt bridge, but it would be different this time. They insisted. There was a plan in place for Dagon and Beelzebub to meet the angel-demon duo in their cottage around sundown, ready to stay in for the night. 

It had taken a decent amount of convincing to get Beelzebub up and ready that evening. Dagon had braced herself with a jumper for the quickly-cooling temperatures and had picked out a layered outfit for Beelzebub. All it took was physically dragging their body off of the sofa and shoving a comb and clothes at them to make them cooperate. All in all, it wasn’t the most difficult time she had getting them up and ready. 

“It’ll probably be a documentary,” Dagon said as Beelzebub dressed, imaging a long movie about some tyrannous dictator they were expected to find amusing (and probably would). “You can sleep through it if you hate it.” 

“If I had known they were so boring on Earth, I wouldn’t have wasted so much energy harassing Crowley while he worked for us.”

Dagon couldn’t disagree. It was true that they both had expected their new enemies to be brutal and intense and were shocked to find that they were living as mundane humans. It was a waste of their supernatural abilities, they thought. But they let it go, as mundane was what they had to adjust to. 

Aziraphale greeted them at the door and offered tea as Crowley rummaged around in a small cosmetics bag at the kitchen counter. Dagon sipped her tea and watched him pull out a thin electronic cigarette and a vial of taupe liquid. He examined the liquid before setting it in the cigarette. 

“What is that?” Dagon asked. 

Crowley looked over his shoulder. “It’s a vape pen and THC oil.” 

“It’s essentially marijuana,” Aziraphale said. “This is a lot less messy, though. I do have to give Crowley quite a bit of credit for finding this for us.” 

Crowley joined them at the table. Beelzebub had just gotten used to seeing the new cigarettes humans had. They had stared for too long the first time they saw a young woman take a pull from a chunk of black plastic and blow out a large cloud. Hell only had old-fashioned cigarettes that littered the floor of every meeting room. 

“Have you ever tried it before?” Crowley asked. “With how much credit the humans give us for it, I don’t think I met another demon who partakes.” 

Beelzebub and Dagon shook their head. Aziraphale smiled at them. 

“Try a little bit at first,” Aziraphale said. “We find it quite pleasing, but you may not enjoy it. It’s sort of a… it’s an out-of-body experience.” 

“Just press this button, breathe in, and let go,” Crowly said. “Hold it in your lungs for a bit before you exhale.”

He demonstrated, taking a decent amount of vapor in his mouth and passing the pen to Aziraphale while letting a wave of clouds fill the air around them. It didn’t have a particularly strong scent, Beelzebub thought, as they held the pen in the middle of the fog. 

“Press down and then breathe in—that’s it!” Aziraphale said. 

It burned their throat, and the smoke invading their lungs made them feel as if they were suffocating.

Beelzebub choked and coughed, their cloud coming out a lot less dignified. It was humiliating, and they shoved the pen at Dagon. Crowley and the angel were so relaxed doing it, and they couldn’t even hold the smoke in for longer than a second. The Prince of Hell should have been better with something so mild. 

Dagon coughed into her wrist and passed the pen on. “How is this supposed to make us feel?” 

“Mellow,” Crowley said. “You’ll know it when you feel it.”

The pen was back to Beelzebub. Aziraphale suggested it be their last turn, and Beelzebub, not knowing that it was said for their best interest and not because Aziraphale thought so lowly of them, decided to take a long, heavy drag. It was almost immediately released in another coughing fit. 

Dagon passed the pen to Crowley without taking her turn. She turned to Beelzebub, who was trying to desperately find relief in the last few sips of sugary tea they had. 

“Let me get you water,” Aziraphale said. “It can be a pain before you’re used to it.” 

Beelzebub chugged the glass of water as soon as it was in front of them. It eased the burning in their throat a little and calmed their coughing. Aziraphale and Crowley continued to puff on their pen, still unaffected by the piping hot vapor going into their mouths and down their lungs. 

Beelzebub was suddenly aware that they couldn’t feel their legs. They rubbed their palms up and down their thighs and realized that they could barely feel their hands as well. 

“Is this supposed to happen?” they asked. 

“Is what supposed to happen?” Crowley asked. 

Beelzebub didn’t respond. They tried focusing on how denim should have felt on their skin. They grabbed their jumper sleeve to double-check if they had lost all sensation. The jumper was soft but not as soft as they thought it should have been. 

They looked up at the others. Dagon was smiling at them. Crowley had lost interest in whatever was in front of him and was shrugging on his jacket and putting on his sunglasses. Aziraphale took one last drag and handed the pen back to Crowley. 

“Are you ready?” Dagon asked. 

Ready for what? Beelzebub didn’t know. “Yes,” they said, thinking it was better to play along than it was to try to form a question and follow clarification. 

“I think they had a bit much,” Crowley said. 

Beelzebub stood with Dagon and stuck by their side as they walked out the back door. Walking was interesting. While Beelzebub had no feeling, they had no problem telling their legs what to do. They easily put one leg in front of the other and managed a straight line. It was much easier to walk than after a few drinks. There was no stumbling or uncontrollable swaying or tripping over their own feet. The world was straight rather than spinning. They could manage, pulling themselves together for a few seconds at a time before getting lost in their brain again. 

“This is better,” they said. 

“Better than what?” Dagon asked, leading them to sit on the grass in front of Crowley’s vegetable garden. 

Her jumper was soft. Beelzebub could sense how ridiculously smooth and fuzzy it was, trailing their hand up and down her forearm and then up her bicep. They wondered if she was warm enough when she shivered. 

Crowley, in the distance (but really only a few feet away), was talking about the stars. The stars that he had read about on Earth and the ones he had made in Heaven. It was a lecture worthy of a university hall, but Beelzebub didn’t listen. 

They laid back on the grass. Dagon laid with them. 

The stars were brilliant. They were more vibrant than they ever had been, and Beelzebub felt that they could finally appreciate them. On Earth, usually, they were dull and small compared to what they saw in Heaven. And once seeing them up close, there was no point in looking at them from many many many many lightyears away. It was underwhelming, and it was mocking. Heaven kept all the pretty things of wonder to themselves, away from humans despite their claims for loving them so much. And humans had to do their best to reach for them when they were always cruelly just out of reach. 

But now, the stars were there. They were there in front of Beelzebub again, beautiful against the black backdrop. 

There was silence. At some point, Crowley had stopped talking, and they were all left to lay in quiet and appreciate the stars. 

Maybe an hour had passed. Maybe it had only been a few minutes. Time was already a fuzzy concept to a being that had been around for thousands of years and watched the world develop from their throne under the dirt of the Earth. But they didn’t mind it now. Time was abstract, and they were happy to live the rest of the night like that—a little sleepy, feeling the threads of Dagon’s sweater in their hand and the prickle of grass under their neck.

Also on AO3! 

[crooked-sleep]

Day 12 - Beginning of the End [Pt. 2]

hello!! last gift today (anonymously, at least) — man i can’t believe it’s over! i have had so much fun this year and it’s honestly been so great, and i really hope we can become friends after this!!!

warnings: nsfw; top!dean and bottom!sam; more fluff than you know what to do with. apologies if there are any formatting errors, btw, i wrote this one in my notes app because my wifi is total shit today and i’m leeching off my dad’s hotspot.

—

Dean is putting the finishing touches on the chicken he’s just taken out of the oven when he hears the characteristic rumble of the Impala’s engine. Good, Sam’s home. and hopefully he remembered the pie and the beer. The rest of the grocery Dean can go without — who needs that much milk anyway? — but pie and beer are absolutely crucial.

He hears the bunker door clang shut, and a moment later Sam calls out, “Dean?”

“In here!” Dean yells back, sprinkling the last of the garnish on the chicken.

Two seconds later Sam appears in the entrance to the kitchen, hair messy and cheeks pink from the wind outside. He’s got two brown bags balanced in one arm and a plastic-covered platter of pie in the other, and Dean immediately makes grabby hands at it. “Gimme!”

Sam hands it to him, rolling his eyes, and Dean sets it down on the counter before taking the rest of the bags from Sam. Sam clears his throat expectantly, tilting his head, and it takes Dean a second to remember what he’s supposed to do. “Right, yeah,” he mumbles, and then kisses Sam’s cheek.

Sam beams, satisfied, and then says, “Chicken looks great.”

“It better, the seasoning was a pain in the ass,” Dean says as he puts the grocery away. “How about you go get rid of your coat and then we can start, huh?”

“Um,” says Sam, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “I’m good, man, I’m starving. Let’s start now.”

Dean frowns. “You sure, man?”

Sam nods so quickly his hair flies. “Yeah, yeah I’m sure,” he rambles. “Chicken looks amazing, man, why wait? Let’s have it right now.”

Dean narrows his eyes at his brother. “Yeah?” he says. “I don’t know, man, I’m smellin’ a rat. What did you do?”

“I didn’t do anything!” Sam says at once.

“I don’t believe you,” Dean tells him squarely.

And then Sam’s coat meows.

There is silence for a few moments, during which Sam’s face goes from “I am innocent please believe me” to “Oh no I see you getting suspicious” and finally settles on “okay okay fine I might be a little guilty.” Dean narrows his eyes further and crosses his arms, waiting Sam out. Sam bites his lip, eyes impossibly wide and soft, and Dean feels himself beginning to go weak at the knees.

Don’t, he tells himself. He wants you to give in. Resist, dammit!

But fuck, not even the most monstrous creature on the planet could resist Sam when he looks this fucking sweet and innocent, and Dean is only human.

He’s just about to give in when Sam’s coat meows again, and that, for some reason, makes Sam cave first. “Okay, okay, fine!” he says, and pulls out an honest-to-God kitten from his coat pocket. It’s so impossibly tiny that Sam’s hands cover it completely, almost as if he’s afraid Dean’s gaze will vaporize it.

“Sam?” Dean says, deadpan. “Were you seriously trying to smuggle a whole-ass kitten past me?”

“I couldn’t not rescue him, okay, he’s so small!” Sam says defensively, cradling the kitten to his chest. “It’s so cold outside and he was all alone and I didn’t see his mom anywhere and I felt bad, okay!”

“Sammy,” sighs Dean. “You brought home three dogs last month. The month before that it was a fucking rooster. And now a cat? You wanna make our home a zoo? Is that what this is?”

“He’s so tiny, Dean,” Sam says earnestly. “He won’t survive on his own. I couldn’t just leave him.”

The puppy eyes have been upped to 11. Dean hadn’t even thought that possible. The last time Sam had looked like this he’d been literally five and begging for ice cream. Dean’s knees are weak again, dammit, even though he’d told himself a rooster and a puppy ago that he was going to be stronger the next time.

“Please?” Sam says, and has the audacity to stick his bottom lip out a little. “I promise he won’t bother you, Dean. You won’t even know he’s there.”

“That’s what you said when you got Alan,” Dean reminds him, referring to the rooster. “Now he wakes me up every morning by screaming. It’s also what you said when you got Harry, Ron, and Hermione. I didn’t say a thing when you gave them all geek names, and now there ain’t a single slipper unchewed in this house.”

“Well, Bruce won’t scream or chew your slippers, I swear!” Sam says.

“Bruce?” Ahh, fuck it, Dean is disgustingly weak. “You named him after Batman?”

Sam nods. “Yeah. Wanna see?” He holds his hands out, letting Dean look.

The last of Dean’s resolve crumbles at the sight of the kitten, so damn small and — fuck it, adorable. He is so dark that he looks like a little piece of the void, resting in Sam’s hands, tiny body rising and falling with each breath. His eyes are bright green, and despite himself, Dean finds himself falling in love.

“Can we keep him?” Sam asks softly.

Bruce looks up and lets out the tiniest of yawns before stretching and settling again in the palm of Sam’s hand. Dean notices the look on Sam’s face as he watches the kitten, and sighs inwardly. No way he can refuse something that makes Sam look like that, so genuinely carefree and happy.

“Yeah,” he says in the end. “We can keep him. But no more strays,” he adds.

“Promise,” Sam says at once, and then beams at Dean. “Thank you, thank you so much!” Covering Bruce with his other hand, he leans in and puts a messy kiss on the corner of Dean’s mouth.

“Yeah, yeah,” says Dean, already knowing that this isn’t the last stray, not by a long shot. Damn Sammy and his soft spot for all lost and helpless things. “That cat better behave, or it’s your ass on the line. Come on now, let’s eat before it’s cold.”

—

Dean’s lying in bed reading when Sam enters. Without looking up he asks, “Everything all right?”

“Yeah,” Sam answers softly. “Alan and the dogs love Bruce.”

“Good,” says Dean distractedly, still mostly focused on the article he’s reading about Chevelles. “You gonna come to bed now?”

Instead of responding, Sam plucks the iPad out of Dean’s hands, locks it, and puts it aside. That succeeds in getting Dean’s attention. He looks up, and immediately his mouth goes dry.

Sam is naked, hair damp and curling around his face, and he’s got that soft, needy sort of look in his eyes that Dean can never resist. Without waiting for Dean to respond, he climbs up on Dean’s lap, straddling his thighs, and hooks his fingers in the waistband of Dean’s pajama pants.

“Can I?” he asks, before going any further.

Dean swallows, and nods.

Sam smiles down at him, and pulls down his pajama pants. Dean raises his hips a little to help Sam. His cock is already half-hard, his body responding to Sam’s weight on him.

Sam leans in and kisses Dean, hands already working on stroking Dean to full hardness. “Thank you,” he whispers between kisses. “You never say no to me. For anything.”

“Can’t,” Dean confesses, placing his hands on Sam’s waist and stroking his thumbs up and down Sam’s hipbones. “Never could say no to you, baby.”

Sam smiles, small and intimate, and kisses the bridge of Dean’s nose. “I appreciate it, you know,” he tells Dean. “I always do.”

“I know,” Dean tells him with a crooked grin. “That’s why I’m getting laid right now.”

Sam laughs at that. “No, that’s not why,” he tells Dean, and then puts his hands on the headboard, bracing himself as he raises his hips off Dean’s lap.

“Wait, don’t you need prep?” Dean asks, hands still on Sam’s waist as he positions himself.

Sam shakes his head. “Did it already,” he tells Dean, and then sinks down, taking all of Dean in one go. Dean moans at that, head falling back against the headboard. “Wanted to be ready for you,” Sam says, and wriggles a little.

“Too damn good to me, you know that?” Dean groans, tilting his head forward to kiss Sam’s collarbone. “Always know what I want, what I need. I never haveta say a damn word.”

Sam rolls his hips, earning a bitten-off groan from Dean. He’s tight, always is, just the way they both like it, and no matter how many times they do this, to Dean it never stops feeling like he’s coming home. He trails his hands upwards from Sam’s waist, caressing his sides, and brushes two fingers lightly over one nipple. Sam sighs at that, his entire body flushing. All these years and it never ceases to amaze Dean how sensitive Sam still is to his touch.

“Dean,” Sam says, sounding a little breathless. He hasn’t stopped moving since he sat down on Dean’s cock — rolling his hips, bouncing a little, arms bracketed on either side of Dean’s head. His cock rubs against Dean’s shirt, leaving a damp trail of precome that Dean just can’t bring himself to care about.

“Yeah, Sammy,” he says, grabbing Sam’s waist again and holding it so he can thrust up and meet Sam halfway. “Yeah, baby.”

Sam presses his lips together as he bows his head, hair falling into his face. He bites out a moan when Dean thrusts up into him again, and that’s how Dean knows he’s hit Sam’s sweet spot.

“Again?” he asks.

Sam nods. “Please,” he says, so close to begging already. “Please, Dean.”

Dean kisses him, long and slow and absolutely filthy, pressing his tongue into Sam’s mouth and taking control. Sam lets him, his hands falling to Dean’s shoulders, and Dean lightly flicks one of Sam’s nipples, grinning when Sam moans into the kiss.

He could gladly do this all night, he thinks dazedly. Just sit here and tease Sam, coax these lovely reactions and those gorgeous moans from him, inch him to the edge until he’s sobbing Dean’s name and begging to come. They’ve done it before, on lazy days and lazier nights, no hurry and no rush, no obligation to the world outside or even any awareness of it. These moments always make Dean feel like the two of them are the only people in the world, and no one else matters.

No one else could ever matter, he thinks, compared to Sam, his beautiful, sweet Sammy. For the rest of their lives, for all the rest of eternity.

He steadies Sam with a hand on his hip and then thrusts up hard into him, taking control of their movement. Sam lets him, giving himself over completely, and Dean tangles his free hand into Sam’s hair, pulling a little as he fucks into Sam. His little brother loves it, head thrown back as he moans, loud and uninhibited, and the sound goes straight to Dean’s cock.

“God, Sammy,” he breathes out. “So beautiful like this, you know that? So damn pretty.”

Sam doesn’t look capable of replying with words. His hands tighten in the fabric of Dean’s shirt at his shoulders, and his legs are shaking, thighs quivering around Dean’s waist, and Dean knows he’s close.

“It’s okay, darlin’,” he tells Sam, kissing the side of his neck. “Come.”

“I’ll ruin your shirt,” Sam gasps out. His eyes are closed and he seems lost in pleasure, cheeks flushed and nipples hard, lips bright red and parted.

“Mm, don’t care,” Dean tells him, fucking him hard and fast and taking care to hit the spot that he knows will make Sam come apart. “Come, Sam.”

And Sam does, spurting hot and sticky in the space between them, making a mess of Dean’s shirt as he predicted. His whole body seems to contract, tightening further around Dean, and that’s more than enough for him — one thrust, two, then three and he comes too. Sam whimpers at the sensation of Dean’s come inside him, Dean’s hand still in his hair, and then goes boneless, collapsing on top of Dean.

“Hey,” Dean chuckles, wrapping his arms around Sam and kissing the side of his head. “Get up, Sasquatch, you’re heavy.”

Sam mumbles something inaudible but he rises, sliding off Dean’s softening cock and off to the side. Dean takes his shirt off, using it to clean up Sam’s belly, thighs and ass, and then throws it to the ground. “C’mere,” he tells Sam as he slides down the bed so he’s lying down, and wraps an arm around Sam from behind, pulling him into his chest.

Sam lets himself be wrapped in Dean’s embrace, his fingers tangling with Dean’s on his belly. His body is loose, relaxed, his head heavy, and Dean knows he’s half-asleep already. That’s one thing that has never changed in all these years — there’s no better sleep aid for Sam than some good old-fashioned fucking.

There’s one thing Dean wants to know, though. “Hey,” he says.

“Mm?”

“You said this wasn’t just to say thanks,” Dean reminds him. “What was it for?”

“‘S our anniversary,” Sam tells him sleepily.

Dean frowns. “No, that’s not today.”

“No, not us,” Sam clarifies, wriggling backwards until there’s no space between his back and Dean’s chest. “Retirement. Been a year.”

“Oh.” Dean blinks. He had no idea it’d been that long already. “Man, time really flies, huh?”

“Mm-hmm,” Sam hums in agreement. “Let’s hope we get many more.”

“Yeah,” says Dean, and tightens his hold on Sam. He doesn’t say it out loud, but even if Billie were to come for them tomorrow — or, hell, right this instant — he’d die a happy man. He’s lived his life, he’s done his part, and now he’s got nothing to do but live. And maybe this isn’t the conventional apple pie life he wanted, but it’s real, and he gets to spend it with the love of his life, his damn soulmate — and that’s better than anything he could ever have asked for.

—

And he doesn’t reconsider it even when Sam brings home a fucking parakeet two months later, though he’s sorely tempted to. Still, he figures, watching in resignation as Sam tries to train Joshua the parakeet to say “Cristo” — it’s still perfect. His life, despite the alarming amount of animals in it now, is perfect.

And then Sam catches him looking, and smiles, wide and so beautiful and bright and radiant, and Dean thinks, fuck it. There’s not a damn thing he would change about any of it. There’s not a damn thing that needs changing.

They’ve got all the time in the world.

—

so there it is!! i’m not gonna say the end, because i really do not want it to be. instead i’m just gonna say thank you, for all the fun i’ve had and for how much you’ve made me smile with your wonderful comments and your general sweetness. i really truly hope we can continue to be friends even though wincestmas has now come to an end.

lots and lots of love, wincestmas anon (who will soon not be anonymous at all) ❤️

____

@thelegendofwinchester MY FRIEND! I’m so glad we found each other! This was the most amazing end to Wincestmas that I could have asked for!  I just need one thing. What did Bruce look like? Was he orange and striped by any chance? (I’m j/k. But really, I DO want to know.)  

This has been the MOST fun! I’m so glad we became friends on this amazing journey. You are stuck with me forever. And now, of course, I’m going to write a “just because” fic for youuuuu. (So let me know what you like!)

This was honestly the sweetest thing and I’m so happy that I participated in this challenge. Thank you, thank you, thank you for making my start to 2020 so fun and Wincesty! ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

[broken-clover]

Goretober Day 19- Decapitation

Super big thanks to @rex101111 for suggesting today’s character! (And don’t worry Dmitri I’ll use Raven he’s for later)

This accidentally ended up being super fun. I love the fics that wind up being gory but also slightly comedic. I guess it works well for the characters that can’t die, since you can just marvel at the ridiculousness that they can live through. That, and Slayer is a dork, and I am 100% here for feral lady Sharon.

So, yep! Slayer and Sharon today, and their first meeting all those years ago!...might not be the most romantic of situations.

Vampire hunting wasn’t exactly what Sharon had been planning on doing with her life. But hey, life could take you in odd directions, and Sharon herself was a very odd woman.

