#Camp Swan fic

[synonymroll648]

You are the keefitz mutual who is my summer camp bestie

:O SUMMER CAMP BESTIES!! WE ARE KEEFITZ SUMMER CAMP BESTIES SO SO TRUE

[catofadifferentcolor]

Terrible Fic Idea #92: Percy/Apollo, but make it The Trojan War

Into every fandom, a time travel fic must fall - or in this case a second one, because I somehow got to thinking about the delightful PJO trope of Percy being thrown back in time to The Trojan War and realized that doing so misses out on a fantastic opportunity.

Or: What if post-TOA Percy Jackson and Apollo time travel to shortly before The Trojan War?

aka the Tried To Change The Ending fic

Just imagine it:

Everything follows canon through TOA, with one exception: rather than struggle to catch up in the mortal world following the Second Gigantomachy, Percy elects to stay at Camp Half-Blood. There he can homeschool at his own place with programs tailored towards ADHD children and still visit his family on the weekends - and not get into any more ridiculous situations in the mortal world when one of the gods kidnaps him or sends him on a quest to find their sneakers.

This, naturally, stresses his relationship with Annabeth - who, now that she's no longer living at camp full time, calls it the easy way out. But Percy is tired and struggling in mortal high school where everyone thinks he's a delinquent idiot when another option exists seems foolish. Percy and Annabeth break up and drift apart.

Enter Apollo, fresh from his latest stint as a mortal. He's trying to do his best by his children, which includes popping by camp as often as he can get away with - which in turn means spending a lot of time with Percy, who at this point is unofficially running CHB because it's not like Dionysus or even Chiron have done a brilliant job of it in recent times.

(First aid, strategy, and mythology classes are made mandatory. Percy personally ensures every demigod knows enough about self-defense to be able to survive long enough to run away or for help to arrive. Bullying is cracked down on so hard that it's this, not Percy's generally parental nature, that has people calling him Camp Mom.)

Percy and Apollo become friendly. Enough so that some of Apollo's kids assume they're dating and keeping it on the down-low so as not to draw Zeus' ire. Or Poseidon's. Or anyone else's. It's on one of their not-dates that they're yeeted into the past, without warning or explanation.

And so 19-year-old Percy Jackson and post-TOA Apollo find themselves in Ancient Greece c. 1220 BCE, roughly thirty-five years before the destruction of Troy.

The time travel is immediately obvious, as Apollo becomes the closest thing a god might experience to being high the moment they land in the past - being a powerful god in modern times is nothing like being a powerful god at the height of his power in ancient times. It's overwhelming (and somewhat alarming from Percy's POV, but kind of funny in retrospect.)

The specific date is harder to determine, but made clear when Hermes shows up and starts going on about you'll never believe what father's done now: he seduced the Spartan queen as a swan and she's laid an egg. Hera is furious - especially as they're saying the girl that hatched from it is the most beautiful in the world, even though she's only a few days old. It's nuts. By the way, where have you been? You missed the last two council meetings. Do you want Dad to punish you?

Apollo at this stage is very high. He's also been USTing over Percy for quite some time and is worried what the gods of this era might do to Percy without divine protection (smiting or seduction, it's all on the table). But mostly he's very high, and so to keep Percy close and safe he declares he's been off having the dirtiest of dirty weekends with his latest lover and that Hermes' presence is ruining the mood. So if he would kindly leave, please and thank you, he'd really rather get back to it without an audience.

This, naturally, is a surprise to Percy, but he rolls with it because 1) he doesn't have any better ideas on how to get rid of Ancient Greek Hermes so they can figure out what the hades is going on and 2) he's been USTing over Apollo ever since he recovered enough from Tartarus to start feeling attraction again.

Fueled by mutual UST, they put together a cover story that should hold the next time a god with too much prurient interest shows: Percy is now Prince Persē of Gadir - a Phoenician colony that will grow into the future Cadiz - well past the edge of the Greek world at this stage but not beyond belief for Poseidon to have visited, as it's obvious who his father is. They claim his mother is the King of Gadir's youngest sister and as such Persē had a royal upbringing, but was far enough down the line of succession that he was free to chose to sail east and explore his father's homeland. Apollo caught sight of him on his journey, one thing led to another, and here they are.

(Are there easier, more sensible cover stories? Possibly. But the UST refuses to let them consider any of them now that a fake relationship is on the table.)

Deciding what to do about The Trojan War is much harder. On the one hand, it's a lot of senseless death and destruction. On the other, without it we don't get The Iliad and The Odyssey - two of the most influential works of literature in western civilization - and Aeneas doesn't go off to Italy (leading to the founding of Rome, which would change the history of western civilization a lot). In the end, they decide to let the war happen but do their best to mitigate the worst parts of it.

And so Percy goes off and becomes a hero of Ancient Greece while pretending to be in a relationship with Apollo.

This stage of things is filed with angst from both parties, as both Percy and Apollo want a real relationship with each other but think they're abusing the other's trust by eagerly faking their relationship. There's a lot of PDA, a lot of feelings, and limited communication. It goes on for quite a while and would probably exasperate quite a few people if everyone in the know didn't think they were already in a relationship.

It's also filled with modern day Percy being confronted by realties of life in Ancient Greece. It's not just mortals knowing about - and interacting with - the gods: it's everything. It's food and clothes and language and culture and housing and travel. He can play a lot off it as being a traveler from the edge of the known world, but some of it has him asking Apollo if he's being rick rolled.

Apollo, meanwhile, is having troubles of his own. He is not the god he used to be and it's hard pretending otherwise. He tries to walk the line of doing enough to be believable and holding back enough not to despise himself, but it's a fine line, he fails often, and he spends a not insignificant amount of time worried he's backsliding.