She adjusted the short dagger sheathed in the heel of her boot as she trudged up the hill. It always liked to wiggle around where it wasn’t supposed to. Sharon knew she’d heal, but it was always a pain in the ass trying to grab a weapon, only to have to pull it out of her foot again. And she wasn’t exactly jumping to wash the blood out of her boots again, either.

Silhouetted in the moonlight, she could make out the tips of elegant spires extending over the treetops. She was amazed that something so big could still manage to be so shrouded in mystery. Or, more likely, based on how the townspeople reacted when she’d asked them about it, everyone was too terrified to be anywhere near it in the first place.

At least it made for an easy find. And, if she was lucky, an easy reward.

Villa Vampir. If her sources had been accurate, this is where Sharon would find her mark. As it turned out, people were willing to pay handsomely for the head of a very old and very powerful vampire, if he did really exist. If it meant that they wouldn’t have to be afraid of him swooping down without a moment’s notice and devouring everything.

The castle itself was as elegant and extravagantly garish as she would have expected. She could hardly find a door in between all the wrought iron and spiny plants. While Sharon had intended to just walk right in, it seemed that whatever it was that opened what she assumed was the front door was out of reach. So instead, she opted to climb up to the nearest window, ignoring the rough stone and the thorns jabbing into her palms as she ascended.

The metal bars space across the opening were just large enough to push her head through. Sharon didn’t hesitate to push herself in harder and harder until her shoulder-blades snapped in two and she could squeeze the broken bones through. She landed on a thick woolen carpet, in the middle of a high vaulted hallway. The open windows meant that it was just as chilly inside as it was outside, but at least there were several sconces that lit up the space so she could see.

One her shoulders fused back into place, and she double-checked that all her hunting supplies were stowed where they needed to be, she slunk down the hall in search. It didn’t take long for the already-high hall to swoop up even higher over a lavish-looking dining hall.

“Showy bastard.” She thought to herself, peering over the elaborately-carved railing. “Wonder who he’d be throwing parties for...and who’s on the menu.”

Though the townspeople had warned about guards, Sharon couldn’t find any. She poked her head around corners, chose to slide down a support pillar and break a foot rather than risk the visibility of the grand staircase, and took in the full sight of the massive room, but nobody was there, not even a maid. Did all the servants follow their master around like loyal dogs?

Deeming the room safe enough, she tucked her knife away and relaxed from her crouched position. She rounded the pillar towards the hallway-

-only to crash right into a well-dressed chest.

“Oh?” The deep baritone sounded just as confused as Sharon felt. She regained her composure quickly, and in the blink of an eye, she unsheathed her silver dagger again, pressing the edge to his throat.

“Say your prayers, vampire.”

She had to admit, he didn’t look half-bad for a monster. The hair was a bit ridiculous, but the beard was nice. The individual strands caught drops of blood as they oozed out from the cut she was marking into his neck.

“I must say, I wasn’t expecting any guests today.” After the initial stumble, he assumed a polite, calm tone, despite being at the end of a dagger. Anything I can do for you?”

Sharon wasn’t too surprised by the banter, at least until the end. A slightly shrill laugh forced its way out of her throat. “You can start by hurrying up and dying-!”

As she pressed the knife in further, he suddenly vanished. Her eyes followed the trail of vapor until it resettled in front of the table. The vampire wore an amused smile.

“Not bad, little hunter. I will say, that’s the closest to a proper assassination anyone’s ever gotten. I suppose that deserves something?” He turned and picked up one of the abandoned wine glasses. “Ah, I suppose that can come later. May I at least have your name?”

While he was talking, Sharon slid out a sharp silver machete from her back sheathe. As soon as the question was asked, she lunged forward, just barely missing taking the vampire’s head off as he ducked underneath her.

“No, no, that won’t do.” She felt a hand grabbing hers and wrenching it against her back. A pair of sharp teeth grazed her ear, and the vampire’s voice lowered. “I would rather not hurt you too badly, miss. I won’t do it if it’s avoidable, but with all this flailing about, I might not be able to-”

Anything else he was going to say was cut off by a shrill yell. With her arm still in Slayer’s grip, Sharon retrieved a long knife and drew it right through her chest, until it came out the other end. It managed to get the vampire distracted, which was enough for Sharon to rip her other hand free, crushing several fingers in the process, and readying her machete. With another primal screech, she threw all of her weight into swinging the weapon as hard as possible, cleanly slicing the vampire’s neck in two.

Slayer watched the scenery move past him as his head flew across the room. He had processed what had just happened, though without a body there wasn’t much he could do about it. From the looks of things, the strange woman was already busy with butchering whatever remained of his body.

He felt a bit more concerned about the stab wound in her chest. Why would a human do something so dangerous? Did she truly not care if she died, as long as he passed as well? What an unfortunate outcome for her…

Although, the longer he stared at her, the more he realized that not only was she not getting any weaker from the blood loss, but her wounds- and the broken hand- were already healed.

“What are you…?”

Slayer’s decapitated head sat on the dinner table, staining the nice tablecloth with blood and viscera. He stared at the bizarre woman who had broken into his home, broken several of her her own bones, had chopped his head off, and was now hunched over and glaring at his butchered body, breathing heavily and stained in blood.

“Oh dear.” He blinked, making Sharon recoil at the realization that he somehow wasn’t dead.

She pulled the machete out of his body and approached his head, gripping the weapon and raising it over his head.

“Any last words?!”

“Just a few.” Slayer replied. “...You wouldn’t happen to be single, would you?”

[anthai-of-stormwind]

Impossibilities Interlude: Fel Vision

written by Matthew Rossi

By the time the felhunter died, she was past slicing and was just bludgeoning the thing.

It took the crackling crunch of the carapace failing and the seething, bilious vapor of its fel blood hitting the air to bring her back to where she actually was. There were dead demons along the beach, up into the rocks that led up the cliff to the rally point. Some were killed with deft strikes, eviscerated or decapitated. As the trail got closer to where she was now, she saw the carnage intensify--bodies blasted apart, or ripped in half, and finally the last few just brutalized. Crushed and mangled by sheer force.

She took several deep breaths and wallowed in the smell of them. Acrid, with traces of rot and sulfurous fumes and the blasted reek of flame that burned even the soil around them. Dead, they poisoned the ground around their remains. She lifted one of her glaives to her mouth and licked the blade, feeling it burn her. Fury in every twitch of strained muscle.

Up the hill, she saw Azri ripping the head off a Doomguard. The tall night elf woman spoke little, and Karanath knew her only from moments like these, when they each reveled in their bloodlust in their own way. The dusk sky nearly matched Azri's skin, the glowing green of her tattoos trailing from her chest up her neck to frame the veil over her eyes, twin pools of green flame hidden poorly behind cloth. Knowing her own were the same, she wondered what she looked like to Azri.

"Are you rutting?" Azri cackled as she dragged the head through the sand. "I'd love a roll with you, if you're hungry."

"I'd hurt you."

"I hope so." Azri laughed again. Karanath felt something in the air, a sensation familiar and unpleasant. Further along the beach there was still fighting going on. She shook her head, slowly.

"More of them. I'm going to go see."

"It's just some Kirin Tor. Let them clean up their own messes." Azri cocked her head to the side, her hand on her hip. She was grace and rage, her wings only emphasizing the lean beauty of her etched abdomen, each muscle lit by the glow of her markings. "It's time to play."

"Not yet." Karanath stepped closer and bit Azri on the cheek. "But I'll come find you."

"Tease." Another laugh, and the Doomguard's head flew up in the air. "Call if you need me. Either way."

Karanath stalked away, evading a swipe of the claws that was more playful than serious. They were family, Illidari, they'd lost or sacrificed everything together. Azri could be trusted...at least until she lost the fight, or Karanath did, and then one of them would put the other down.

It was what they were. It was how it had to be, what she'd chosen. She could feel the marks on her skin, once a sun-kissed bronze, now sickly with trails of green fire climbing up her torso. The world was edged in flames, the same color as the blood on her blades and the fire that seethed where her eyes had been. Everything around her was marked by what she could see now, the world the way the demons saw it.

She passed cooling bodies in the surf and came to a knot of demons ringing their would-be prey. Kirin Tor mages lacked subtlety, often going for the biggest, flashiest spells they could. Once, when she'd been someone else, she felt them a trifle awkward. The years of her training both in Silvermoon and Dalaran still lingered and she could recognize craft, could see that someone on the other side of the crush of bodies was an expert. Not subtle, but precise, weaving together callings as tongues of fire rained down from the sky and seared them to ashes. Even so, more and more demons came, rushing from a rift just out of the range of the casters. The press of bodies was overwhelming them.

They'll be dead soon. This wasn't Karanath's problem. The Illidari had offered their expertise and the Kirin Tor had told them they'd be fine without it. But her hatred of demons was so very much stronger than any bitterness she might have indulged in towards the Kirin Tor or the life she'd been forced to leave behind. The spellwork looked familiar, like a tracing of fingernails along her spine on a spring day underneath Dalaran's minarets, the sun shimmering around her.

She let the hate loose, let her body distort and her wings grow, felt impossibly huge and powerful and flung herself towards the rift. She covered the distance in one bound, crashed down in an explosion of flames and felt the fire behind her eyes. She shook with the giddy, bubbling eruption of it as it burst forth from her, twin jets of fel that blasted the demons apart all the way to the rift itself. They lanced into it, shattering the enchantments bound into the gateway and it fell apart in a howling sound while she danced and slashed and kicked, most of the fury spent but self-preservation taking over. She'd stopped their reinforcements, but there were still dozens of them around her.

Idiot. Now you'll die, and for what? A memory? A place that never wanted you, people who never cared what you did? The Kirin Tor are nothing to you now. She couldn't tell if it was her voice or the demon's, but she knew it was true regardless. More and more of them were swarming her, determined to kill her for interference in their attack. By the time Azri or any of the others noticed, she'd be a blasted corpse with her intestines feeding a felstalker. The thought brought a tight grin to her face. Dinner time.

She'd forgotten for a moment about whoever the weaver of fire was. So had the demons, so intent on taking her life, they slackened off their assault on the Kirin Tor encampment. Through her new eyes, she could see the magic move in ways she never had when she'd actually been a mage, could see it layer and build and fold and coil in the air. She was so caught up in the sight that she took a polearm to the shoulder, dropped down to her knees in the burning blood of the imps she'd just slaughtered, and looked up into the smirking face of the Wrathguard that had hit her. She raised her twinblades, crossing them in front of her face as the demon’s polearm, dripping with her blood, pushed them towards her with all his strength.

"Now..." He swung the weapon up above his head. "You die."

Then he exploded. All around her the very air was replaced with flames, a sheet of fire made up of twisting tongues erupting from below. Karanath hated to admit it, but some lingering part of her was impressed. She couldn't do magic like this anymore... If she were honest, she'd never been this good, but now the Fel in her blood, the demon at her heart made it impossible to touch the arcane. But she still knew spellcraft, and a conflagration like this took years to learn and master.

The few remaining demons tried to flee and were brought down by arcane missiles or a few frost spells. Karanath managed to salvage a little pride by slashing a Mo'arg's throat open as it tried to run by before pulling herself to her feet. She could feel a nick on one of her horns where the sheath had been slashed open, and her shoulder was a ruin, but she'd heal.

The mages were tending to their wounded, or their dead. Karanath deliberately didn't look. She didn't want to know if she recognized any of them. She'd only left Dalaran just before the Third War. Called home. "It's time to marry Darameth and take over the shop.” Her father's voice. That almost made her laugh. The shop. The shop had been in the part of Silvermoon that was gone now, the part torn in half by a legion of walking corpses. Darameth had been decent enough – she hadn't loved him, but he'd been understanding, hadn't pushed. It was her mother and father who'd pushed. "You have to think of the future.”

She sheathed her glaives. She'd go up, find Azri. They could distract each other. She turned to leave and the faint voice reached her.

"Wait!" Someone was riding towards her on a bird made of fire. Despite every reason to ignore it, the part of her that remembered nights spent looking over tomes recognized it as an elemental creature, something from the Firelands. The idea that someone could ride one... She found herself standing there as the creature drew closer, the wet sand sending jets of steam in its tread.

There was a tearing sensation as she finally saw the face of the woman on its back. A human. Of course it's you. She'd never known another mage as utterly bound to fire. The woman's eyes were open, her expression one of curiosity.

"What do you want?" Karanath hoped her voice sounded different enough, that the black cloth over her eyes obscured her features.

"I..." Even etched in the demonic flames that were her sight now, Karanath could see recognition as it dawned. The moment was dragged out between them, until she was sure she'd scream at the mage. Get it over with. "Karan?"

"Once."

"You died." Anthai was much like all humans. She had barely lived long enough to understand her own feelings, so it was ridiculous for Karanath to expect her to understand those of anyone else. They'd argued often about it, once. She remembered the day she'd told the woman in front of her she was leaving for Silvermoon. “But how can...you don't love him, why would you go back and marry him? Why would you give up everything?”

"Yes." She felt Ranath twist her features into a sneer and let the demon have rein for just a moment before reaching deep into herself and twisting the creature into a ball, bearing down on it. Try that again and I'll make you suffer for days. "I did. With them."

She stepped back when Anthai reached out a hand, the same way she had that last day. Had it only been thirteen years?

"Don't touch me."

"I..." That hateful hand dropped to her side. "I went, I looked for you, I..."

Karanath didn't say any of the things she was thinking. She didn't let herself remember that last day, the look on Anthai's face. She hated that she felt anything, that the look on her face now meant something to her. She didn't want it to. Karan is dead. Karan died in a pit with her sister and her mother and her father and her foolish fiancé and I'm what crawled out, I'm what followed the prince to Outland, I'm what Illidan gave me. Freedom from memory. Freedom from regret. Freedom from this, from you trying to make me that weak little thing crawling back to Silvermoon all over again. She tried very hard not to hate the woman standing in front of her.

She just waited, letting it stretch out between them.

"Well." Anthai mastered herself, that way she always had of just pushing everything aside. It was a lovely act. Karanath admired it, even now. "Thank you. I couldn't protect the others and get to that gate without losing them all."

"No." The demon hunter agreed, her horns feeling new and strange, memories of being a slim girl on a spring day making her feel alien again like she had the first time she felt the spasms start. After she'd eaten Ranath's heart. "You all would have died."

"I wouldn't have."

Karanath just stared at her. Anthai stared back, even faced with the green flames for eyes. Why would that cow her? She was a master of fire. There was nothing to say and everything to say and she hated that she couldn't make herself leave worst of all.

"If you like." She turned and stepped up, snapping her wings and gliding up into the air. She drifted away, feeling eyes on her the whole time until she managed to bound over a hill and arrive where the Illidari were camped, bodies already writhing against one another.

Azri was between two, a lithe Blood Elf named Kaecilian and another Night Elf woman, Saharel. She knew she could join them--peel the few garments from her body, let them worship her markings and find release in theirs for a while.

Instead she stared down the hill at the camp on the beach and watched a woman with a bird made of fire and hated that she couldn't stop.

TO BE CONTINUED...

[maraudergirls]

12 Days Of Falling In Love ( Harry x Hermione )

Merry Christmas @hermione-who ! We love you so much and we hope you enjoy this fic of ours. 

read on ao3 now? 

On the right side of the fence where Santa and His Jolly Elves are singing their carols, a majestic pine tree has been planted in a corner. Plastic reindeers circle it, stiff in their pause that suggests they are probably dancing. The one with a red nose is nudging a pile of kaleidoscopic, sparkling card boxes.

The row of heavily decorated backyards extends itself infinitely, along Puddifoot Street. Some feature three feet tall angels holding out bowls of candies -- that must undoubtedly be real --, other have a miniature, feisty city that takes half of their space. Red, green, and gold colors are everywhere, sprinkled with snow from yesterday night’s fall. There are even some Santas hanging from gutters, or half-stuck in chimneys.

A loud whistling sound calls Hermione back to her kitchen, and she is glad to tear her stare away from the scene.

If asked about herself, Hermione would say there is not much to say.

She works at an elementary school where most of the kids ignore her, except when they need to go to the bathroom and have to raise their hands to get permission. Her fellow professors, which are more experienced -- a professional way to say old as mummies -- tend to avoid her too, except when favors need to be granted.  

She has lost contact with her university friends after moving to the south, and has struggled for a time to find other mates, before abandoning the hope on behalf of her job. Getting up at six and leaving your workplace at seven in the afternoon doesn’t really leave you any time to do anything.

The only reason she actually likes Durmstrang Elementary School is the Christmas break. It starts on December 13th, for no other reason than the institution’s tradition of sending everybody home for the twelve days before Yule.

A thick column of vapor rises from the beak of the kettle, and Hermione pours the boiling water in the color washed teapot with a hum of approval.

Her kitchen, like the rest of the house, is bare, empty of decorations.

She doesn’t hate Christmas.

She has some amazing memories of eggnog evenings with her father, or of opening the Advent Calendar with her mother. Winter was her favorite time, as a child.

She mechanically walks toward her desk, in an angle of the living room, and puts her steaming cup down. Rolling her sleeves up her wrists, she tucks her tongue out, looking for the bookmark she set yesterday. And ends up irritating herself.

With her bad habit of falling asleep on her documents, she never remembers what her bookmark looks like, let along in what book she puts it.

“I know you're here somewhere,” she whispers, turning her Advanced Psychology of the Human Species manual in her hands.

Outside, the wind flirts with the naked branches, swooping over the fresh snow to carry its coolness under the doors and in the little cavities of the houses. The road is quiet, respectful of the concentration that the woman needs to-

Wait.

The road is not quiet.

A light laughter spreads itself over the fences that delimit the perfectly aligned gardens, and reaches Hermione's ears. So used to live in total silence during Christmas break, she's taken aback by the simple sound of it.

Except for the Lupin family, which owns the house right next to hers, nobody has children at home at this time of the year. And, every Christmas break, the Lupins send their Teddy -- who’s enrolled in the same school where Hermione works -- to Center London, to spend the first part of the holidays with his godfather.

Hermione stretches her ear, but the laughter has vanished. Maybe she just daydreamed about it. After all, her last class was only yesterday.

She gets back at fighting with her pile of books.

Studying is her way to get out of reality, to forget the world around. It used to be reading, before. She loved when Aunt Marjorie took the time, at the end of her day, to go through a couple of fairytale chapters with her. She would do se when her parents were too busy to come home before she went to bed. She used to love those moments, those stories.  

But she has grown up. Tales of princes on their white horses and fighter princesses are over for her. Getting her Psychology degree is her main goal at the moment.

She has always dreamed of opening her own studio, to help kids who struggle with familiar issues. She has seen so many. Has been one herself.  

The few people with whom she still has some interactions have told her countless times that, unless she becomes a mother, it will be impossible for her to understand the intricate reasonings of families.

That’s bullshit.

Women do not have to have children to be useful.  

Plus, her classroom has become her field of observation, and she has gotten used to pre-teen mindsets.

Still, one point on which she agrees with those uninvited opinions is that she won’t be very skilled to treat couple problems, even after passing the exam. She absolutely has no experience on the matter.

“About darn time,” she mutters, finally getting a grip on the plastic wrapping that she stuck in the chapter 7 of Psychology of Women .

The title of page 164 reads: The Early Stages of Falling In Love .

A groan escapes her throat.  

Not the topic she wanted to work on today.

She grabs her cup of tea, resigning herself to today’s subject, but chokes on the liquid when a muffled thud echoes from her roof, followed by several others and loud shouting.

Definitely, Teddy hasn’t gone to Center London this year.

Ignoring the noise seems the best to do, but she has to give up after five minutes of trying.

The wooden floor, stiff because of the cool weather, creaks under her steps.

Pushing the curtains aside, she peeks at Puddifoot Street. Behind her empty flower pot, there is a coat of snow on the little alley that links her house to the next one, and some blurry people seem to get great advantage of it.

She had never witnessed Mr. Lupin playing with Teddy during winter. She had assumed that the man with scars like tattoos all over his face suffered from a rare health condition, preventing him from staying outside too long in a cold climate.

Pulling her woolen sleeve to the window, she erases the mist that gathered on the glass panel.

When the transparent surface is finally clean, she leans forward, but only has the time to catch a glimpse of a pair of glasses framing green eyes -- that most certainly don’t belong to Mr. Lupin -- before a loud crash makes her start.

The fragments of the pot that was resting on the window frame two seconds earlier are now decorating the concrete floor that borders the house, the only place not reached by the snow last night.

Shit. Aunt Marjorie’s pot.

With hurried steps, Hermione exits the warmness of her interior. The atmosphere attacks her through her light clothes, stinging her ribs with its icy claws. Wearing only slippers and a pajama under her sweater, she does not dare to kneel down, but her constatation of the disaster is still the same.

She feels a bit dizzy. Not because of the cold.

It was a horrible pot, heck yes. But her and Aunt Marjorie had had a good laugh when they had bought it. And this was what mattered.

She feels like crying, but the dryness of the air doesn’t allow her to.

Her Advanced Psychology of the Human Species manual would probably define her as slightly deranged because she’s mourning a flower pot.

Lost in her illogical reverie, she doesn’t hear the steps behind her, crushing the snow in a prudent cadence. She only gets out of her trance when something heavy falls on her shoulders.

“I’m sorry.”

Hermione turns around, and the jacket that the boy had put on her back falls down. He bends to retrieve it, and shakes it before offering it again to her. “You’ll get one hell of a cold if you stay out here with barely a-”

His voice trails down, and Hermione suddenly remembers that she’s wearing pajamas bottom. She grabs the coat, and wraps herself in the hot leather, blushing madly. It’s a relief to feel the soft texture of faux-fur around on her neck.  

She looks up at the man, about to mutter a ‘thank you’, but his embarrassed expression is a reminder of why she’s outside while it’s below zero.

“You-”

“I’m sorry,” he repeats. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

He tries to scratch his neck, but his muffles make it awkward. Hermione could almost smile, but-  

“Blimey,” the boy whispers, noticing her chattering teeth. “You should get inside and have a hot chocola-”

“Yeah, I’ll do.”

He narrows his eyes a little, as if thinking that she’s not the type of girl that would make herself some hot chocolate.

“I- I was about to make some,” he adds. “And, I want to apologize for-” He gestures toward the reddish bits on the floor. “But make sure you decide quickly, because you’re about to turn into an ice cube.”

Hermione scrutinises him, his face, his green eyes that seem to send sparkles into the fizzy weather. She doesn’t know him. Where’s he from, first of all? He just materialized from thin air. The only thing she knows is that he was having a snowball fight with the Lupin child, two minutes ago.

The wind lifts some snow around them, and the tip of her nose seems to turn an awful blueish color.

Questions for later.

“Ok for the hot chocolate.”

xxx 

It’s weird, isn’t it?

Hermione, the plain-life psychology student and model teacher, drinking a hot Christmas beverage in the house of a stranger. And doing so while wearing pajamas.

“Remind me of your name?”

The guy is leaning backwards on the kitchen counter, cuping his mug with both hands. His glasses’ lenses are whitish, reflecting the cold light of the window. He observes her from behind them.

“I haven’t told you.”

He looks down. “Right.”

She doesn’t remember his, even if he told her.

He had opened the door of the house next to hers, letting her in before him.

Once inside, he had held his hand out, muttered his name and something like “we forgot to present each other properly,” but she had not paid much attention. Hurried steps had scuttled away on the floor above.

He had led her to the kitchen, and started breaking down some cocoa bars, almost suffocating in the awkward silence.

The only bit of conversation was the “here you are,” “thanks,” exchange of courtesy.

The breaking of Aunt Marjorie’s pot hit her hard, but now she forces herself to look at him with less resentful eyes.

She had already noticed his deep green eyes, but her stare trails on his fine traits, brown pigment, and messy hair. Something about his shyness makes him appear skinnier than he actually is: there is no way to ignore his broad shoulders after a second glance.

Common people would describe him as being very cute.

She sees him more as… interesting. 

“It’s Hermione.” 

Both of them look to the door. A frail, blue-haired kid is eyeing carefully from behind the frame. 

“What, buddy?” Interesting guy lays his cup on the table, and kneels down, so Teddy has to look down at him. 

“Her name,”  he points at her face. “Is Hermione.” 

Messy-hair looks up at Hermione with his intense stare. She hasn’t seen him smile yet, but she guesses that he terribly wants to. And finds herself wishing he would. 

For science’s sake, of course. 

“Your secret is revealed, I guess,” he says. 

For some reason, the kid’s presence makes her much less angry. Or is it Green-eyes’ dimple, which he’s finally showing with a wide grin? 

She shrugs, and can’t avoid to reflect his expression. “It was not a secret.” She takes a short sip of the hot drink, turning to Teddy. “So, Lupin, who’s the man who broke my pot?” 

And she nods toward Dimple-smile. 

Teddy’s mouth contracts in a grimace. After looking better at his hair, Hermione notices the purple points. She knew that the Lupins were- quite original, but she would have never guessed that… it would be at this level. 

“I broke the pot, Ms. Granger,” he admits, wrinkling his nose, as if he was gulping down something bitter. “But my godfather likes to take the blame for me.” 

Hermione’s lips part in surprise. She had always assumed that Teddy’s godfather was a 50-years-old greyish man, passionate about bridges, and with an enormous collection of old stamps and creased plaid shirts. Not somebody like Broad-shoulders. 

Not somebody as cu- interesting. 

“He takes the blame for you?” 

Teddy nods, recovering his mischievous expression. “Yeah, a lot. Especially if it’s an excuse to invite a pretty lady to dr-” 

“Do you want some cocoa, buddy?” 

Chocolate-skin, who had been silent until then, quickly rose, before his godson could finish the sentence. But the kid’s laughing eyes are enough for Hermione to get the whole meaning. 

Teddy shakes his head, and sprints out in the corridor. 

“Little pain in the neck,” the godfather whispers, before calling out, “Teddy, you forgot-” 

“Sorry, Ms. Granger!” shouts the kid, already halfway up the stairs. 

Then, he bursts in a wave of giggles, and his steps echo on the floor above.

Interesting-guy turns to Hermione, his face skin a darker shade of brown. 

Coffee, she thinks, is a beautiful shade. 

A cherub ‘awwws’ from a corner of her mind, but she shakes him away very quickly. 

“I guess your secret is uncovered now,” she teases. Her host looks very confused, as if fearing that she’d believed what his godson said. “About always covering up Teddy’s little mistakes.” 

“Oh! Er- yeah.” Relief can really be seen in histhe eyes , Hermione thinks. “Well, what’s the point of being a godfather, if not?” They smile together. “I’m- very sorry for your pot.”

For a second, she had forgotten about it. 

“Don’t worry,” she shrugs it away. “I can’t hide that I was very attached to it, but- it was just an object, right?” 

Green-eyes nods, and offers her an encouraging grin. “Do you want some more chocolate?” 

And, Hermione still wearing pajamas, and Messy-hair melting more nectar of Christmas, they resume their drinking, slowly getting deep in a conversation about anything and everything. 

 “Don’t you like the holiday?” 

Ugh. The question she dreaded. 

“It’s not-” The bottom of her cup, with its little grains of cocoa swimming in a puddle of brownish milk, suddenly seems very interesting. “It’s not that I don’t like it.” 

It’s just too hurtful. 

The man feels that the question makes her uneasy, but how can somebody not like Christmas? Maybe there is something he can do for her. “Your house is the only one empty of decorations on the street, and your sweater,” he points his spoon at the blue wool under his leather jacket, “Is obviously not Christmassy.” 

Even if she knows her old jersey by heart, Hermione still grabs the textile between two fingers, and frowns at it, “I don’t see what you can reproach to my sweater. It’s very good and warm-” 

“But it’s not Christmassy.” His spoon falls back inside his cup, sending drops of the beverage in the air like little fireworks. “Something needs to be done to fix that. And what about your front yard? I brought a lot of light garlands that we can’t use here, we’d overcharge the house. I can help you to-" 

“It’s very nice of you,” she stops him with a sigh, “But I don’t have time for mistletoes or golden ribbons in my living room. Plus, the only other organic form of life that would enjoy them is my cat, and he would throw everything to the floor anyway.” He’s about to reply, but she doesn’t let him. “Where are Teddy’s parents?” 

The green eyes twinkle with a special glint, the one that sparks up when somebody accepts a challenge. This topic’s conversation is over. But just for now. 

“They have gone to France for a few days, visiting Dora’s family. They’ll be back on the 17th.” 

It’s nice to celebrate with someone , thinks Hermione. But the thought is gone as quickly as it had manifested itself. A red light in her mind flashes: SWITCH TOPIC. 

“Is Teddy’s hair- bicolor?” 

To her hesitant question, Interesting-guy bursts in a loud laughter. 

“He just dyed it, two days ago, before his parents left.” He shrugs, lessening the importance of the action. “He wanted to look like his favorite character from this- wizarding book. And Dora’s quite young and open minded, you know. She dyed hers too, bubblegum pink.” 

It’s hard for Hermione to imagine her neighbour with a neon mane. “Did Mr. Lupin-?” 

The man has to spit his drink in the sink, coughing and laughing simultaneously. “Oh, that would the best gift I’d received in years. But unfortunately no, he hasn’t dyed his hair too.” 

Hermione would have found his behavior disgusting, in other circumstances, but she smiles. It’s true that imagining Mr. Lupin with green or red hair would let no one impassible.

A draught runs along Puddifoot Street, precipitating snow down from the roofs, shaking the windows, and moving the decorations in the backyards. The 24-carats-smile Santa is now facing the house number 34, also known as the Lupins house.

At Hermione’s home, the bookmark is still laying open on chapter 7 of Psychology of Women.

Chapter 2: Day 2

Her steaming cup of tea is patiently waiting between the pile of books and stack of revision papers, tempting her with its bitter-sweet smell. The street has been really quiet for the whole morning: not a sound, not a laughter to be heard. In other conditions, it would have been the dreamed setting for a day of study.

But Hermione is not really in the mood for sitting down. One of her fingers slides between the curtains, and pulls them apart, just enough for her eyes to fall on the outside.

Naked, sad, upsettingly grey. And empty.

She sighs.

The snow has melt down, leaving behind its characteristic muddy soil. There is not a soul to be seen, it’s still too early for --regular-- school vacations, and too impossible for-

Oh, honestly. What was she waiting for. It’s not as if this kind of distraction could happen everyday. Plus, it was just some civility between neighbours.

Still, what a c- interesting guy, that… What is his name again?

She had heard Teddy going on about his godfather for hours sometimes, at school, and now she can’t even identify him. Ugh. If she was used to complain, she would say it’s because Advanced Personality Psychology occupies too much of the available space in her mind.

She struggles to find bits of memory that could help her putting a name on the messy hair and cute dimple smile.

The dimple smile… It had captured her attention when he had said his name…

No. No. Not the smile. She was angry… And then, it was the chocolate. And she’s just very tired from her week of revisions. This is why she can’t remember his name.

Nothing else.

But when the doorbell rings, her heart jumps to her ears. It takes all her self-control to refrain from swinging the wooden panel open.

“Yes?” The chillness, so contrasting to her cosy inside, burns the point of her nose as her eyes meet a very green stare. “Oh, Harry…”

She remembers his name, actually. Minds can be quite tricky.

Her hands cling to the doorknob without her notice, her body hiding in the introvert security of her home. All she can do is lower her eyes, in a very embarrassed way.

And she can’t even explain why.

The man’s smile falters a little, his eyebrows bow slightly. “Er- Am I- Am I bothering you?”

“What?”

Boy, he could speak louder.

Well, she could be a little less distracted too.

“I-” He hesitates, taking a step back.

This is when she notices that he is hiding something from her vision. And that she has kept him waiting for a good minute in the cold weather.

“Oh, I’m really sorry! I’m such a terrible neighbour. Where do I leave my brain some days?. If I just- You should probably- Oh well, what a mess I am.” Her tone is full of clumsy apologies, which brings his side smile back. “Come inside, it’s freezing here.”

She opens the door widely, and the winter wind hits her comfortable living room meanly, causing a window shutter to slam in some place of the house.

Harry has the common sense to close the door, pushing it with his feet as he gladly steps inside, amused by her sudden awkwardness.

Meanwhile, Hermione is still releasing her little moment of embarrassment with a flow of words. “I just rarely receive visits, you know, and they are mostly from colleagues who bring more material, so I do not have any Christmas cookie in the oven. It must sound horrible to you, but I don’t even have milk to make some hot chocolate. You’ve been so nice to me yesterday, what are you going to think of me now th-”

His hand on her shoulder makes her start.

“Don’t worry,” he whispers, his eyes anchored in hers. “I don’t think anything about you except that you seem very nice.”

His smile is warm like a summer breeze. On the spot where he touches her clothes, her skin seems to be melting under the soft grip.

Her muscles relax.

He doesn’t think she’s a cruel neighbor, so everything’s fine.

“And we can still fix the whole thing about the cookies,” he adds, pointing with his chin toward the kitchen’s open door.

Is he offering to cook with her? It would be a disaster, she can’t even tell a spatula from a spoon. If he let anything of it slip in front of Mrs. Lupin, the whole neighborhood would know about it.

Last thing she wants is to be reputed as an unfamous cooker.

“I- I don’t think it’s- The fact is-” She holds her breath, blushing a little. “I was actually going to study.”

That did sound rude.

Harry’s smile vanishes, his shoulders slump. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to annoy you. I just thought- I don’t even know what I thought.”

He grins sheepishly, hoping that his delusion is not too noticeable. He takes a step back, when he remembers about the secret object behind his back. Bringing his hands forward, he reveals a pretty pottery with chirping birds and butterflies carved on its surface.

“That’s- I know it probably can’t make up for the emotional attachment,” Hermione stares at the earthy vase in amazement: there was a world between Aunt Marjorie’s horrible trinket and the gift that her neighbor was holding out to her. “But, well, we broke yours, yesterday. It only seemed fair to get you another one.”

She feels his eyes on her face, and grabs the pot, her fingers tracing the reliefs. The little bumps tickle her skin.

Harry faintly clears his throat. “I guess that I should go now. Leave you to your studies.”

The dimple on his right cheek attracts her attention. It definitely is a cute dimple, that shakes Hermione from her surprise, only to remember that she was being very disagreeable to him.

“Oh, wait!” She bites her lip. Thinks about her uselessness in a kitchen. He probably assumes that she’s quite skilled, and he’ll be very deceived when he’ll realize the contrary. “This is- This is very thoughtful. Thank you.”

Harry’s eyes recover a bit of their sparkles. “It was Teddy’s idea,” he shrugs.

Something in his fleeing stare makes Hermione smile. You can’t lie to a Psychology student. “Oh, you know, I’ve always considered Teddy an incredible boy,” she smiles. Harry grins, maybe convinced that his little lie worked out. Hermione suddenly feels a wave of sympathy rolling in her chest for the messy haired godfather of his turbulent neighbor. One of those waves that pushes you to consider stuff you’re reluctant to do. “You know, about the studying, it can wait. Cookies are crucial in Christm-”

A phone rings, cutting her sentence midway. The man drops his stare to his jacket pocket, and extracts his flashing device from it.

“Talking about the dev- angel,” he mutters, pressing the green button with a smirk. “Teddy! Did you burn the house down?”

Hermione internally laughs: she has lived too long next to the Lupins to discard this possibility. But any amusement disappears from her traits at Harry’s creased brow and doubtful humming.

“I get it, buddy. I’m coming over.” He hangs up, and she somehow dreads a bad news. “Teddy is not feeling very well. I have to go.”

“Oh.”

“You’ll be able to study.”

He scratches his neck, and Hermione notices the muscles of his arms that stir his clothes. She becomes very conscious of the pot’s weight in her hands.

“Great,” she whispers, then bites her tongue. She had built up some courage for the cooking actually.

“Er- I’ll see you soon, then.”

With a few steps, he is out of the door.

The tea is now cold on the table, but Hermione doesn’t notice it. Not for a good fifteen minutes, during which she watches the ghost of his shadow on the door, and wonders when ‘soon’ will be.

Chapter 3

Hermione highlights a page of her textbook, murmuring the definition softly, hoping she’ll remember it. Memorizing has always been her strong suit, but when said mugging includs learning about a supposed theoretician who was absolutely barmy on several counts, she finds it ridiculous.

When she'll finally get a degree and have some status, she’ll make some serious changes in the psychology field.

 Huffing as her mind goes off track for the second time in a row, Hermione slaps herself. First, she had been thinking about the rare event of Harry stopping by, and now, she was thinking about her superiority over sexist researchers. Her eyes fall on the clock which announces she’s been dreaming for almost an hour.

“Focus. You’ve got this. Now, why do critics view statistical hypothesis testing as-” She’s cut off abruptly as the doorbell rings.

She can’t help it then; she groans. She severely doubts it can be Harry so it must be someone from work. Not expecting anyone, she’s tense as she walks to the door.

Peering through the whole, she lets out a breath of relief as she sees her neighbour, Harry. His eyes are cast upwards like he’s cursing the existence of Olympus, and there’s a hue of pink on his nose.

When she opens the door, it feels like deja-vu. She tucks a curl of hair behind her ear and stares at him expectantly.

"Hi!” He says loudly, wincing immediately. “Good morning.”

“Good morning….Do you want to come in?”

“Yeah. That would be nice.” Harry shoves his shoes and trails after Hermione like a puppy. “I was wondering if you-if you liked the vase.”

It’s obvious that he wanted to ask her something else, but she eases herself on the chair across him. She tucks her feet closer to her body and lets it go. “Oh. I did. Thank you. You didn’t have to, honestly.”

“I did.” He replies immediately. “I’m glad you like it. Teddy helped pick it out. He was very sorry about the whole mess.”

They lapse into an uncomfortable silence. Hermione considers if she should offer him food or perhaps, a drink. When he coughs awkwardly, she snaps her gaze to him

“Er-” Harry begins, and then laughs breathily. “This is so uncomfortable. I’m sorry. Do you want me to leave?”

“No.” Hermione's own surprise is mirrored on Harry’s face. “Your company is appreciated.”

“Right. Yours is too.” Harry stares at the room, face merging into shock. He does a double take, and Hermione almost laughs at the pure dread  he sports. It’s the face of a seer when the stars are aligned in a way she wished hadn’t occurred. “Please tell me there’s a Christmas tree somewhere.”

“I’m afraid not.” She rolls her eyes. “I wasn’t lying the other day.”

Harry smiles at her sheepishly. “I’m sorry. It’s just that I’m used to being a huge fan of the season. I’m surprised other people are not. May I ask you something, though?”

“Shoot.”

“Don’t you miss celebrating the festival?” Harry asks cautiously, already regretting his question, worried that his stress on the issue might irk her.

“Not really.” Hermione shrugs. “I told you yesterday why and I don’t really have the spirit for it. Truth be told, I wish I did. My parents don’t know what a total Grinch I am.”

“It doesn’t need to be like that!” Harry pipes up. “I’ll help you get your Christmas spirit back. It’ll be my gift to you. Please?” he adds when she stills looks unconvinced.

“I don’t know.”

Hermione thinks about the statistics of the opportunity. It would be nice, she reflected, having a Christmas tree up for once. Maybe, the change of decor would help her study more efficiently. She quickly constructs a row of pros and cons in her table, but her decision is made up as she sees that damnable dimples on Harry’s face -- which, honestly, should be illegal.

“You’ll help me, right? I have a Christmas tree on the cupboard and some ornaments so we don’t need to worry about that.”

“I will.” Harry jumps from the seat and shrugs off his coat. “Oh and Hermione? Remember when decorating, we go big or we go home.”

Hermione frowns at him and pouts.

It doesn’t do her any good as Harry continues to laugh, bending over and clutching his sides in a vain attempt to tranquilize the stiches. “Oh my god. You’re just so cute and smol.”

Her height has always been a subject of discussion. Even past twenty, people still refused to believe she was anything but a teenager. Just now, she had tried reaching the top tiers of the tree but, unable to do so thanks to her height, she has resorted to glaring at the branches. And obviously, Harry finds that particularly amusing.   

“I’m 5’2!” Hermione protests fiercely. “That’s a perfectly reasonable height.”

“For a fairy, maybe.”

The man coos when Hermione pouts again and, frustrated, she stretches, trying to reach the tip of the Christmas tree. Arms wrap around her waist and there’s a tug in her stomach - a protest against gravity before she’s suspended in air.  

Letting out a squeak, she cries. “Put me down!”

He laughs and she can feel the warmth of it on her lower back. “Put the ornament up first, Hermione!”

Floundering like a fish, Hermione hastily places the star and Harry sets her down, carefully. Scrambling away from him, she places a hand on her heart and glares at him. “Harry James Potter!”

Rubbing his neck, Harry provides her a sheepish smile. It never is a good sign when a woman called you by your full name - even if they do look as threatening as Tinkerbell. "Sorry. Seemed like you needed some help.”

“It’s fine. You just startled me.” Hermione claims, knowing that she’ll be rid of the feeling of his arms. Have they always been muscled? Now, she is just getting distracted.

After passing a reindeer ornament to her, Harry steps back to marvel their hard work, and she follows his example.

It’s not exactly what she would call a fairy tale Christmas aesthetic, but they did all they could with the limited decorations. And, it does look good in its own way. There are multiple tiers of gold lights that blink every few seconds, complemented with accents of rosy baubles. Wrapped with red ribbons and holly, the tree surely can’t be called naked.

Nothing in the house can, really. A Santa Claus figure stares at them with beady eyes from his perch on the table. The cushions on the lounge got replaced by festive ones - a plump red one with a snowman in the middle articulating the words Meowy Christmas!  Banners strung with leaves and berries hang from the canopy.

A thrill of excitement shots down her spine. For the first time in years, her blood thrums with the joy of Christmas, and she revels in it.

The only hang up here, is that there is a lone stocking against the wall. Hermione mentally decides to buy it a companion. Her budding friendship with Harry implies that she would need a gift for him. Maybe, she could convince him to go shopping with her.

For now, she can imagine she is a princess in Disneyland. The string of lights above her certainly makes her feel like she is set up in a fantasy.

Funnily enough, the only decoration the house lacks, by the end of the morning, is mistletoe branches, and the both young people are careful to maintain that status.

Chapter 4

She swings the door open at exactly ten in the morning. Harry’s hand remains suspended in air, most likely preparing himself to rap the door.

He seems baffled to see her, as if her presence wasn’t expected at her house . It's Pride and Prejudice all over again, she thinks. Except she never disliked him. It was quite the opposite emotion that consumed her body. Even when he broke her pot, she still found him kind and cu- sweet .

“Good morning.”

“Hi.” Harry chimes back, stupidly and winces at the response. “Good morning. You look nice.”

Hermione laughs, a beautiful sound that reverberates through him. “I literally just got up.”

Harry gasps, sidestepping her and shoving his shoes off. “I stick to my point. And, I’m shocked, Hermione. Shocked is an understatement. Do you mean to tell me you just woke up? Eight hours after you were supposed to.”

“It was all for a good reason.” Hermione protests, adamantly. “I read an article where they instruct people to give themselves a rest day once a week. So, I woke up at seven.”

“You said you just got up.”

“From the table.” Hermione clarifies. “I was studying.”

“ Well .”  Harry remarks sarcastically as he makes them a cuppa. Instead of the tea bag that he usually inserts, he sprinks a tablespoon of cocoa powder into their mugs. “That's a first.”

“What are you making?”

“Hot chocolate, Princess.”

Hermione’s eyes grow wide. “What did you just call me?”

“Princess.” Harry repeats, unabashed by her admonishment. “It suits you well. The first time I saw you, I thought your hair looked like Princess curls so.”

Stunned into silence, the most she can do is hum. “You know tea is better than hot chocolate, right? Tea fights cancer, all the while increasing your immunity, cardiovascular health, digestion, mental activity like improved concentration and focus and prolongs longevity. Don’t you agree with me?”

Harry doesn’t seem fazed by her argument. In fact, the mask on his face is akin to smugness. “While all that may be true, hot chocolate contains more antioxidants than coffee and tea . It lowers blood pressure. The antioxidant gallic acid is used to treat internal hemorrhages, prevents kidney disease and diabetes. The flavonoids help your body process nitric oxides which improve blood flow and prevents the formation of clots. Shall I go on?”

Beyond awed at his list, Hermione could only gape. Men like Harry, by their looks, managed to inflict cardiac arrests on a woman like herself simply by a glance . To discover that said man was intelligent as well was the cherry on the cake.

“How do you know all that?” Hermione asks, grasping for something witty to say but fails at it, rather spectacularly and wants to scream for ten hours straight. The approach of her question was blunt enough that it could be considered as offensive which in no way did Hermione mean for it to sound.

Thankfully, Harry waves the comment away. “I’m skilled at my craft, Hermione. A gentleman like me has many skills and talents.”

“Indeed.”

The underlying analysis of his sentence makes her swallow, nervously and makes her hyper aware of their positions. He’s barely a few inches away. Not a very appropriate distance for just a neighbour. Retracing her steps, Hermione misses the look of undisguised dismay that washes over his face.

By the time, she looks back at him, the moment is long gone. Setting their glasses on the countertable, Harry flashes her a dimple. “Better go get changed. Today includes another outdoor activity.”

Wishing she could groan out loud because that sounds far from fun, Hermione nods sluggishly and departs, pulling on some boots. Looping a scarf adorned with gold and red, Hermione makes a half hearted attempted to straighten her hair but when her hair reverts back to its original momentum, she realizes it’s a futile attempt and shuts her door.

“Thank you for the hot chocolate.” Hermione tries to express her gratitude, hoping she hasn’t managed to leave an unimpressed reaction on her neighbour. Judging on past experiences, she wouldn’t put it past her. Conversations in the real world short circuited her speech.

Harry doesn’t reward her with a response, instead bestowing her with a smirk. “Let’s go. Teddy’s thrilled. I’m worried about making him wait for some more time.”

“Teddy’s coming?” Hermione says with excitement, shrugging on her coat. The blue haired child often light up her day with his childish glee. Seeing him, always, causes her lips to tug upwards to form a grin. Perhaps, it was the motherly side of her but children were beacons of lights even on especially heavily exhausted days.

Harry sighs dramatically like a man who opens the fridge, only to woefully discover it empty of his favorite contents. “I knew you liked Teddy more.”

“I like you both equally.” Hermione teases which is a lie if she’s being honest. While Teddy is a light in her life, Harry is soon becoming the sun to her world. Ever since she was a kid, she was the type of person who ran headfirst into relationships. She had fallen too soon and too hard. It hardly surprised her that her actions repeated with Harry but she felt a bit different with him in the room: confident, relaxed and jovial.

Harry rolls his eyes and tugs her with a hand outside where they find a cross Teddy Lupin, arms folded over his chest and a single eyebrow raised that glared at them. If looks could kill, they would still be very much alive for despite Teddy’s best efforts, he still hadn’t lost his cute and chubby cheeks. It was like a teddy bear insisting he had committed a grave crime.

Hermione coos his name, wrapping the boy in a hug and spinning around. “How’s my favorite boy?”

“Why don’t you ask Harry?” He replies impishly, showcasing his milk teeth.

She taps him on the nose. “You’re my favorite everything. Your uncle prefers the worst drinks like hot chocolate.”

His eyes light up like a Christmas tree. “Hot Chocolate is the bestest best!”

A mock look of disappointment plasters on her face. “I highly regret befriending this family.”

“Nope!” The boy says looking unnaturally gleeful for his age. “You love us.”

Hermione narrows her eyes at the boy and when his smile is a mask of excellent innocence, she switches direction...right in time to hear the shriek of delighted laughter from the boy in her arms as a snowball whipped across her face.

Her eyes shut at the impact but once they open, they are deadly. “Harry. James. Potter. You have three seconds to get the hell away from me or else I will stab you so-”

Teddy giggles and burrows his face into her armpit. Caught off guard, Hermione sets the boy down, blocking his ears with a hand as she mouths a string of latin words to the sniggering man in front of her.

“Is that a challenge?” Harry spreads his arms wide open, ducking down to obtain a fistful of snow. “I doubt you’ll have much success.”

Hermione, for all her remarkability, has never been unable to back down from a challenge. It was her fatal flaw, some would say. Others would take it upon themselves to dare her with strange conquests.

There was only one line she daren’t cross; the education line. People had foolishly took it upon themselves to convince her to give up studying, fail and interfere with faculty . Would you believe the horror of it? Hermione certainly couldn't. It hadn’t mattered then, this quirk of accepting even the wildest and most ridiculous dares. Nothing did, really, when it interfered with studies. A firm believer in the truth that studying was prime and above all, she couldn’t let teenagers come in the way of her goal.

Yet, there were times when she was guilty of attending a party and getting drunk. It happened only once but the experience was vile enough to make A time when she had jumped in the pool from the first floor because someone had riled her up. To be fair, it wasn’t that much of a height but still enough for several jaws to drop.

And, that time when she had sworn off tea for a month . She still got nightmares over that one.

And, so when Harry stood there with an armful of snow, Hermione wasn’t merely considering participating in the fact, she stood analysing strategies and planning her victory dance.

“Teddy.” She says, hushed for this might be a top secret mission. The kite needed for triumph was dancing right in front of her...if she could just maneuver it to her advantage. With years on education that stressed on human behaviour, Hermione has enough confidence in her ability of analyzing people. She knows she can win.

“Do you want to join my team? I’ll buy you pancakes.” She adds smartly for if she knows anything, it’s that a Lupin cannot and will not refuse desserts. It goes against their morals. “I’ll buy you blueberry pancakes. With extra maple syrup.”

Based on the way his smirk decorates her face, Hermione knows she’s succeeded. Masterfully weaving her elaborate bid-pancakes for his cooperation- she’s secured a member who she knows-without a shred of uncertainty- will not betray her.

Teddy shakes her hand, growing serious like a businessman on his first day of work. Hermione exchanged a nod with him and looks at Harry who seems wary that she just had a conversation with his impish nephew.

“Hermione?” He begins, apprehensive, stepping away even though she’s empty handed and he has a weapon of snow. “Are you going to join?”

Careful, precise steps. Nephew and neighbour both descend the steps. After all, you can’t win a war on uneven terrain.

“Harry-” She states nervously, manipulating the timely case of events. He doesn’t know her the mechanism of the way her gears work in her head. She can win. She will win. She is Hermione Granger. The man looks at her captivated, waiting for her next move.

It’s not a very intelligent move for the next second, Hermione yells, “ Run !” to Teddy before she uses his flabbergasted movements to her advantage. Running like the devil’s on her heels and immediately, gasping because her lungs are weak things, she presses herself against a wall, sinking to the ground and capturing a mouthful of snow. Rolling it on her palm, she repeats the process and readies herself for battle.

Harry was so going down.

Blue lips and shaky hands were the result of playing with snow a few hours later. Despite her hands being practically immobile- She couldn’t even bend her fingers- there was nothing more satisfying than running around while screaming bloody murder.

There was a part of her that longed to return to her comforters and pull on her special winter socks - Christmas flea ones that had reindeers painted on them but it soon faded as another snowball pelted and smacked Harry’s face.

Despite his insistence, he was terrible at the game, constantly attacked by his nephew and Hermione. In fact, at the beginning, he just rested on the ground and watched the clouds in an overly dramatic manner.

After they had flung another snowball at his groaning mouth, Harry had resolved to best them-or at least, hit them once- but his efforts proved vain.

She can see his mop of hair behind a car that resembles a blanket of snow and wonders what’s next. In the same trapped position as he is, Hermione can’t risk giving away her cover.

Turmoil takes root in her, obnoxious enough that she only hears the incomer far too tardy. It’s the snapping of a branch that makes the following events appear in a sedated motion. Panic wills her up, instinct causes her to turn, and fate desires the first catalyst to be set into motion.

Harry stumbles thanks to the branch and Hermione tries to steady him which is pointless. Momentum and gravity grips them both and tugs them downwards. Harry, the precious man, tries to save her at the very least but all that he manages to do is elevate the damage. Both of them land on the ice with a sharp crash.

“Ooof.” Hermione grumbles, glaring at him but soon, softening as his eyelashes flicker at her like a giraffe. It’s spectacular that anyone could be so undeniable adorable. He had long eyelashes, she thinks dazed, hardly aware about her surroundings.

Perhaps, she should move her leg, the one that’s locking the boy against her. It’s very ridiculous, absolutely barmy and not at all like her.

“Hermione?” He breathes, a questioning look in his eye and she wonders if sleep deprivation isn’t a hoax after all for his eyes might, might have flickered to her lips for a second.

She steals the moment’s joy, wishing she could capture it and relieve it a thousand times for it feels like something she would want to remember. Her heart is beating unnaturally fast, a trait he’s yet to catch upon him and to think it’s because of him , of a man she hardly knows.

And, it’s then that the Oh settles in. The ‘Oh’ that girls dread to think about for it brings a whole bout of side effects. The Oh that she might find this man desirable .

It was insane.

Positively insane.

And yet.

Yet, she can’t look away from his eyes - emerald, a trapped image of evergreen forests and vivid leaving her breathless and reminiscent about growing pastures that blew in England. She’ never been much of a photographer or painter but the longing to sketch out the shocked expression etched on his face along with his slightly parted lips is salient.

Then, then his mouth opens and she realises what a complete and utter fool she is for this is her neighbour, her friend and she’d just been lying on top of him without his consent having been stunned into dumbness. Scrambling off him, her body rubs against the ice creating friction.

“Oh my God- shit- I wasn’t-I’m a disaster, putain .” Hermione swears, backing away like Harry’s a wild animal who accidentally provoked. “I didn’t mean to- I’m.”

“Um.” Harry states eloquently, brushing off the snow off his pants. “It’s honestly okay. I - It’s my fault.”

“You didn’t sit on me!”

Harry blushes and tucks his lips inwards embarrassed. “I would have done the same thing. God, no ,  that came out wrong. Not that I don’t want to sit on you but also, fuck. I short circuit when I panic and I’m rambling and can we just not talk about this?”

Hermione wishes she could escape the awkward silence that hangs over them like fog. “I-It’s alright. Yeah.”

They stand there for a minute or two, neither able to hold the other’s gaze, infinitely afraid to even think about how the contact might have sparked a tremor in the other. It’s times like this when Hermione has the maddening urge to flee and sink in her bed. Beginning a conversation is hard enough, sustaining it is a whole other story. It’s like looking at a mountain but then, having to climb it.

She’s delved deep in her lame excuses of social interaction when a cheerful giggle splits the air and the pair of them turn, the evolution of instincts dictating their movements and their denseness, apparently because they don’t’ have the common sense to imagine what might happen in a battlefield- a battlefield that has a ten year old kid who’s special expertise is causing havoc.

They don’t have time to run, to scream or run from the monster who’s flinging balls of snow on them at a million miles per second.

At least, Teddy didn’t betray just her. The boy, future spy and man who would write ‘How To Be A Crook’ 101’ turned on both of them.

Spoiler Alert: Harry and Hermione surrender..

Chapter 5

The first thing she does when the steady and loud pounding of her headache registers is swear. Despite the numerous books, self care books in particular that promote positivity especially in the morning, lining her shelf, she finds herself victim of not promoting the principle of a healthy lifestyle.

Her voice comes out as a rasp and she idly bounces the thought of finally singing like Chloe Kohanski and Miley Cyrus, but her throat resists the formation of a few syllables, so she disregards the fantasy.

Burrowing under the covers as tremors rack her frame, she coughs. Once, twice, thrice.

And, then swears once and only once because she doesn’t have the energy to follow it up with another colorful word, much to her dismay.

Her eyes slink shut and the lilac scent of her bedsheets lull her into a soundless lullaby. Rocking with shivers, and with a clenched jaw to ward off another coughing fit, the illusion of peace sent only by the season of winter carries Hermione to slumber.

When she awakes, a few hours later, she wonders if there’s a burglar in her house. There’s a substantially loud racket in her kitchen. The concerning matter is Hermione doesn’t care. Her head is positively swimming which is absolutely dreadful if she wasn’t, in fact, hallucinating.

Groaning as her feet pad across the floor, Hermione indulges in the fantasy of passing a stern dialogue to whoever disrupted her sleep. Perhaps, the intruder was a blessing in disguise as she now, severely, realized she needed to study. Revised, only, eight times, she lacked the self confidence required for passing the test.

“Harry?” She says, stunned, pausing at the foot of the staircase.

For it isn’t a robber nor a murderer but her neighbour, Harry who greets her with his infamous dimple cheeked smile and green eyes. His sleeves are rolled to his forearms, offering a radial view of the brown glistening skin.

“Hi!” He blinks, waving a spoon in her face, an attempt to greet. When he notices her fixed look, his eyes glance down at the silverware in his hand. “I, uh, was making soup.”

Hermione stares at him. “Um.”

An immediate motherly look washes his face and with a tone of horror, Harry fusses, “You’re sick, go back to bed!”

“I’m fine. I need to revise.” Hermione argues, already walking towards the kitchen, grabbing a book on the nearby desk.

The cough that trailed her declaration helped prove her point significantly. “Look, I’m perfectly ha-happy. Why are you making soup?”

Harry rolls his eyes. “It’s my mother’s famous soup. Always helps me when I’m on a cold. I don’t make it as well as she does but the main ingredients should make you feel slightly better, if anything.”

Hermione smiles at him, a touched smile that brightens the room. “Thank you. You’re the sweetest.”

Red blooms on Harry’s neck like roses in a greenhouse. Pride erupts in Hermione’s chest, a fiery little dragon, claiming victory for eliciting a flustered reaction.

Harry mutters his gratitude under his breath. “Get to sleep, yeah? I’ll wake you up when the soup’s done. You can study then.”

“Revise.” Hermione corrects, shuffling on her feet as she ascends the steps. “And, Harry? Thank you .”

“Mione? Fuck , you’re burning up.” Harry whispers and the volume sends another pang of pain through Hermione.

Nausea rises from the pit of her stomach and fills her mouth, drawing an empty gag. Not capable of much thought, she simply hums.

“Can you sit up for a second? The soup’s still warm. Mione?”

There’s one thing that Hermione is known for-her buck head stubbornness. It provided favorable characteristics in debates and very few managed to spar verbally with the prodigy for more than a few minutes. True to his credit, however, after much persuasion, Harry convinces her to sit up.

Blearily blinking up at him for he’s nearly a foot taller than her, she doesn’t protest when the spoonful of soup travels to her mouth, without her volition. Hermione sags against the bed frame, swallowing a few spoons. Tears flicker behind her eyelids like lamps as the heat stings her throat. Forcing herself to digest it, she’s relieved when Harry keeps the bowl on the table, at last.

“Get some sleep. I’ll wake you up later.”

His voice is melodious and warm and she’s tempted to listen to him but with much difficulty, she recounts his earlier promise. “Revise.”

“You can’t even open your eyes.” Harry remarks, a combination of exasperation and amusement. “How do you plan on revising ?”

In response, Hermione gestures for her book. Sighing, Harry stands up and jogs down the stairs before he returns. Firmly pushing her hand down, he scans the pages. The whole book, Advanced Educational Psychology is colored in fluorescent yellow and orange- a fact that makes him grin.

Unlike her textbooks, his pages were covered in doodles- of mythical dragons and yes , puppies- with various texts from his best friend, Ron.

“ Trait emotional intelligence or Trait emotional self efficacy refers to “a constellation or behaviour dispositions and self-perceptions regarding a-”

“You don’t-don’t have to read for me.” Hermione manages, trying to secure her hold on the book.

“S’alright.” Harry continues reading, after throwing her a charming smile. “Can’t have the star Princess exhaust herself, now, can I?”

Hermione’s glad she’s sick for a moment, solely because she can chalk up to the blush that stains her cheek on the fever.

And, Harry continues to read about emotional intelligence. Each word was submerged in that British accent Hermione’s come to love for the reaction it ignited on her skin - rows of goosebumps, adds to the challenge of focusing on the quality of the lesson.

Eventually giving up, she enjoys the way the man in front of her pronounces his r’s and l’s . It was hard to believe that men like this, indeed existed. Men who fed her soup and read her illegible notes. It appeared that some men, outside the fictional world, were pretty great too. Her last thought before she falls asleep is Harry.

Ringing blares through her lucid haze, jolting her from her nap. Hermione rubs her eyes and yawns, a mellow gold light shining and wrapping her form.

There’s another ring and Hermione picks up the phone, stifling another yawn.

“Uncle Harry! How was your first time being on TV?”

“Hello?” Hermione asks groggily, eyes growing as round as saucers when she looks at the phone. She’d assumed it was her phone but that was ridiculous because it wasn’t even her ringtone. In a lapse of judgement, she’d answered Harry’s phone.

Embarrassment and guilt flood through her blood. It soon is diffused by curiosity for Teddy’s words take meaning.

“Aunt Hermione? Is that you?”

“It’s me.”

“Are you and Uncle Harry finally getting married, now?”

Hermione chokes on air and coughs loudly. “What? Where did you get that idea from? Did Harry say anything? Never mind. No. The answer is no .”

“Bummer.” Teddy’s disappointed and childish voice grits through the bungled up connection.

“What do you mean bummer ?”

“Uncle Harry has a cr-”

“Mione?” Harry’s puzzled voice drowns out the rest of Teddy’s sentence which was the real bummer because Hermione was on edge. She’d half a mind to ask Harry to wait just so Teddy could finish but smiling sheepishly, Hermione hands him his phone. “It’s Teddy. Sorry, I answered. Thought it was my phone.”

Harry’s eyes widen. If she didn’t know better, she’d say he was sick on the way nausea grips him. Along with his red face. “Did he say anything about me? Did he know you were speaking?”

“Yes.” Hermione replies warily. “Why?”

His face immediately collapses in utter repose which adds to her confusion. “No reason. Hang on a sec’, yeah?..... Hey, bud….. I didn’t! Your Uncle Harry’ll talk to you later, okay? Mione’s sick and she needs the doctor…..I’m an amazing doctor, you rascal….Love you too.”

Hermione stands from the bed, rubbing the weeds of the lasting headaches. Brushing her hair which is a lost cause, she ties it with a band.

“Harry?”  

“Yeah?”

Hermione wrings her hands together, staring him straight in the eye. “Did you have to go somewhere today?”

Harry winces. “Did Teddy say-”

“Can you answer the question? Where were you supposed to go?”

“I-Yes.” Harry draws a long breath and looks up at the ceiling, bouncing on the heels of his feet. “It wasn’t a major thing. Had an interview. They wanted me to cook something for them.”

“Where were you supposed to have the interview?”

“Buzzfeed?”

Hermione rubs her eyes. “Please don’t tell me you passed up Buzzfeed to take care of me?”

Harry looks outraged at any other scenario. “It’s just Buzzfeed .”

“Exactly! Buzzfeed .” Hermione throat protests the loud vocal and she visibly winces. Harry’s at her side in an instant. “You should have gone. I can’t even begin to understand. You’ll regret-”

“I won’t regret anything.” Harry holds her gaze and adds, fiercely. “You’re more important than any of those things.”

Hermione chest heaves as she exhales, shakily. Somehow, Harry had managed to claim title of best friend, crush and person who proclaimed the most romantic words ever said to her in a few days.

Opinions mattered to her which wasn’t very healthy and she’d gotten better at blocking out negative criticism on her teeth, her brains. An excellent feeling from someone she thought of greatly nearly sent her weeping.

Hermione memorizes his face for a heartbeat longer than a friend would, speechless beyond repair.

“Thank you.” She knows the words aren’t adequate enough. Nothing will be.

“S’not a problem.” Harry responds and his words are laced with gentleness as if it’s more than enough.

Perhaps, she was still dreaming. If dreams did indeed, take shape, Harry would live amongst fairytales. He was too good, too kind.   to be true. Maybe, Harry was merely an apparition or a figment of her imagination for there wasn’t a possibility in all the realms of the world that Harry would look at her with such fondness and love.

But he was.

And, fuck , if she wasn’t screwed.

Biting her lip, she takes a step back, missing the disappointment that flashes across Harry’s face for a nanosecond before he masks it away.

“Want to watch a Christmas movie?”

Hermione’s hesitance is not abundant yet present. She had studied and revised. The exams were a couple of months away, though. Surely, she ought to-

“If you want to study, then we can do that.”

It’s the use of we that spurs her choice of an answer. “How about several movies?”

“Home Alone 1 is way better than Home Alone 2.” Harry states, scrolling through his phone. Showing the list of movies on his phone, he asks Hermione, “What are we watching first?”

“The crime is way better in Home Alone 2.” Hermione mimics, weaving a carefully crafted debate. “The pranks are ridiculous, surprisingly funny and they have the best toy story. How do you not like that?”

Harry laughs. “Have I ever told you how intelligent you are? You know how to appeal to my mind but nope, you can’t change my mind. I’m adamant in the belief that Home Alone 1 is unbeatable. Now, choose. Which movie?”

Hermione squints at the screen. “I don’t know. You’re asking a bisexual to choose something. This is going to take forever. You’re better at Christmas movies. You choose.”  She admits reluctantly. It would be a lie if she confessed his reaction would not deter her.

“Well, love, you’re talking to a fellow bisexual. I want to say everything.”

Hermione grins at him. “You’re amazing, you know that, right?”

“It would help my ego if you kept saying it.”

“Did you know that the origin of ego is from Latin? It came from literally ‘I’ in the nineteenth century.”

“Mione.” Harry lets out a weak chuckle. “That’s all fascinating but which movie? ”

“Let’s watch all but in alphabetical order. So, stream A Christmas Carol first.”

“This is why we make a good team.”

Hermione hides her smile as she walks towards the kitchen, Harry following behind.

“What are we doing?”

“Popcorn?”

Harry scrunches up his face and pouts. The sentiments are reflected on Hermione’s face.

“How about tea and popcorn?”

A rush of affection for Harry consumes her. There wasn’t an honorable man who disliked tea. “Yes. We could have a sleepover or something. Build a fort, later on?”

“How about now ?”

xx

The fort was an absolute disaster . Every spare linen, including Hermione’s long Russian coats and bedsheets- were thrifted to form a structure that tethered shoddily. They inspect the fort with great pride, however. It wasn’t strong enough to take on a rival army but seemed perfect for the two of them.

Harry crawls in and Hermione looks away, blushing as his butt is shoved in her face. She was not looking . She wasn’t .

Under the canopy of fairy lights that twinkle, Harry threw a blanket of hand knitted wool over Hermione. Mug in hand, they marvel at their creation. One of Hermione’s book cabinets support the fabric, included coincidentally, of course.

They crawl towards a common sofa, wondering if this was a good idea, after all. They felt like adults concluding the observation on the way their backs grumbled. Traitorous. Undependable and painful backs.

“May I read this?” Harry asks, eyes fixed on a shiny book. After admiring the summary, he passes a smile, “Romance and princes are my thing .”

Hermione nods, excitedly like a kid drugged on candy.

“When we got the letter in the post, my mother was ecstatic. She had already decided that all our problems were solved, gone forever.” Harry’s lips twitch upwards. “The big- wish we could have this kind of luck in the real world- BIG HITCH in her brilliant plan was me. I didn’t think I was a particularly disobedient daughter, but this was where I drew the line.”

Hermione lets out a snort when Harry wiggles his eyebrows at her imitating a walrus. “Am I a disobedient daughter, Mione?”

“Read the book, will you?”

So he did. For nearly an hour, Hermione heard, with  great rapture, the inevitable love story between a prince and a commoner. The Selection was one of her favorite series. It had just the right amount of romance and suspense. It was the ninth time she wished she lived in a palace that contained a magnificent library within its walls.

His phone rang and Harry stops abruptly, in the middle of dialogue which was the greatest tragedy. He shuts the book and crawls to the TV.

“What are you doing?” Hermione crosses her arms and stares him down. “Aren’t you going to pick up your phone?”

“Nope.” Harry responds, having an internal battle with the buttons on the TV. “It was an alarm. We’re going to watch a movie now. Like we were supposed to do an hour ago.”

“Can’t we just read?” Hermione whines. “It’s much better.”

“What are we going to do with the popcorn?”

Hermione debates the issue with herself. “Fine. We’re going to read as soon as we finish the movie and that’s that..”

“Whatever you want, Princess. I recommend watching at least five movies, though.” Harry tugs his phone out of his pocket. “It’s very Christmassy.”

Hermione fixes him with a glare. “I’ll watch. As long as you admit Home Alone 2 was better.”

He throws her a wounded look and clutches his heart with a hand. “I feel so hurt . But because I want to watch the movie, I’ll say Home Alone 2….was better than certain other movies-like Home Alone 1. However, know that I will never forget how mean-”

She huffs. “Just play the movie, Mr. Dramatic.”

Swiping at the phone before he places it on the floor, Harry scoots closer to Hermione and leans his head against her shoulder.

“Happy Movie Watching.”

Hermione swallows and hopes it wasn’t as loud as she imagined it to be. “You too.”

If her voice appeared choked, Harry didn’t appear to notice. She resists the need to adjust, wary that her movement might push him away. His head tickles her a little and Hermione bites her lip. Taking a peek at his hair, she looks away, her head swimming with the conscious desire to ruffle it.

Willing herself to exercise some control, Hermione tries to focus on the melody bouncing around them.

“Why does it feel like we’re watching a horror movie instead of a Christmas one?”

“I guess it’s symbolism.” Hermione whispers back. It makes her think about times when she was a child and she’d play pass the whisper. She wonders if Harry and her could be friends as children. She’d like to think so. “At the end of the movie-”

“No spoilers.” Harry interrupts, grabbing the bowl of popcorn and passing it to her.

“Haven’t you watched this yet?”

Harry shakes his head, hair tickling her skin. “Not this film, nope.”

“How can you-” Hermione begins, pulling away from him slightly. “Never mind. You’re in for a treat.”

True to her word, Harry discovered that he was rather ridiculous and wished he had watched the movie earlier. A fond fan of magic, he was beyond delighted and fascinated as Scrooge flew. The elements of magic kindled the inner child in him.

Hermione would probably be set on fire if she said the light in his eyes wasn’t endearing.

As the credits for the third movie flashed, Hermione shut her eyes. Darkness had winnowed in, almost an hour ago but exhaustion only seemed to weigh her down now. Eyes burning, she drops her back on the floor, side eyes memorising the names of the actors.

“Want me to switch it off?” Harry asks, stretching as much as the proximity allows. After confirming the time, he tells her, “It’s almost nine.”

“Night’s young.” Hermione mumbles, face pressed onto the cold layer. “I’m watching.”

His chuckle is warm reminding her of the taste of hot chocolate drunk on a winter’s night. He drops his body next to her with a thump .

“How you’ll see?” She slurs her words together, hazy with warmth.  

“You’re short, Princess.” Harry claims which it a total lie. She’s 5’2, a perfectly admirable height. If the rest of the world comprised of giants, it wasn’t her issue.

“Am not.”  Hermione nestles into him, his warmth practically a soundless lullaby. And, into the arms of Morpheus, she crept.

The next morning she woke up to Harry’s snores and noticed her leg around his waist with his arm wound around her lower back. Psychology dictated their involuntary actions so she didn’t panic.

It was funny to notice how he seeked her warmth. The blanket was draped around her form while Harry remained bare, excluding his cotton shirt. As the blanket suspended on his body, her fingers brushed his skin, inducing electrifying shocks through bone and marrow.

Hermione carefully strived not to think about how she didn’t untangle herself from him despite being awake for minutes.

 liked it so far? read the rest on ao3 

[ren-val]

"Sigh of relief" for the prompts!

Hello there, thanks a lot for the prompt!So, in my style, I wanna write healing fluff. Because healing fluff is The Thing I Love, and since I read something REALLY heartbreaking today (by @disaster-bi-canach Read it Here!), I will amend it. I wanted to to this with sweet Naoise (whose name has like 3 different pronunciations because GAELIC). Hope you like it!

Side note: Arlen the murderboi and Mozz the trashplant are not mine. I have not such talent for drama (?)

He knew it was a dream. But it was not just one of the strange stories concocted by his mind, but a Dream, A prophecy, or a memory. A wooden door in the seedy part of Lion’s Arch, planks rotten and hinges rusted  as a malignant vapor escaped from its underside. Smelled like nightmare and sap, like pain and plantblood. Like corpses of love wishes, strangled by briarthorns. Naoise did recognize the voices inside the house, the moans and the shadow of threats under them. Suffering, and silence, and fear and abuse and everything he had recognized in the air around the Courtier that had almost killed him the day before.

It was not a dream, it was a memory. One of his own memories; he had felt awkward and ended up going somewhere else. He had no right to interfere in the life of Arlen, even if a part of his heart broke everytime something like that happened. No one deserved to be used like that. If he could, he would kick the courtier’s ass far away, so he could choke on his own poison.

But that had to wait. The sounds of morning woke him up. The sight of his room, his bags already made, made him feel better. The sight of Tristan, his beloved fernhound, made him smile; unlike Naoise, Tristan was happy, ready to face every challenge, doing everyhing he could to make his partner feel better.

“We have to check up on him, Tristan“ the ranger whispered in his mind, knowing the hound could understand him better that way. Tristan snarled, anger surging, the desire to bite off the face of the courtier filling his mind. He was a fierce protector of the Dream, and the memory of that man threatening to kill Naoise was a fresh memory that could only dissapear with either distance, or vengeance.

Ranger and hound got ready, and went to the destitute house where Arlen lived, only to find it empty. Worry started to brew in the mind of Naoise; was Arlen alright? Had he flown away with the courtier? Had he…

No. That could not be it. He sighed deeply and decided to be brash for once in his short life. He slammed the fragile door with his own body, and found that the room was abandoned, not even a trace of Arlen’s presence. Even if his aroma was in the air. ”I need you to track him, my friend“ although snarling, Tristan obeyed, running through the city, following a trail that few could follow.

They arrived to a house, far sturdier than the one where Arlen used to live. It was also in a quieter place, surrounded by other houses instead of seedy taberns and wilderness. Naoise knocked at the door, and heard a loud gasp, followed by a growl of pure anger, and the distintive noises of a loaded rifle. “Arlen, its me!“ he cried out. He could hear steps towards him, and the low voice of Arlen creeping across the door.

“Where is Tristan?“ he asked, eliciting a bark of the fernhound, along with his paws scratching the door. Tristan was as worried as Naoise, and was way more vocal about it, barking once more so the sharpshooter could ehar him clearly. “Alright. It is you. I though you were Morrisey in disguise“. The ranger felt relief all over his body, sighing as deeply as he could. Arlen was safe, albeit scared, nd he couldn’t blame him. “Do not enter,though” he heard Arlen saying “I need some time to take everything I need. We are leaving for Orr, now”

There was a sharpness in his voice that Noise had never heard. Fear, anger, and the sheer need to get ut of the city as soon as possible. He could not judge Arlen, but he wanted to know something. “Why?“ he asked “I will obey you, and I have  been ready ever since you told me there could be someone tracking you. But I want to know why do you want to go now“

Silence once more, as Arlen growled lowly, as if discussing something with himself. “He will come back“ he murmured “He won’t leave me alone, Morrisey won’t be happy until he kills both of us, or worse…“ Naoise almost could feel the creeping fear that made Arlen shudder “He threatened you, and now he has a gnash in his face thanks to your arrows. He won’t forgive you. He will try to kill you and as your bodyguard, I can’t let that happen“

So it was a work issue, trampled and tangled along some other, more personal problems. Naoise felt calmer knowing that, though there was something he wanted to say about that “It is alright if you let me go, break the contract and just go on our separate ways so you can forget about this”. He saw no problem in that, there could be space in the human ships towards Elona, or Vigil recruiters that could help him reach his goals, but Arlen answered, sternly.

“No. You don’t understand. He threatened you. And I cannot let that pass“ Naoise felt heat on his cheek, and a smile forming on his lips. He was entangled in a mess he had no part in, but someone at least cared about that, and he could not ignore it. “Then I won’t let it pass either. He also threated you, and with worse words, may I add. If we are going to travel together, then you can count with my protection, Arlen“

Once more, there was silence, but instead of tension, there was kindness and understanding. And it felt much better than ever before.

[nebula-starlight]

Glitch

Just a little alternate take on the Void & Anti fight from Comatose had Dark not arrived. Enjoy! 

“I should have expected you’d find me sooner or later, Virus.” 

Her head rose, eyes glowing as she heard the sound of footsteps behind her mixed with the crackle of static. How entertaining was it that after months of her existence in his world, the Irish glitch finally had the gall to seek her out for a personal chat. He’d learn awfully quick why she was a fan of attack first, ask questions later. Talking led to missed opportunities for inflicting rather devastating injuries. And besides, she wasn’t keen on leaving much time for petty discussion that would be worthless anyway. 

“Name calling wasn’t what I expected from the pretty lassie.” She chuckled under her breath at his remark, getting to her feet from where she had sat cross-legged on the barren floor. 

“Don’t start claiming you’re a nice little puppet-master on my account. Try to have some dignity before I rip it to shreds just like the rest of you.” The air around her crackled, the change bringing a smile to her face before she closed her eyes and jumped. 

Magic long ago torn from her soul now flowed freely, creating wispy trails that extended off her eyes as the slitted pupils shrank the second she flipped around in mid-air to deliver a kick to his back. Human bodies were frail and if her limited knowledge of its anatomy was correct then the speed and force would surely break a few bones... Only he wasn’t standing in that spot anymore. 

“Stand still!” She screeched, rolling into a landing with strangely practiced ease for a being who hadn’t been human long. 

Whipping her head around at the sound of static, she bent back to avoid a knife swiping at the very spot where her neck once was. Thinking fast, she grabbed his wrist and twisted it, eyes glowing a bright shade of green as she bared her teeth with a snarl. Let him upstage her! Sure that blasted community kept feeding him with attention but she was... 

“Sure you’re all there?” Anti scoffed, knife falling from his hand before he glitched away out of her grasp and snatched up the blade before it was able to hit the dark floor. “Wouldn’t want you to phase out of existence or anything. At least, not until after I’m done with you.” 

Void closed her eyes with a huff, lifting a hand before the aura flared stronger from under her closed eyelids. A ghostly green flicker of a sword phased into her palm and her lips split with a wicked smile. 

“Ready?” 

She darted forward with half-opened eyes, swinging the blade down only for an irritated growl to slip free as he blocked the hit with his knife. Sparks flew from the clashing metal before they broke apart and glitched back a few steps. Gripping her weapon tighter, she shifted her weight on her feet as her gaze studied him. The equal yet opposite of her in every way. Controlling, possessive... not unlike how she also was with who had been her host. 

“One mistake is all I need. You screw up and you will find out exactly what I am capable of doing...” 

Anti crossed his arms, tucking his knife down into the crook of his elbow. “Then we’ve reached an impasse. No matter how hard we fight our skills are equal-“ 

“Or not.” She growled, taking a single step forward. “You forget the advantage those loyal little puppets offer you... A power boost I am far too lacking.”

The Irish glitch twitched in place, neck distorting even before he tilted his head to the side. “And who’s fault is that?” 

Void’s gaze narrowed as she dropped into a crouch, passing her aura-created sword to her other hand. With barely any measure of effort, a second blade was formed and she spun the steel around, chuckling as the visible scar across her throat looked infected with black instead of the dried red. 

“Oh just come at me already!” 

“It’s your funeral.” 

The eagerness with which he started forward only made her smile widen. Death held no peace for her now. Besides, she’d already crossed into that realm and finally embraced exactly who she could be. There was no fear left when revenge was the sole driving force of a continued existence beyond reality itself. 

Void lifted her blades, shifting her weight back onto one foot to block the angry swipe that had been aimed at her chest before throwing her other weapon. She watched with an almost sickening glee as it ripped through fabric and skin before finally getting lodged in his neck. Every single time each enemy she fought made the same idiotic mistake. They all forgot about the second blade... although it wouldn’t be enough to truly take him down as she wanted. 

No matter. She had pushed her magic too far already as the wispy trails faded from her eyes shortly after the blades shattered apart. He’d get enough attention from the fans to make her attack seem like nothing but a distant memory. By that point she may not even exist anymore... 

“Not gonna finish me off?” He rasped, the sound gurgling in his further damaged throat before making it out of his mouth in a tone that made her want to act on the still burning fire churning in the depths of her broken soul. 

Still she turned, crossing her arms over her chest in a soft sigh. “I’d love nothing more but, alas, even my magic has limits. I shouldn’t even be technically alive from the damage done and yet here I am... A disgrace to the once proud beings I used to consider my family.” 

Void heard the static crackle behind her as she closed her eyes, knowing well that the sound meant he was going in for another strike but she made no attempt to stop it. A part of her was done trying to cheat death... the same speck that irritatingly saw naught but good in each life. Maybe it was time to submit to fate...? 

The stab felt like she’d been punched, his voice rasping out a curse at the black ooze that leaked free from her body. Anti had known exactly where to attack but the knife in her back wasn’t the issue any longer. No, what he just did only opened up a far darker box she rarely allowed herself to admit was available to her unstable being. Where most souls who took over a host seemed to nullify the abilities of the original, her possession had somehow only locked away the former she-dragon’s elemental magic. And now with that cage unlocked... she wasn’t going down without a fight. 

Metal warped, sinking deeper into her body as she turned, opening one eye as it glowed bright green. “Shall we try one more time?” 

“What type of demon are you?” The angry shock she heard from Anti only seemed to bring out his accent and she couldn’t help but snicker. 

“Not a hell-spawn I assure you. Consider me the offspring of corrupted magic and unquenchable vengeance... and you happen to be unlucky enough to be right in my crosshairs.” 

The glitch growled, summoning one more knife with a twitch of his hand. “Then I’ll just keep hitting you until you fall.” 

“Good luck trying to kill someone that’s already dead.” Void shrugged, lifting a hand as thin wispy vapors of shadow rose from her fingertips almost mindlessly. “I suggest you go back to doing what you do best. Being nothing more than a rather persistent thorn in the Irishman’s side. Always lusting after a chance to draw more power from those puppets...” 

Another knife was hurled into her back, only bringing out a short bark of amused laughter from the unstable spirit before it too met the same fate as the previous one. Violently cracking her neck as her body glitched in place, she closed her open palm and brought her risen hand down. It did not matter who was superior now. She had an edge over him - at least in her mind - and that was enough. Each blade he threw would do nothing to her who had already entered into death’s barren realm. 

“Cease trying to damage me. We both know it won’t work,” Void chuckled under her breath. “Or would you prefer I return the favor?” 

The single pop that faded into silence with was oddly eerie, bringing up vague memories she had repressed for so long of drowning in nothingness. Lack of noise, barren blank space all around her... 

Not again! She wouldn’t be cast aside and forgotten. She had power and... And nothing mattered. Once more she’d been left to rot away in some empty void just the same as how she was created. If anything could ever come close to breaking her then the weight of what pressed in all around her was a great contender. 

For a brief second she could hear something, a familiar giggle almost before dissolving into the hiss of static that faded away. 

“I could have continued our spat but leaving you here like this is more fun. Do enjoy your eternity of isolation.”

@illyriashade56 @marginmaster87 @rogue-of-light-analyzed 

[bxebxee]

Thanks For Your Input!

Note: Where’s that upside down smiling emoji because I think about cancer mars Yoongi and impregnation all the damn time. Title is somewhat based on this one particular song that made the discovery channel weep in embarrassment. As per usual, I lost steam towards the end. 

Pairing: Yoongi x Reader Genre: Werewolf!AU Warnings: no external editing (rip), werewolf sex, imagined breeding kink, barest hint of degradation Word Count: 3107 Rating: A-, for A Whole Lot Less Kinkier Than You Thought! (MA/NC-17)

*

Now that he’s sitting down next to you in close proximity with none of the aroma of the burning oil vaporizing into the cramped atmosphere of your kitchen, he could smell just how primed you are to receive his seed. Yoongi cringes; it sounds terrible in his own head, but his cock loves where this thought is going. Call it a baser need driven by whatever DNA or RNA or societal conditioning or what-the-fuck-ever coded werewolves to react this way, but your ovulation days are when Yoongi salivates over giving you a nice, fat sperm deposit up your precious pussy.

*

Yoongi is in an uncharacteristically good mood on a dreary Thursday morning when he sleeps over at your place for the first time. He stretches upon waking up, moaning as his joints and bones crack and pop after last night’s fun with you. You keep up relatively well for a human girl, and you never fail to surprise him. The whole casual fucking deal you insist upon is new to him, but he’ll accept your bizarre human practices for now.

His hand reaches out to where your body should be, but instead of your flesh, he is met with cold sheets. The dull sounds of your cursing from somewhere outside of your bedroom hit his ear as his senses return to him. Yoongi sits up, groggy and a pouting because he would have liked to have you next to him. Still, at least he knows you’re somewhere in the apartment. 

Without bothering to put on anything except his boxers, Yoongi follows the unmistakable sounds of cooking to find you. He leans against the entryway of the kitchen, a slow smirk growing on his face as he observes your quiet panic at having to multitask and manage three burners. Plastic shopping bags from the grocery store litter on the floor. It’s not the most picturesque moment of domesticity, but he’s touched that you woke up at an ungodly hour just to go food shopping for him. 

“Good-” Yoongi cuts himself off, eyes widening when he catches a whiff of one of his favorite scents on a woman. The fumes from the pan in which you’re over-cooking the eggs and charring the bacon cannot disguise what his sensitive nose picks up. It’s buried behind the distraction of food and smoke, but it’s there. You’ve just started to ovulate, and it smells like heaven. 

You turn around at his voice. “Morning,” you chirp, flashing him a winning grin. “I’m almost done ruining breakfast! Help yourself to coffee.” 

He can’t even laugh because once he zeroes in on the very specific, very arousing scent of your ovulation, it’s like everything else gets shifted downwards on his priority To-Do List. Eating, drinking...hell, even coffee takes a distinct second place to this. 

You don’t even notice his stilted response, or perhaps you chalk it up to lack of sleep. In any case, you’ve turned your attention away from him to focus on shutting off the burners and frantically searching for plates. Yoongi shakes his head to snap out of it. It’s not even the first time he’s smelling you like this, but every month it hits him hard. And being in your home surrounded by everything that smells like you amplifies the effect. 

Yoongi spots the disposable paper plates before you do, and he wordlessly walks over to open the new package to help out as a means to distract himself.

“Thanks,” you sigh and carefully spoon in equal portions of breakfast something-or-other onto two plates. It looked as if the eggs started out as your standard fried eggs that turned scrambled halfway through. “You’re really great.” 

“I did nothing,” he snorts. 

“Oh I know,” you laugh, winking at him and grabbing a skillet filled with something that looked like they used to be vegetables at one point in their short, miserable lives. “I mean it’s great of you to play eye candy and hand me things while you’re nearly naked in the kitchen.” 

Yoongi leers at you. “That turns you on?” 

You nod emphatically, placing strips of bacon in an artistic way as a failed attempt at hiding some burnt pieces of potato of the sad hash brown you attempted. “Yeah, it’s like the Old Spice stuff, y’know?” 

No, he doesn’t know, but Yoongi swallows down his question and settles for kissing your forehead. Your lips could wait until he’s gotten rid of his morning breath. After the last time you chewed him out for kissing you with his “hideous, werewolf stink-bomb, morning breath,” he figures he’d spare you and himself the trouble. 

“Did you sleep well?” you ask as he fixes himself a cup of coffee. 

“No,” he lies, “You snored too much.” You did no such thing, and he slept like a baby if his puffed face is any indication.

“Ha ha,” you reply sarcastically, grabbing the plates of food and sitting down at the table. “The drool on your face says Otherwise.” You laugh for real when Yoongi stops mid-trek just to walk over to the sink faucet and observe his reflection for spit stains. “Just kidding,” you amend wickedly. “Now come sit down and eat.” 

Yoongi points a plastic fork at your direction after sitting across from you. “Lying gets you spanks, Miss.” 

“Ooh, cane me daddy. I’ve been bad,” you tell him, voice dropping to a comical exaggeration of Horny Girl. It’s all a big joke to you, and he feels embarrassed to be somewhat turned on. He blames it on the ovulation. 

Yoongi gulps down hot coffee as he watches you eat, the scalding liquid doing little to distract him from the fact that you smell like the girl of his wet dreams. You cautiously bite into the eggs, humming when they don’t taste as bad as you expected. They were a little salty, but not too bad for a first try. As a rule, you don’t cook for men you fuck around with, but Yoongi’s not just any guy, after all. A little breakfast never hurt anyone. 

“Just eat the eggs with a lot of toast, and you’ll barely notice I dumped in half the box of salt,” you tell him with a giggle. 

“I’d rather eat you.” 

Your eyes widen and the egg falls off your fork. Yoongi coughs because that was a slip. And again it’s nothing he hasn’t already done to you multiple times, but that was such an amateur porn line...

He runs a hand through his messy bed hair, not trusting your growing smile one bit. 

You put down your fork and place your hand over your heart. “I’m touched, Yoongi. I really am. That is probably one of the most romantic things you’ve ever said to me.” 

“Shut the fuck up,” he snorts, deciding to put himself out of his misery and fill his mouth with food so that he doesn’t embarrass himself any further. You are merciless when it comes to teasing him even though he is just as bad. 

“I’m serious!” you laugh, poking at your bacon with the tines of the fork. “I can’t believe you stole a line from Fucking the Virgin Pizza Boy. How did you know it’s a favorite of mine?”: 

Yoongi crunches into the toast, glaring at you without meaning it. 

“Okay I’ll stop,” you sigh, rewarding his patience by rubbing his calf with your toe. Yoongi jerks his leg away to keep up the pretense even though his cock practically jumps at the touch with want. 

“You’re so annoying,” he grumbles, eighty percent of the jab aimed at his friend in his pants already standing at half-mast. You don’t have to know that though. 

Now that he’s sitting down next to you in close proximity with none of the aroma of the burning oil vaporizing into the cramped atmosphere of your kitchen, he could smell just how primed you are to receive his seed. Yoongi cringes; it sounds terrible in his own head, but his cock loves where this thought is going. Call it a baser need driven by whatever DNA or RNA or societal conditioning or what-the-fuck-ever coded werewolves to react this way, but your ovulation days are when Yoongi salivates over giving you a nice, fat sperm deposit up your precious pussy. 

He groans audibly and obviously. 

“Are you okay?” you ask wondering what the hell was going through his mind. 

“Yes,” he sighs, “Just horny is all. Ignore me.” 

“I would never,” you reply, standing up and walking around the small table to sit on his lap, a little flattered that he’s like this so quickly. You feel the erection press up against your core, and he really wasn’t kidding. “Wow... What’s gotten into you?”

Yoongi buries his face into your chest, moaning at how your scent envelops him. He would probably do anything at this point to have you ride him to completion so that he could fill you up. The need to have you reeking of his cum is overwhelming and disorienting. 

He feels the soft scritch-scratching motions of your nails around his hair and ears, and Yoongi grasps your ass in return, thrusting up gently as he presses you down. 

“Not that I mind this,” you breathe out, “But did you have a good dream or something?” 

Yoongi pulls away from your chest to lick up your neck, growling gently. “You just smell really, really good,” he answers, tabling the discussion about ovulation for later time when he wasn’t preoccupied with the fantasy of pupping you. 

“I’m not wet yet,” you whisper, body thrumming with the nice feelings of Yoongi’s hands roaming around. 

Yoongi nods. He knows. “I’ll get you there,” he promises. “Grab my condoms for me?” 

“Okay,” you sigh, getting off his lap and pausing when his hand encircles your wrist. 

“On second thought...” Yoongi trails off, licking his lips. “I’ll get them.” He stands, kissing you gently before maneuvering you to bend over the table. 

Your face feels hot as he unbuttons your jeans and pulls them down along with your underwear. You step out of them without too much difficulty but yelp in surprise when you feel his cool tongue poke at your opening. 

You weren’t kidding when you told him you weren’t wet, and Yoongi rubs the flat of his tongue against your opening. And down here kneeling behind you like this, it feels like a pretty interesting mix of heaven and hell - Yoongi can practically taste how ready you are. 

“Woah,” you sigh, eyes drifting shut as you spread your legs wider for balance. Yoongi is gripping your asscheeks apart for ease of access, and you’re not complaining one bit. You can hear how sticky everything sounds, but you’re pretty sure that most of that is caused by his saliva and not your own arousal. Based on the way he licks at you enthusiastically, you’re getting there.

Yoongi pulls away almost as abruptly as he started, panting from how little he chose to breathe in favor of tonguing you down. Your taste consumes him, and he feels it in his bones with every inhale and exhale. 

“Play with yourself until I get back,” he begs, nearly tripping on his own feet to find the condoms quickly. 

“Oh jeez,” you chuckle, reaching over behind you to tease against your entrance. Your fingers swirl and poke at your opening, and it’s not long until you’re a finger deep inside, cautiously rubbing at your walls. 

This is how Yoongi finds you - only one finger in and struggling. He can feel his cock stiffen as he sees the way your finger is practically sucked inside safe and snug. He drops the condom on the table in arms-reach, and pulls your hand away with impatience. Yoongi’s mouth waters when he sees how you react to the void left by your finger, clenching around nothing. Swallowing, he presses his covered cock against you, pretending for a split second that he’s about to fuck you raw. 

“Didn’t you get enough last night,” you mention throatily, grinding your ass against him and marveling at how this is ten times more arousing than the conscious effort to force wetness. 

“I never get enough of you,” he shakes his head. 

You smile. Yoongi is a master of telling you what you want to hear. “We’ve literally fucked every, single day for like eleven days straight - I counted.” 

That’s his cue to push down his boxers and tease you with the head of his naked cock. 

“Twelve,” Yoongi corrects, “I counted too.” 

You wrinkle your eyebrows. “Well, if you count today, then yeah, it’s twelve, but I was only counting up to and including yesterday, which is still eleven-” 

The head of his cock pokes against your entrance in a decisive manner, and you lose your train of thought. It wasn’t important anyway. Eleven days, twelve days - the point was that this is the longest fuck streak you’ve had with the werewolf, and you’re wondering if he’s not at all tired of you. But judging from the feel of things, he seems pretty interested. 

Yoongi actually barks with want at the sensation of his cock pressing against you, the sound coming out of him almost automatically. He grabs at the condom before he embarrasses himself, somehow engaging the industrial-strength latex made for werewolf usage over his cock without poking a hole through it. 

If you’re confused by his intense desire, you don’t question it. After all, you have your I-Need-Sex-Now-Now-Now moments too. 

“Put it in me already,” you tease, shooting him a flirty look over your shoulder. “You’ve been gagging for my cunt for how long?” 

“You bitch,” he curses, a fang peaking out from his feral grin, and you know that he means this in the best possible way. 

“Not yet I’m not.” 

Yoongi pushes in slowly, utterly satisfied with the grimace of pleasure on your face as he finally shuts you up. And through the dulled sensations of the condom, he can still feel how you squeeze him. 

“This is just a starter,” Yoongi groans. “I’ll make you a proper bitch later.” 

You don’t doubt it. Yoongi doesn’t make empty promises. The last time he made you submit to him was just about a month ago, and that experience left you sore and dazed for a good twelve hours afterwards. 

“Yes,” you hiss, your hands balling up as he thrusts inside you roughly to get himself off in the quickest way possible. The force of his thrusts edge you towards pleasure, but you’re nowhere near the level of need that Yoongi is exhibiting. 

He leans forward and rests his chin against the crook of your neck, nuzzling you like a treasured thing - a sharp contrasts to his punishing thrusts. Thank goodness Yoongi anchors you down with an arm around you waist. Otherwise, you would have probably fallen. 

Yoongi inhales deeply, nipping at your earlobe in the process. “You smell so fucking good,” he repeats, voice low and stilted from thrusting away inside of you. 

“Huh?” you sigh, noticing how he’s pointed out your smell again. Yoongi doesn’t take vocal note of your scent as often as humans might assume because he never wants to be rude, so this is different... 

He doesn’t answer, focusing on himself and his own thoughts about ripping off the condom and letting you have it. 

“You better do this right later,” you hiss, your cunt throbbing from the rough treatment and how he keeps edging you towards something good only to pull you back to nothing. 

A stab of desire cuts through Yoongi as you openly challenge him while being bent over in front of him. 

“If I did this right, you’d be having my pups in nine months. Think you can handle that?” he sneers, pausing his thrusts momentarily to reach over and turn your face to look at him with an imperious hand. 

Your mouth falls open in surprise when his comments hit you out of left field. 

“Y-yoongi...” 

“You’d have a whole litter if I had my way,” he continues, the hand holding your waist moving forward to caress your stomach. He has to laugh at your incredulous expression. At the very least, you’re not screaming in disgust, and dare he hope... intrigued?

You swallow rapidly, trying to get some moisture down your throat to say something - anything, because right now, you are shocked into speechlessness. But it seems all the wetness in your body has shifted to your nether regions where you have now grown exceedingly damp in addition to all the saliva from earlier.  

“Bet you’d look real pretty all swollen,” he snickers, rubbing your stomach suggestively before thrusting again. 

Your heart thumps rapidly as Yoongi kisses you, groaning into your mouth. This time, you’re right there with him, and you happily reciprocate. You can feel the stirrings of arousal grow as Yoongi continues to murmur sweet nothings about making you conceive. 

The squeak of the latex is a blatant indication that this is all talk, but sometimes all you needed was a good talking-to for the good shit to take place. You are adamant about using condoms with Yoongi since neither one of you are particularly monogamous, but the thought of his cum inside you is... nice. You might consider it at a later date but for now...

“Wanna cum inside me?” you gasp when he rests his fangs over your neck - one of the indications that he’s close to losing it. The whimper that reaches your ears is enough to know that yes, Yoongi desperately would love to cum inside you, in theory. If this was something that was driving him up the wall, you’d happily egg him on to get his rocks off. 

“I want you to cum inside,” you moan, the sounds you make not entirely lies.

Yoongi closes his eyes and cums, filling up the condom but dreaming that his seed is coating your womb instead. He nearly weeps from how intense this orgasm feels, and with a jolt, he realizes he’s expanding. 

“Shit,” he exclaims, pulling out of you rapidly just in time for the condom to burst as his cock swells from knotting over nothing. 

“Oh my god...” You stare down at his cock, fascinated at how it’s pretty much doubled in size. 

Yoongi winces, hobbling over to sit down gingerly as each movement sends ripples of overstimulation down his spine. He rarely knots, and he wonders if it was because of the intense visualization of getting you pregnant that did it. 

“Just give me a minute.... or thirty,” he pants. 

“Yeah,” you swallow, wondering how it would have felt to have him expand inside you. 

Maybe next time. 

[thegladelf]

An Open Heart is An Open Wound 12/?

It has been forever and an age since I posted on this story...sorry, real life and other projects got in the way. (Keep your eyes open, btw, because i start posting my CSBB project next Sunday. HP fans are gonna like it.) But I haven’t forgotten this story and I’m back to working on it (finally). Can’t say whether I”ll get back to regular updates, but I’m gonna try not to go six months without another chapter. Hope y’all like it! (Feedback is always encouraged, in whatever form you like to give it.) Special thanks as always to @sammmtacular​ for beta-ing these monster chapters.

Tagging @timeless-love-story @lenfaz@trueromantic1 @pirateherokillian @justanotherwannabeclassicand @somethingalltogether

Last Chapter | From Beginning | ff.net | AO3

Summary: Killian was sent to our world to find a cursed town called Storybrooke, but his quest was derailed when he met Emma Swan. Drawn together by a past that is more similar than either of them realize. For a time, they were family. Then things changed and Killian left to complete his mission. Now, ten years later, Emma has come to Storybrooke and it’s Killian must decide whether he should pick up the pieces. (Alternate universe retelling of Season One.)

Word count: 10.3k

Regina grabbed hold of Emma’s arm, her perfectly manicured fingernails digging into the red leather.

“You’re going to leave me, aren’t you?” she accused, face screwed up in outrage.

The sneer nearly convinced Emma to leave Regina sitting in the smoke and heat while she headed out the back way and got help. Regina would be fine up on the landing for a few minutes—she’d probably pass out from smoke inhalation, but Emma preferred her that way. Still, that idea sat like lead in Emma’s gut, no matter how much Regina deserved to sweat a little.  

Emma wrenched away from Regina’s grasp.  Taking a deep breath and throwing her arms up against the heat, she plunged through the battered doorway. Smoke swirled around her, stinging her eyes as she scanned the room.

A flash of red.

Emma slammed her elbow through the glass, remembering her jacket after the fact, but by then the glass was shattered and she had her fingers around the fire extinguisher.

She heard Regina struggling as she prepped the extinguisher and pointed it at the flames. White vapor clouded both rooms as Emma stepped through and thrust her hand out. Almost immediately, heat flushed fingers wrapped around her hand and Emma hauled Regina to her feet, ducking under her arm. The mayor leaned on her heavily as they hobbled toward the main door.

Sweet, clean air filled Emma’s lungs as they burst through. Covered in ash, she gasped and coughed as light and sound assaulted her. She dimly recognized the click of a camera, followed by more flashing lights.

Immediately, Regina started shouting. “My ankle! Set me down gently!” She struggled against Emma, nearly landing both of them on the ground.

Emma resisted the urge to shove the mayor as she let go. “Seriously? You’re complaining about how I saved your life?” She sucked in another stinging breath, ready to continue yelling, but a coughing fit cut her off and it was all she could do to stay upright. Hands braced against her knees, she took slow breaths.

Behind them, the sirens dimmed as an antiquated fire truck drove up.

Regina waved vaguely. “The firemen are here. It’s not like we were really in danger.”

Emma almost laughed, but her anger won. “Fine. Next time I’ll just… I’ll just…”

She dismissed Regina with a flick of her wrist, determined to walk away without finishing that thought. This woman was not worth her time or effort.

“Ah, you know what?” Emma said, turning back. “Next time, I’ll do the same thing. And the time after that because that is what decent human beings do.” She coughed. “That’s what good people do.” With that she sought out the paramedics and their oxygen tanks, hoping that would stop the world from spinning.

Regina continued yelling, at the firemen, at the photographer, eventually she grabbed a phone from someone and made a call, yelling into the phone too. And then she seemed yelled out, nodding and saying a few more words quietly before hanging up. She coughed, staggering as one of the paramedics tried to corral her over to a spot near Emma. Regina handed the cellphone to the paramedic as she followed meekly, finally exhausted.

Emma hopped off the gurney—she had no desire to be anywhere near Regina right now—handing the oxygen mask to the young man standing nearby.

Regina grabbed her arm. “That was Dr. Hopper,” she said, pausing to cough again. “Whoever did this didn’t go after Henry. It looks like it was just an accident.”

Emma nodded. The thought hadn’t even occurred to her. “Thank you.”

Regina didn’t respond, her fingers gripped around another plastic mask as she breathed deep.

A crowd gathered, clustering around the firemen pulling debris from the wreckage of the hallway. They piled great chunks of wood and plaster on the concrete.

“Hey,” a familiar voice called. Mary Margaret stood behind Emma, Ruby next to her. “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” Emma said, her voice coming out rough and spotty. Clearing her throat hurt like hell, but she did it anyway. “Yeah, just smoke.”

Mary Margaret nodded. “Let me see if I can find you some water.”

She scampered off, leaving Emma in Ruby’s care.

“You look like hell,” the taller woman declared.

Several more minutes passed before Archie arrived with Henry, who waved at Emma, but obeyed his mother’s beckoning. Mary Margaret came back with a bottle of water, handing it to Emma as Archie and Granny joined them. Her roommate waited patiently, shoving her hands into her coat as Emma chugged down half the bottle.

Granny took the bottle when Emma was done. “On the house.”

“Did you really rescue Regina?” Mary Margaret asked, an incredulous smile on her face. Beside her, Ruby and Archie leaned a little closer, equally curious expressions on their faces.

“She did!” Henry said, running up beside her. “The fireman said it. They saw it.”

“You are a hero.” Ruby made it sound like some irrefutable truth and Emma felt a little swell of pride.

She had done that. She had stayed and helped Regina, despite having every reason not to, and that felt good. It made her feel like she deserved a place right alongside Henry’s storybook princes and princesses.

Mary Margaret nodded, the little flower on her hat bobbing. “We should see if they have a picture of the rescue.”

“We could make campaign posters,” Granny said.

“Oh, people would love that!” Archie said as Mary Margaret spun around, his voice trailing off as the group chased after her without so much as a goodbye to Emma.

She laughed at their enthusiasm, touched that they were so invested in helping her beat Sydney. She knelt before Henry, gravel biting through her jeans, and took his hands in hers. His fingers were cold because, of course, he had forgotten his gloves.

“This is how good wins,” she told him. “You do something good and people see it, and then they want to help you.”

Henry tilted his head, considering her for a moment. “Maybe you’re right.”

“You see, Henry?” She smiled, gripping his shoulder. Under her hand and all the winter layers, he still felt small and frail despite being taller now that Emma was kneeling. “We don’t have to fight dirty.”

The sentence fell flat as her eyes landed on the debris. Sitting on top of the splintered door was an odd piece of twisted fabric. The still air stirred a little, a biting breeze sweeping past Emma and on that breeze wafted a familiar smell.

Livestock.

“Hey, you should stay close to your mom, kid,” Emma said, squeezing his shoulder. “She was really shaken today.”

Henry glanced over to where Regina whispered fiercely at Sydney. “She looks fine.”

“Appearances can be deceiving, Henry,” she said. “And people like your mom don’t like showing weakness, especially with everyone watching.”

He didn’t roll his eyes and say she was the same, just nodded and ran over to his mom. Regina jumped when Henry took her hand, blinking down with wide, confused eyes. Emma shook her head. How screwed up was their relationship if simple physical affection surprised her?

Then again, who was Emma to talk?

Crouching, she snatched up the coiled fabric. She grimaced at the sheep stench, but it wasn’t the smell twisting up her insides as much as the piece of fabric. After assuring herself that everyone else was looking elsewhere, Emma pulled out her phone for a quick Google search.

# # #

Main Street was deserted. Even Granny’s sign was off.

Of course it was. Granny was at town hall, trying to find pictures for the campaign. Emma laughed. She should have known better than to think someone actually believed she was capable of something important. She was just a pawn.

“Swan!”

Emma jerked her head up to find Killian jogging toward her, his look of relief half-masked with a joking smile.

She stopped dead in her tracks. “I thought you were going sailing.”

He shrugged. “I wasn’t far out when I heard the sirens.” His trademark smirk spread across his face. “Though, I could have her back out in a jiffy if you need a quick escape.” He threw an aimless gesture toward town hall. “That have anything to do with you?”

“Yes,” Emma bit out.

Killian’s eyebrows shot sky high, but he stepped aside.

“Things with Regina went that well?” His nose wrinkled up as Emma breezed by him. “Swan, why do you smell like a wet sheep?”

“I don’t,” she spat. “This does.” She waved the lanolin soaked cloth in his face. “Lanolin. It’s flammable, apparently, and I’m betting Gold knew that.”

He jumped from concern to rage in one breath. His hand snapped out in the next, fingers circling her wrist.

“What happened?” he growled. “Are you alright?”

Emma shrugged away from him. “Yeah, fine. Regina got the worst of it.”

“Henry?”

“Wasn’t even there.” Her anger faded at the flash of relief on Killian’s face. Though she couldn’t explain why, she found herself running through her encounter with Regina and the subsequent explosion. By the time she got to the end of it, he looked gray, but his eyes practically gave off sparks.

“You think he might be coming after you as well, then?” he said, voice strained.

“No, I think he was trying to help me.” Her grip on the greasy wool tightened. “He owns half the town already, makes sense he’d grab for more power when the opportunity arose.”

And she swallowed his lines like a fool. A small voice whispered that she hadn’t detected any lies last night, but that didn’t soothe the sting. After all that talk about doing things the right way, she fell in with exactly the kind of people she wanted to avoid becoming.

Killian sucked in a sharp breath. “You’re planning to confront him.”

“Of course I am,” Emma said. “When he I accepted his help this is not what I meant.”

“Accepted his help?” Killian tilted his head back, eyes closed. “Swan, tell me you didn’t make another deal with him.”

“Not a deal,” she said. “He offered to help. If it weren’t for him, I wouldn’t even know I could challenge Regina.”

“And how were you planning to deal with him?”

“I don’t know,” Emma admitted. “But this is not how I’m winning this election. It can’t be.”

Quiet settled over them, broken only by Killian’s measured breathing. When he opened his eyes and looked at her, he looked like his last good night of sleep was a hundred years ago.

He sighed, chest caving. “You can’t break a deal with the…pawnbroker.”

“It’s not a deal.” She tried to turn away, but he grabbed her wrist again.

“I’m not going to let you just…”

She snatched her hand away. “You don’t get to ‘let’ me do anything, Hook.”

He clenched his jaw. “You’re set on confronting him?”

“Well, I can’t let him go around blowing up buildings to make me look like a hero.”

Killian sighed. “Allow me to go with you, then.”

“I don’t need…”

“You don’t know him like I do,” he snapped, his voice echoing down the empty street. He caught himself and took a step back from her, his cheeks burning—though Emma couldn’t tell if it was from embarrassment or anger. The latter, judging by the look in his eyes, but not directed at her. “You don’t know what he’s capable of.”

“He’s not going to hurt me,” she countered. “He wants me to be sheriff.”

“Emma, please.” He cleared his throat. “Please.”

Something about the fear in his voice connected deep down in her gut.

“Okay.” And without another word, she walked away.

The crunch of his boots joined hers as the only sounds on the street. The sign on Gold’s shop was still flipped to OPEN. Emma reached for the doorknob, thought better of it, and whirled on Killian.

“I am…” she paused, searching for the word he had used earlier, “allowing you to come with me. But I am the deputy sheriff. I do the talking. You’re just here for back-up if I need it. Which I won’t.”

Killian nodded, his jaw clenched so tight, she was surprised she didn’t hear bone splinter. For one fleeting moment, she questioned the wisdom of bringing him with her, but she still saw the fear in his eyes, heard the way his voice had cracked. None of that had been for show.

“Okay.” She inhaled through her nose. “Here goes, then.”

The bell chimed as Emma entered. Gold’s casual glance up at her sent her blood boiling again. He had been expecting her.

“Miss Swan, what a surprise,” he said, in a tone that implied he was anything but. “And Mr… Jones, wasn’t it?”

Emma listened for any hint of animosity from Gold, searched his face as he nodded to Killian. For the first time, she wondered if Killian’s story might be all one sided. An imagined slight Gold had no knowledge of.

“Aye,” Killian said, shutting the door. The bell jangled loudly.

“Loads of visitors today.” Gold eyed them distastefully, wiping his hands on the cloth he held. It was the only clean, bright thing in the entire shop. “Do hope you’re not going to break my little bell.”

“You set the fire,” Emma said, holding the fabric in front of her as she advanced on him. There was a slight tug on the back of her jacket. A warning: Keep your distance.

Gold scoffed, returning to buffing his fingernails. “I’ve been right here, Miss Swan.”

Emma shook the stinking mess in her hand. “Take a whiff. It smells like your sheep crap oil.” She crossed the rest of the distance, ignoring Killian’s presence at her shoulder. “Turns out it’s flammable.”

“Oh. Are you sure?” Gold leaned back, shifting his weight off of his bad leg. He tilted his head, speaking in a tone normally used on small children. “There’s some construction working on at City Hall at the moment. There’s loads of flammable solvents used in construction.”

“Why did you do it?” Emma demanded.

Gold’s eyes flicked over to Killian.

“If I did it,” he corrected. Draping his cloth over his arm, he curled his long fingers around the head of his cane. “If I did it, that would be because you cannot win without something big.” The floorboards creaked under his uneven tread. “Something like, uh…” He paused before raising his hand with a flourish. “Oh, I don’t know. Being the hero in a fire?”

“How could you even know I’d be there at the right time?”

“How would I indeed?” Gold asked, leaning against the counter.

“Perhaps,” Killian said, stepping up beside Emma, “the mayor isn’t the only one with eyes and ears in this town.”

“Or perhaps,” Gold drew out with a smirk, though his eyes never left Emma. “I’m just intuitive.” His nose wrinkled, his smile turning cold. “Were I involved.”

“I could’ve run and left her there,” Emma said.

Killian snorted. “Not the type, love.”

She ignored him. “I can’t go along with this.”

“You just did.” The truth in Gold’s words sent a chill down Emma’s spine. “This is just the price of election, Miss Swan.”

“A price I’m not willing to pay,” she said, tossing the foul-smelling rag onto Gold’s counter. It hit with an unsatisfying plop. “Find another sucker.”

“Okay, go ahead, expose me.” Gold’s relaxed tone pulled at Emma just as surely as Killian’s hand, tugging her lightly toward the door. “But if you do, just think about what you’ll be exposing and what you’ll be walking away from.”

Emma swallowed, staring at Gold long and hard before she acquiesced to Killian’s gentle urging.

“Oh, yes,” Gold called to her back. “And, um… Who you might be disappointing.”

Killian’s steps faltered, his head snapped around. Something dark and dangerous and frightening flashed in his eyes. Without thinking Emma grabbed his jacket, wrenching the door open and shoving him outside. Cool air—air that didn’t smell like barnyard—hit  her cheeks, calming her. She didn’t bother shutting the door all the way, choosing instead to hustle Killian further down the street.

Killian whirled on her, dragging her into the alley by Gold’s shop. Shadows fell over him, only the glint of his bright, blue eyes showing where his face was.

“Why is that…monster threatening my son?” he growled.

“It wasn’t a threat, Hook.” Emma stepped back, the slats of the wall pressing into her spine as she leaned against it. Bowing her head, she pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes, throwing wild colors across the back of her eyelids. “It was a reminder of why I’m doing this.”

“For Henry?”

“Yeah.” She fiddled with the zipper on her jacket, the cold metal moving smoothly under her fingers. “I wanted to show him that the good guys don’t always lose. That they can win without resorting to the tactics villains use.” She threw her hands up in the air. “And now I’m in cahoots with Gold, so that’s working out real well.”

Killian nodded, kicking at a piece of trash. “What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know,” Emma said for the second time that night. The words bit. “This is exactly how I didn’t want to win, but, I’m going up against Regina. How am I supposed to win against her without some serious back up?”

“You don’t need Gold to win against Regina, love,” Killian said softly.

“Have you seen this town? No one wins against Regina.”

“You will.”

Emma wanted to believe him, really she did, but he was hopelessly optimistic if he thought that someone like her could go up against someone like Regina and win. No one would take Emma Swan—the girl with no roots and nothing to her name—seriously. Everyone was too afraid of Regina. Though they were just as afraid of Gold, if the little she’d seen of him was anything to go by.

She shied away from the hand reaching for her. “I’m not sure I can take that chance. This is too important. I—I need to win. Henry needs me to win.”

In the cramped alley, Killian was so close she heard him his swallow.

“In this book of the lad’s is Gold a hero or a villain?”

Emma shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do.” He pressed his lips together and exhaled slowly. Tension stretched him so taut it was she expected him to shatter as he moved away. With slow, careful steps he backed out of the alley, his eyes on Emma the entire time.

As the street lights fell on him, he looked calm. Too calm. A sudden panic overtook Emma, the flash of rage in his eyes back in the shop harsh and bright in her memory. No matter how much she told herself that this was Killian, something deeper told her the violence she saw in his eyes could have physical consequences.

With deliberation he turned and Emma thought she only half imagined the rip of his gaze leaving hers. She was free. She stumbled to the alley’s mouth, ready to call out, to stop him, to tell him not to go back inside that shop, but he passed by the door. He made it the few feet to the corner before he stopped, pausing to uncurl his fist and examine it. The tips of Killian’s fingers caught the sparse light, glistening red tinged the nails. Without a backward glance, he smeared his hand down the front of his jeans, and kept walking.

Something inside Emma snapped and she could breathe again. She reached behind her. The rough siding of the shop next to Gold’s scratched at her hand as she leaned against it. Her hands shook and she wondered why. Hadn’t their fight earlier this afternoon been just as intense? But all that rage hadn’t even ruffled her feathers as she glared up at him in Mary Margaret’s apartment. If she hadn’t been scared earlier, why was she scared now?

The answer didn’t take long to piece together. As volatile as their fight had been, Emma knew deep down that Killian would never strike out at her in anger, never seek to harm her.

# # #

To say Killian woke on the wrong side of the bed the next day would imply that he slept at all.

He hadn’t.

He lay awake all night trying to find a way to free Emma from Rumplestiltskin’s ever tightening leash. No matter how he turned the situation, the only true solution was the Crocodile’s death. Regardless of how Emma worded it, she had made a deal. And Killian had witnessed firsthand the price of defying Rumplestiltskin.

His conclusion should have brought him relief, some satisfaction and yet…there was Henry.

True, the lad would be far safer in a world without the Crocodile, but if the man turned up with a dagger in his heart, how long would it be before the authorities tracked Killian down? Two days ago, he could have cared less if he was caught. Now? Whether or not she had evidence, Killian had no doubt that Emma could and would identify the murderer and then she would make sure that Henry never came near him.

He groaned as he rolled out of his bunk. Normally, the gentle rock of the ocean calmed his thoughts. It had no such effect now. He dressed quickly. This election thing apparently involved a gathering of some sort where the two candidates would speak to the masses. He wasn’t particularly interested in whatever that Sydney fellow had to say, but he would go if meant supporting Emma.

And he that he might see Henry.

Killian skulked outside the building, watching as men came to hang a sign announcing “Debate here!” across the pale, yellow siding. The sign clashed horribly, too dark and serious for such a cheerful color. Others came as the day started to warm, the sun finally free of the cloud cover. A line started forming, the chatter filling up the still air and making Killian feel odd. They barely noticed him, all of them buzzing with the story of last night’s rescue.

Killian’s stomach twisted in knots. The Crocodile truly had rigged the game in her favor. Was this part of a plan to break the curse? If he was against the queen, surely it had to be. But how could he be working to break a curse he, by all signs, didn’t remember.

“Hey, you’re Killian, right?” The spritely brunette appeared at Killian’s elbow, heedless of the hook he nearly sent into her heart in shock.

“Aye,” he said.

“I’m Mary Margaret, Emma and I are roommates.” And then, before Killian could remind her that he knew this fact as he was the one who had called her the night Graham met his unfortunate end, she plunged on, “Did you hear about last night? Well, you must have heard about last night. That was so brave of Emma, I’m honestly not sure if I would have done the same. I think I would have just run…Oh, speaking of which…” She shifted items bundled in her arms, flashing some wicked looking metal object at him. “I want to plaster these all over the town board. Care to help me?”

Killian eyed the implement, unsure as to its purpose, and took the easy way out. “I’m afraid I wouldn’t be much use,” he said, waving the hook at her.

Her eyes grew to the size of saucers. “Oh…” she murmured without the telltale trace of fear. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t even think…Well, you could keep me company if you like.” She flashed him a brilliant grin, so like Henry in that moment that Killian couldn’t refuse.

“I suppose I could find some way to assist,” he said, taking the stack of glossy paper from her as an idea occurred to him.

As it turned out, the contraption was some sort of…nailing device, though the thin slivers of metal left in its wake were considerably smaller than nails, and it required the use of only one hand. Mary Margaret whisked posters from his arms, wielding the thing with an ease that spoke of familiarity.

“You teach at the school if I’m not mistaken?” Killian started.

Mary Margaret nodded. “Yep. I actually teach Henry’s class.” She pulled the handle, several shocks sending the bits of metal into the corkboard with resounding pops. “He’s one of my best students.”

Killian grinned at that. An odd sort of pride stirring inside him. “Really? Well, that’s to be expected…”

Killian cut the sentence off, regaling the woman with tales of his days at the naval academy would only confuse her and he wasn’t sure if Emma had shared Henry’s true parentage with the schoolmarm yet.

He blustered on, “Considering how clever his mother is.”

Mary Margaret nodded without asking Killian to elaborate on Emma’s cleverness, which—as it involved her speed in learning one-handed lock picking—was probably for the best.

“Oh, yes,” she said, slapping another poster against the board. “And Regina pushes him hard too.” She bit her lip, glancing behind her. “A little too hard if you ask me. No nine-year-old needs perfect grades.” Her shoulders bounced up and down in a quick shrug. “Still, I know it comes from a good place. She’s been harsh in the past, but up until now it’s only been because she wants the best for him.”

Killian stepped closer. “What do you mean, up until now?”

If she noticed the tightness in his voice, she didn’t show it as she pinned the next flyer, her tongue peeking from between her lips in concentration. It reminded him of Emma.

“You know…This whole feud with Emma, she’s so scared about what might happen…I don’t think she’s thinking of Henry much in all this.” She finished, brushing a gloved hand over her handiwork as though her words weren’t seeping into Killian’s bones. “And she’s not handling this stage in Henry’s development too well, he’s learning that he doesn’t need her for everything and with Emma here…” She trailed off, her face thoughtful. “I suppose she’s scared and going after Emma makes her feel like she can do something about, I just wish she could see how much this hurts Henry.”

“How is he handling it?” Killian asked, following her as he headed for the other side of the board.

Mary Margaret laughed. “Besides the fact that he thinks Regina is some Evil Queen? As well as…oh!” The last was a soft gasp, her hands muffling most of it as she backpedaled quickly. She whirled on Killian, her hands flying to her hat. “Does the hat look, okay?” she hissed. “Or should I take it off? Is it doing weird things to my hair?”

Killian blinked. “It’s fine as is.”

Mary Margaret nodded, clearing her throat. She spun on her heel, straightening her coat, before marching around to the other side.

Her exclamation of, “David! Hi!” satisfied his curiosity long before he rounded the board.

“Mary Margaret,” came the soft reply. “Hi.”

David stood just feet from Mary Margaret, several posters clutched in one hand and another of the strange metal guns in his other. He also wore the most ridiculous hat Killian had ever seen, certainly something that would be blackmail worthy when the prince regained his right mind…and his fashion sense. His gentle smile widened when he saw Killian. “And Killian, I didn’t know you knew each other.”

“We, uh…” Mary Margaret stumbled, her eyes shooting to Killian.

Suddenly, he felt very uncomfortable.

“Mutual acquaintance,” he said before the silence could stretch too long. “I know her roommate, Emma.”

“Oh.” David nodded, smiling. “We have a few mutual acquaintances it seems.”

Turning to Killian, Mary Margaret grabbed another poster, taking far less care than she had previously. “So. Sydney,” she said as she attacked her poster liberally with the metal gun.

David shrugged. “My wife is friends with Regina.”

“Right.” Mary Margaret snatched up the last poster. “How is she?”

“Good. She’s meeting me here later.” David turned that same, gentle smile on the schoolteacher, but she ignored him.

“We’re out of posters,” she declared. “I’m going to go get some more.” She handed Killian the metal gun and rushed off, her shoes crunching briskly over the dry grass.

David sighed, his eyes following her.

“Looks like you’ve got a mess on your hands, mate,” Killian said.

David shrugged. “I’m—well, we’re—Kathryn and I are good. I just wish I hadn’t…” He ducked his head, the brim of his hat nearly brushing the various notices fluttering on the cork board. “Thank you, by the way,” he said, glancing up at Killian. “I was little disoriented that night, so thanks for the advice. It was the right thing to do. There should be more people out there like you.”

Killian snorted. “I highly doubt that.”

“No, I mean it,” David said. “Not many people would have had it in them to look out for a complete stranger.”

Killian’s cheeks flamed, the praise making him want to squirm as he hadn’t since he was a small lad. It was only due to him that David was in this situation in the first place, if he had truly been looking out for the man, he would never have touched that windmill and perhaps Emma would already be reunited with her family.

And you would have your revenge, whispered a small, bitter voice in the back on his mind. Or have you forgotten about that?

He looked away, unable to withstand the earnest admiration in the prince’s eyes. All these years, he had never questioned his path. The death and destruction left in the Crocodile’s wake had been all the proof he needed that he was on the right path. But now, with Emma’s father watching, he wasn’t so sure of that anymore. Could it be the right path if it cost him Emma? Cost him his son?

“Looks like I’m out of posters too,” David said, still grinning. “I’ll see you inside, Killian.”

Killian almost followed him. Almost, but he looked up to find Emma striding toward him, looking very official in a tight brown dress and jacket. He tried not to let his eyes linger too long as she approached, but had such a gesture been well-received he certainly would have made a show of it.

“Hey,” a small voice whispered, startling him much as the boy’s grandmother had mere minutes before. “Can I borrow your staple gun?”

Killian blinked, trying to make sense of Henry’s words. The lad pointed emphatically at the metal contraption Mary Margaret had wielded.

“Oh, yes, of course,” he said, handing over the staple gun.

“Thanks,” his son said.

His son.

He had known... For nearly twenty-four hours he had known who Henry was, but the knowledge suddenly seemed new with the boy standing before him. His throat tightened as he took in the boy’s features as though for the first time. His eyes, yes, he had his mother’s eyes. But he had Killian’s dark hair and mirrors might have been rare when he was a lad, but Killian thought he saw hints of something that reminded him very much of Liam in the boy’s round face.

Suddenly, he wished very much that he could show his brother this wonderful, perfect person that was equal parts Emma and himself.

“Oh, wow, I’m not sure which one is more embarrassing,” Emma muttered from just off his right.

Killian started, looking quickly away from her so she couldn’t see the tears he blinked away. It had been a very long time since he last thought about his brother.

“I made it,” Henry was saying when he turned back.

Killian’s eyebrows shot up as he beheld the poster Henry had stapled to the board. He had been so taken in with the sight of his son, he had missed the rather comical artwork in the lad’s arms. Emma scanned the poster, her brow furrowed in concentration.

“I found the picture online,” Henry explained. “I put your face over the fireman’s. It looked more…heroic.”

Emma swallowed. “Well, I certainly look…brawny.”

“Quite the talent,” Killian said, tilting his head to admire the lad’s work. He recognized the word ‘online’ from his many trips with Emma to use computers at the library. “I’m impressed.”

Henry beamed at him and Killian thought his heart might stop beating.

“Thanks, I was up all night working with Photoshop.”

“Henry,” Emma scolded.

“Okay, not all night….”

“Henry.” Regina’s voice cut through the air. “What did I tell you about running off?”

Henry turned back to the board, ripping down the poster he had fastened there and hiding it behind his back with the rest.

“Ms. Swan,” Regina said with a tight-lipped smile. “And Mr. Jones. You two are certainly becoming quite the pair.”

Emma stiffened, the posters in her hand crinkling in her grasp.

Henry fidgeted, trying to rescue the sheets of paper from her, but only succeeding in knocking them to the ground. Emma sighed, crouching awkwardly to retrieve them without kneeling and dirtying her stockings.

“What’s this?” Regina asked, grabbing one of the posters. Her dark eyes flashed as she examined the page, the corners of her mouth turning down. “What a shame,” she said, balling the poster in her fist. “A waste of trees and a waste of your time.”

Henry glared defiantly up at his mother.

“Oh, I’m not so sure,” Killian said. He plucked one of the posters up from the ground, shaking off the dirt. “When I was in…school they used to say that it took ten thousand hours of practice to truly master a subject.” He smiled at the mayor as he might a particularly pompous superior officer. Polite. It was certainly better than giving her the lashing he wanted to. No one should speak to his son in such a manner, but Emma had asked he not show his hand and he would hold to that, especially after seeing the cool exchange between Emma and the mayor. “Certainly, practice can never be a waste of time or else we’d have no masters of any craft.”

Regina’s heated gaze turned on him, her eyes raking him up and down in a cold, calculating fashion.

“I think I know where my son’s talents are best spent,” she said, her hand shot between him and Henry, taking the boy by the wrist. “Come along, Henry, the debate will be starting soon.” She stalked away, calling back one last time, “I’d hurry with those posters, Ms. Swan, it won’t do to be late for your own debate.”

Emma let out a shaky breath. “Do you see now why I have to win?”

“I imagine so,” Killian said, anger still thrumming through his veins. “Whoever decided that she should have a child?”

“The state,” Emma said, folding the posters up. “Don’t tell Henry. That other picture is bad enough.” She unfolded the posters. “He did do a good job though.” And then she gently slid the posters into the nearest trash can.

The crowd had thinned, most of the people filing inside to find their seats.

“Why bother winning, Emma?” he asked.

“What?”

“Why not cut our ties to this place, take our son, and go? Isn’t that what would be best for Henry?”

“Because that would be kidnapping and it’s illegal.” She crossed her arms, digging at the ground with her boot as she said, “Not that I haven’t thought about it, but…”

Emma sighed.

“It’s a good home. Better than any I ever had. He gets three good meals and his own room and more toys than I think any kid would know what to do with. It’s just this…fairytale thing that’s the problem. I think I’d be frustrated with him too if he thought I was some evil sorceress.” Raking her fingers through her hair she looked at him. “You’ve been here since he came, tell me, before now, before I came, did you ever question it?” She flung her arm toward city hall, her meaning clear.

Killian shook his head. “He’s never been lacking, but material comforts don’t make up for an absent parent.”

Emma scoffed. “Yeah, well, I wouldn’t be a good judge of that, considering I never had either.” She glanced at the hall again, squaring her shoulders. “I’d better get inside.”

“Right.”

He followed her, studiously keeping his eyes on her bouncing, blonde curls and not on the curve of her ass in that pencil skirt. He didn’t fancy a black eye this early in the morning. For a heart-stopping moment he thought she might have read his thoughts, because she turned on him and odd look on her face.

She clenched her jaw. “That was good, what you said. Regina might not have appreciated it, but I know Henry did.”

Killian shrugged. “It was the right thing to do. Words carry quite the weight when you’re young, I’d hate for him to doubt himself simply because Regina behaved like some wounded animal.”

A fleeting smile crossed Emma’s face and she nodded before darting off.

Killian watched her go with a grin on his own face. He certainly hadn’t meant to impress Emma when he contradicted Regina, but for the first time since renewing his relationship with her, he felt the flutterings of hope.

When he entered the main room, it had filled quite decently, a good number of the chairs already taken. He crept up the side, ducking away from people’s gazes as he searched for a seat. As his gaze passed over the citizens of Storybrooke, he wondered how many of them had stories in Henry’s book. Surely not all these people could fit, even in a book as large as his son’s. If any of them were even in their true form. The Crocodile had certainly changed between their world and this one.

He spotted an empty chair in the front row, right next to a familiar head of dark hair.

Regina glared at him as he approached, doing his best to look humble and apologetic.

“Is this seat taken?” he asked, careful to look at Regina.

“Nope,” Henry answered before Regina could say otherwise.

With what he hoped was an uncertain nod, Killian took the seat, crossing his arms so his hook was hidden. No need to remind the queen of his real identity.

The stage creaked, but Kilian could see nothing past the heavy, olive curtains.

Henry leaned over, his green eyes peering up at Killian. “Did you really think I did a good job?”

Killian swallowed, his eyes skating over to Regina. “Well, I’m no judge of such things, but I thought it showed quite the imagination.”

The mayor snorted. “He certainly has that in droves.”

Killian shrugged. “An imagination is no crime.”

Regina turned on him. “Except when you indulge it instead of doing your homework.”

Henry ducked his head, his grey and red striped scarf riding up under his ears. “It’s the weekend.”

“And you’d have enjoyed it all that much more if you didn’t have to do your schoolwork tonight.” Regina sat back in her chair, hands resting in her lap. She glanced down, her jaw clenching as she sat back up, her back ramrod straight, and refolded her hands in her lap. “Henry, please sit up, I don’t pay for your chiropractic care so you can grow up to have a hunch.”

Henry huffed, but did as his mother asked.

Out of nothing more than spite, Killian slouched in his chair, wishing the one next to him had been empty, so he could drape his arm insouciantly over the back. The unforgiving plastic bit into the base of his spine, but he refused to change position out of principle.

He threw another look at the curtains, hoping this wouldn’t take long. A slight gap had opened at the center and one brilliant, green eye stared out at him. No, not at him, at Henry. Emma pulled back as quickly as she appeared, though Killian didn’t have to worry long if it was because she caught him looking. The curtain parted hardly a minute after her retreat, revealing Emma and Sydney seated on opposite sides of the stage, Henry’s psychiatrist standing at the podium in the middle.

Sydney sat directly in front of Killian, not seeming to share Regina’s preference for proper posture, his legs splayed, his elbows propped on the arms of his chair. Relaxed and saved from sloppiness only by his crisp, gray suit. He glanced once or twice at Regina, but for the most part, stared over the heads of the crowd, detached. There to serve a purpose, not because he believed it.

The podium partially blocked Emma from Killian’s view and he had to shift toward Henry to see her. Everything about her was closed off and nervous. Her legs in perfect parallel from knee to ankle. Her shoulders hunched inward. Her laced fingers twisted in her lap as she stared into the crowd, her eyes fixed on one point.

A chill crawled down Killian’s spine. Still slouched, he tilted his head, scanning each row until he found Rumplestiltskin.

The speaking device on the podium gave a burst of static, jerking Killian’s attention back to the front.

“Yes,” Hopper said. “Hello, citizens of Storybrooke.” The psychiatrist droned on for several minutes, reminding everyone of the former sheriff’s beloved position in the town. Someone in the back scoffed. It sounded like Leroy. The speech was rambling, littered with anecdotes that would have been better put to use at the funeral than at an official town meeting.

Killian almost leaned down to ask Henry who Hopper was in the book, but thought better of it. If Emma was hesitant about the book, he was sure Regina would bristle at the mention. Especially considering that it told the truth about her.

At last, the bespectacled man took a breath, standing a little straighter.

“Tragedy has brought us here, but we are faced with this decision.” He paused, his eyes raking the audience. Did his gaze rest on Regina for a moment longer than the rest? “And now, we ask only that you listen with an open mind and to please vote your conscience. So, without further ado, I’d like to introduce you to the candidates—Sidney Glass and Emma Swan. Glass. Swan. Sounds like something that a decorator would make you buy.” The joke fell on deaf ears. “Wow, crickets.” He gestured behind him, his brief bit of spine deflating. “Okay, uh… Uh, Mr. Glass—your opening statement.”

He ceded the podium to the spare man.

Sydney approached, a puppy eager to do his mistress’ bidding as he straightened his tie and fiddled with his jacket.

“I just want to say,” Sydney said, his fingers curling around the wooden structure as his gaze swept over the crowd, “that if elected, I want to serve as a reflection of the best qualities of Storybrooke.” His gaze rested on Regina and Killian looked over to find the woman mouthing the words along with Glass. “Honesty, neighbourliness, and strength.” Glass’ eyes swept the room one last time as he nodded, a smile plastered across his face. “Thank you.”

The room applauded, even Henry making a half-hearted attempt in order to appease his mother, as Hopper approached the podium once again.

He leaned in to announce, “And Emma Swan.”

Surprise flickered over Emma’s face, but she stood, fidgeting with her dress as she took the podium. Just as Glass had, she gripped either side of the structure. Her knuckles stood out white, her eyes on the wooden surface before her. Killian sat a little straighter, willing her to look in his direction, wishing he could give her some small encouragement. Anything to wipe that uncertain look from her face and show off the determined, capable woman he knew she was.

Unnatural silence filled the room. Every eye trained forward.

“You guys all know I have what they call a, uh…” Emma paused, taking a deep breath. Bright green eyes flashed in his direction for the briefest moment before focusing on the floor. “Troubled past. But, you’ve been able to overlook it because of the, um…” Her hand waved in a dismissive gesture. “Hero thing.”

She took a breath, her lashes fluttering closed for a brief moment. Her grip on the podium tightened, her chest rising in a slow inhale. Killian counted time in heartbeats, his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth.

When she looked up, her gaze landed on Henry.

“But here’s the thing, the fire was a setup.” Emma’s voice rang through the room, crystal clear over the sound of gasps and the creak of chairs. Shoulders thrown back, she addressed the entire room. “Mr. Gold agreed to support me in this race, but I didn’t know that that meant he was going to set a fire. I don’t have definitive evidence, but I’m sure.” Again, she held eye contact with their son. “And the worst part of all this was…” Emma ducked her head, but only for a second. She stood straight, apology written across her features, the rest of the room forgotten. “The worst part of all this is I let you all think it was real. And I can’t win that way. I’m sorry.”

Killian didn’t know how long they sat there, the room hushed. Everyone’s attention fixed on Emma, their collective breath seeming to be held in reverence of this moment between mother and son.

A chair creaked so softly Killian might have missed it had there been a single breath of noise. His gut clenched at the first tap of the cane against tile. Killian waited, hand curled into a fist on his thigh, waiting until the rest of the room turned to watch the Crocodile make his slow progress out of the room before he turned that way as well.

The man didn’t even look back as he left and that meant one of two things: either he didn’t care that Emma had exposed him or he had already determined what to do. The thought made Killian’s blood run cold. When he turned back to the podium, he found only Hopper and an uncertain Sydney Glass. The only sign left of Emma was a fluttering curtain.

Killian shot to his feet. Ignoring Regina’s questioning stare, he sped down the side, just short of a run. The air was cold and biting as he burst from the hall, harsh on his skin after the warm room packed with people.

The drive outside stood empty save for the lone figure of Rumplestiltskin. The demon threw a careless glance over his shoulder, unconcerned by Killian’s abrupt exit from the hall.

Killian knew that this was his opportunity. He could take the Crocodile out once and for all, and if that cost him his relationship with Emma and Henry, wouldn’t it be worth the sacrifice? To never have them fall under Rumplestiltskin’s threat again?

“Oh, hey.”

For the second time that day, Henry took Killian unawares. The lad blinked up at him with wide, green eyes.

“Are you looking for Emma too?” the boy asked, smiling.

“Aye,” Killian replied automatically. His mind ground to a halt, his previous thoughts at odds with the memories that Henry’s presence dredged up.

“She’s probably headed to Granny’s,” the boy said. “That’s where she usually goes when she needs to unwind while it’s still daylight.” He gestured to the sky, barely starting to pink on the western horizon.

Killian nodded. “Well, then, shall we?” he asked, grasping onto the tenuous control Henry’s presence brought.

Henry’s shaggy hair fluttered as he shook his head. “I’ll meet you there. There’s something I’ve gotta do.” He took off, but did an about face almost immediately. “I’m glad you and Emma are friends, I don’t think she has many.” With a quick grin, he trotted off, his rucksack bouncing against his shoulders.

Killian swallowed, his eyes drawn back to Rumplestiltskin’s retreating back.

I wanted to show him that the good guys don’t always lose, Emma’s voice whispered in his ear. That they can win without resorting to the tactics villains use.

Killian was a villain. He made no excuses. Blood clung to his hand, thick and unforgiving. He had cared little about the taint on his soul, barely giving it any heed in his single-minded quest. After all, to kill a monster meant becoming a monster, did it not? What did all those ruined lives matter against the weight of the Crocodile’s crimes?

He was a villain, had been a villain for nearly three centuries, and yet, here he was contemplating changing his spots like the proverbial leopard. The thought sat ill in his mind. Not because he saw no value in doing the right thing, as Emma had done, but because changing his ways would mean admitting what he had always known: he had hurt people that did not deserve it. Turning from the Crocodile, trying to use a hero’s tactics would mean he could no longer push away the cost of his sins nor their weight on his soul.

But Emma didn’t need a villain. They surrounded her. They were set against her. And if being a villain meant being set against Emma Swan… He held his hand before him, his memories reflected in the silver surface of the rings he wore. His trophies. His sins. How often had he stained them red?

He could never be a hero, but perhaps he could learn to use a hero’s tactics. Perhaps he could learn to be…better. For Emma. For Henry.

Taking a deep breath, he turned from Rumplstiltskin. The man could live. For now. After all, if Killian allied himself with Emma and Rumplestiltskin was set against Emma, it could only be a matter of time before the Crocodile’s reckoning came. And then, Killian would show no mercy. His lips curled into a half smile at the thought.

# # #

“Care for some company?”

Emma groaned, her head sinking to her crossed forearms as Killian slid onto the stool on the other side of her. She did not need to deal with him right now, especially since five minutes she caught herself wishing he would walk in the door.

“Or I could go,” he said, standing quickly.

“No,” Emma said. “No. You can stay. Just…I don’t want to talk about it.”

He swiveled on his barstool, facing her for several long moments.

“I can abide by that if you will answer one question for me,” he said when she finally acknowledged him.

Emma pressed her lips together, weighing her options. “Fine. One question.”

“What changed your mind?”

She fiddled with her glass, swirling the remaining whiskey at the bottom for several long moments before she answered.

“I know I can’t beat Regina doing things the right way, but…” She stopped, unsure of whether she wanted to share her backstage revelation. She threw back the rest of her drink, setting it down with a heavy clunk. “Maybe I’m not a hero if I lose, but if I won based on a lie then I’m definitely not a hero and if I’m not a hero, what place do I have in Henry’s life?”

Killian didn’t reply right away. When curiosity finally forced her to look at him, she found him staring at the floor, the muscles in his jaw tense. She turned away before he could look at her. She shouldn’t have said that, not after she had hidden the truth from him for so long.

“Emma.” His voice was soft, a plea. He smiled, not his usual smirk, something kinder, something that made her feel like maybe they could do this…thing. That maybe for Henry’s sake they could be friends. “You are his mother and you love him. You’ll always have a place in his life.”

She chuckled darkly. “We’ll see how he feels about that when he’s sixteen and moody.”

Killian snorted. “Let’s hope he takes after you in that respect.”

“Do you think I did the right thing?”

“Does it matter what I think?” he asked, smiling at Ruby as she wandered over.

Emma shrugged. “Not really.”

“Good,” Killian said. “It shouldn’t.”

Emma nodded, but she still felt an air of unease about him. Not quite disapproval, but there was nothing about this situation that he liked. Of course, there wasn’t much about this situation that she liked either.

But, she thought as she circled the rim of the glass with her finger, I did the right thing.

“Another?” Ruby asked, her long fingers snatching up Emma’s glass at the first squeak. At Emma’s nod, she turned to Killian, her red streaks catching the light. “Are you joining her? Or did you bring your own?”

He patted his jacket pocket with a rueful smile. “Don’t have it on me tonight, I’m afraid.”

“So that’s a yes,” Ruby stated.

“That’s a yes.” He smiled, his dimples flashing as Ruby rolled her eyes.

For a long moment, the only sound was the clack of her heels against the linoleum, the clink of glasses, and Killian’s steady breathing next to her. Before she could ask herself what she was doing here, wonder how he had slipped back into her life, the bells above the door chimed. They all turned to find Henry, his backpack slung over one shoulder. The shades clacked against the glass as he closed the door.

“Henry,” she said, a little surprised. And a little nervous. This was the first time the three of them had really been together since Killian found out. Well, besides that morning, and that didn’t really count because there had been people all around them… and Regina. “Hey.”

Henry apparently didn’t pick up on the guilt curling inside of her as he pulled one of Graham’s walkie talkies out of his backpack and handed it to her.

“What’s this for?” The little black radio felt solid in her hand, significant. Her nerves buzzed even louder, anticipation and dread a strange mixer for the alcohol already in her blood.

“You stood up to Mr. Gold,” he said, hopping up onto the stool next to her, looking like a mini business man in his jacket and little grey vest. He smiled. “It’s pretty amazing.”

Killian chuckled again. “That it certainly is.”

Emma silenced him with a look, she did not need both of them ganging up in some sort of “Let’s make Emma feel better” pity party.

“He did something illegal,” she reminded them both.

Henry grinned all the wider and Emma had the sneaking suspicion that Killian bore the same grin, even if she couldn’t see him at the moment. She almost turned around and jabbed him playfully with her elbow, like she might have done in the old days. But she caught herself. That would be too much. That would give him hope and she wasn’t going to do that, there were lines and they needed to stay where they were. For Henry’s sake.

“That’s what heroes do,” Henry said, his face thoughtful. His chin dimpled and suddenly, she realized that he must have gotten his serious side from Killian. Or the chin dimple at least. “Expose stuff like that.” He started when Ruby came over, sliding glass of lemonade in front of him before she delivered Emma and Killian’s drinks. With a wary glance over Emma’s shoulder, Henry leaned forward, his voice a low hiss. “I shouldn’t have given up on Operation Cobra.”

Emma’s heart squeezed, Henry’s wide eyes overwhelming and heavy. She picked at her fingernails, unsure of whether she wanted to laugh or cry. Henry believed in her again and she hadn’t even needed to win the election.

The bell above the door broke the moment as Regina strode in, Sydney hot on her heels, like the good lapdog he was. Though at least he wasn’t gloating outright. He regarded her with serious, darks eyes as the pair of them approached.

“I thought I might find you here,” Regina said. Her eyebrows shot up when she say Emma’s glass and her company. “With a drink. And my son.”

The look she gave Henry was tentative and uncertain, and despite everything, Emma felt a little thrill of pride that even when Regina had the upper hand, she still had this. After all, wasn’t that what this whole debacle had been about in the first place?

“Come to collect then, I suppose,” Killian said with a nod at Henry, his voice low and tight. “Would be poor form if you came to gloat.”

“Oh, not at all.” Sydney wore a strained smile. “In fact, I think I’ll join you.”

Emma shot Killian a look, surprised to find him standing, his hook on prominent display on the counter. She stared for a beat, hoping he got the message. I fight my own battles. He sat back on his stool, but his hook stayed where it was, close enough for her to see if she looked down.

She turned back to Sydney and Regina, her eyes narrowed as she tried to figure out their game. Their faces gave very little away, though Sydney still had that pained, but almost pleasant smile on his face. For an odd moment, she thought maybe they were here to offer her the deputy job again. Perhaps Regina got some sick pleasure from the idea of being able to boss Emma around.

Emma leaned against the counter, feigning nonchalance. “Aren’t they setting up a back room for the victory party?”

Sidney’s smile tightened. “Oh, well, you’ll have to tell me what that’s like.”

Emma stopped breathing, the words feeling stuck in her words.

Regina held out her hand, struggling to rein in her displeasure. “Congratulations…” Carefully, avoiding Emma, she reached forward and set something on the counter. “Sheriff Swan.”

Henry gasped. “Wait. What?”

He turned to Emma, like she had answers, but all she could do was shake her head and stare at the six-pointed star.

“Well, look at that,” Killian murmured from behind her.

“It was a very close vote,” Regina explained, her voice nearly too low to be heard over the chiming of the bell once again and the sudden murmur of voices as people entered the diner. “But people really seem to like the idea of a Sheriff brave enough to stand up to Mr. Gold.”

“Are you joking?”

“She doesn’t joke,” Killian said grimly. He looked nearly as displeased as Regina, the muscle in his jaw practically doing jumping jacks as he turned  his best Superman impression on the badge. Thankfully, he was no Kryptonian and the badge remained unmelted.

“You didn’t pick a great friend in Mr. Gold, Miss Swan,” Regina said.

Emma jumped a little and found the woman leaning uncomfortably close. Regina smiled, almost cruelly, the glint in her eyes vaguely familiar, though Emma couldn’t quite place the look.  

“But he does make a superlative enemy.” The smile widened. “Enjoy that.”

The crowd descended on her as soon as Regina walked away, Mary Margaret was the first to rush up and congratulate her. After smothering her in a hug, of course. Ruby came around the bar, darting through the crowd to replace Mary Margaret. And then Granny. Archie. The guy from the pharmacy. Everyone wanting to shake her hand and congratulate her.

Never in her whole life, had she received so much praise from so many people. It felt good. Especially knowing that all of this came from following her gut. No, she amended, catching sight of Archie again. From following her conscience.

“Don’t want to lose this,” came Killian’s voice. He stood behind her again, the badge clasped in his hand. His fingers felt warm and rough against the cold metal as she took the badge from him. He smiled, despite the deepening shadows in his eyes. “You deserve it.”

She only noticed that she had been smiling too as her smile fell. “But you don’t like it.”

“You are clearly the woman for the job,” he said shaking his head. “Not many people have the gumption to stand up to that…” Again he paused, probably censoring himself considering Henry’s nearby presence. “That man,” he finished lamely. Ducking a little so their eyes were level, he asked, “You’ll let me know if he causes any trouble.”

Emma scoffed. “I think I can handle Gold just fine on my own.”

Killian pressed his lips tight, nodding stiffly. “Well, I’d best be off, then. I’ll just say good night to Henry.”

“Sure, I—” Emma stopped, glancing over to where Henry sat at the counter, his book out once again. Strangely, she didn’t feel any resentment toward the storybook this time, she was glad he was reading it. Unsure of what she would say, Emma cut through the crowd, squeezing in behind Henry. Killian followed wordlessly.

Her kid looked up, a grin lighting his face. “I think I’ve figured out…” He stopped suddenly aware of Killian hovering behind his other shoulder. He slammed the book shut. “Uh. I think I’ve figured out that I don’t really like Rumplestiltskin’s story at all.”

The look of pride in Killian’s eyes struck Emma as strange, but she forged on with her original plan.

“Hey, I was thinking…maybe Operation Cobra doesn’t have to be just you and me.” Though her eyes were on Henry, she heard Killian suck in a sharp breath.

“It’s not,” Henry said, lowering his voice. “Ms. Blanchard and Archie know too.”

With an apologetic look at Killian, who actually looked kind of amused, Emma leaned in. “I know, but I’ve been talking with Hook and…he’s good, okay? I think you should bring him up to speed on all this when you get a chance.”

Henry’s brow furrowed, his nose scrunching lopsidedly. “Are you sure?”

Emma met Killian’s eyes, hoping he understood how big this was. It wasn’t what he wanted, but she wasn’t sure she trusted him that much yet. If she could ever trust him that much—although, Henry would have to find out sooner or later—but maybe this could be their compromise.

“Yeah, I’m sure.”