And so it goes until 7-year-old Helen of Troy is kidnapped by Theseus to be his wife.

This, naturally, does not fly with Percy, who by this time has built up something of a reputation as a hero. He teams up with the Dioscuri to rescue Helen.

One would think this would earn him Zeus' favor. It doesn't. Instead, Zeus sends monsters to harry him for refusing to let Castor and Pollux take Helen's captors' loved ones captive and raze Aphidna for Theseus' crime. Percy manages to hold his own for quite a while but eventually, exhausted from the near-constant fighting, is gored and left for dead by the reformed Minotaur.

...and when Apollo arrives, frantic, to heal him, Percy ascends instead, becoming the greek version of Saint Sebastian - a minor god of heroes, strength in the face of adversity, and athleticism; sort of halfway between Hercules and Chiron.

Then and only then do Percy and Apollo finally get their act together, confessing to each other how much they care for the other and how much they don't want this to be fake any longer.

History proceeds apace - albeit with Persē being a second immortal trainer of heroes.

24 years after their arrival in the past, 16 years after Percy's ascension, The Trojan War begins. Despite their best efforts, there's only so much they can do - war is war and gods are gods. They are able to stop some of the worst excesses on both sides, but in the end Apollo still sends the plague that causes Agamemnon to take Briseis for his own, which caused Achilles' departure from the field, Patroclus' death, &c - not because Apollo was trying to maintain the timeline, but because in the instant he sent it he was angry and reverted to his old ways.

Troy falls...

...but when Zeus tries to use this as an excuse to ban gods from interacting with their demigod children, Apollo is able to say that's a bit extreme isn't it? with enough backing from the rest of the council that Zeus is forced to amend his ruling so that the gods are only allowed to freely visit their children on the "cross quarter days" that fall between each solstice and equinox (1 February, 1 May, 1 August, and 1 November).

This changes everything and nothing.

Time continues its inevitable march. Greece has its golden age before being conquered by Rome, which splits apart under its own weight and forms several smaller countries, which eventually spread their cultures around the world...

Apollo and Percy are there for it all. Persē is a minor figure in mythology, but never forgotten. He is ever-present in Apollo's temples - though the Church will later try to rewrite their myth so that they were merely sworn fighting partners, rather than lovers who eventually had a quite lovely wedding on Olympus (and then, at Poseidon's insistence, an even bigger ceremony on Atlantis). Percy takes over day-to-day operations of CHB from practically the moment the Trojan War ends.

...and so Persē is there the day Sally Jackson tries to get her son to camp, and is able to intervene when the Minotaur attacks on their border. He's able to meet her and her young son, Perseus ("Mom named me after you and the guy that killed Medusa since you're the only two heroes to have happy endings!"), and guide him through the trials that come with being a child of prophecy.

One day that Percy will hand Luke - who was never happy with the limited attention the gods were allowed to give their children - a cursed dagger so that Kronos can be defeated. That child will be offered godhood, turn it down, and go on to have a happy life with his eventual wife, Annabeth. He will never have his memories erased and be sent to Camp Jupiter. Gaia will not rise until long after that Percy's grandchildren are dead, and Zeus will not be quite so bullheaded when the proof of it is brought before him. That Second Gigantomachy is swift, well-coordinated, and fought without another Greek/Roman war brewing in the background.

And when they finally arrive at the day Apollo and Percy were originally sent back in time, Percy admits that while he is happy some version of him was better prepared for the war he was asked to fight in and allowed his peace afterward, he would change nothing about his own life, for it brought him to Apollo. The sunrise the next morning - on the first morning of the rest of their lives - is particularly spectacular.

Bonuses include:

Gaslighting Poseidon into believing that he's met Percy before the first time they're introduced. ("What do you mean you don't remember me, Father? You were present when I came of age! You gifted me this trident! Have I displeased you in some way?") It's an absolute masterclass that eventually manages to convince Poseidon that, yes, of course he knows Percy - and, maybe, he should check in on all his other demigod children to make sure he's not missed someone. (Two. He lost track of two of the others. Maybe he should be more careful about siring children in the future.) Apollo practically has to stuff his fist in his mouth to keep from laughing.

As much historical accuracy as can be crammed into the Percy trying to make sense of Ancient Greece chapters as possible. Think Of a Linear Circle - Part III by flamethrower levels of historical research. As much as can be shoehorned in without bogging down the plot.

Percy and Dionysus bonding over their mutual dislike of Theseus, though Percy generally gets along with his other half-siblings, especially the ones who come to camp young enough to keep from getting big heads over being the children of Poseidon.

Though Percy adores all the children in Cabin 7 (most of whom are born via blessing this time around), he and Apollo have at least one child of their own - maybe a demigod born before Percy's ascension to sell their fake relationship? Maybe a minor god who's later attributed a different parentage by mortals? Dealer's choice on details.

It never being made clear who, or what, or how, Percy and Apollo were sent into the past. All of Percy's oddities are attributed to him being foreign or formerly mortal, all of Apollo's to the fact that he's in love with someone who didn't die before their first anniversary, and no one ever guesses time travel is responsible for their eccentricities. Or that time travel was ever an option.

And that's all I have. As always, feel free to adopt, just link back if you ever decide to do anything with it.

More PJO Ideas | More Terrible Fic Ideas

[muwapsturniolo]

✯Sturniolos as Half-bloods✯

Goddess version

God version

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Chris would be the son of Aphrodite

Aphrodite is the goddess, of love, beauty, and desire. I think it makes perfect sense for him to be her son. I could see him always wearing some shade of pink (preferably a baby pink), pearl earrings, and just being the most wholesome person ever. He already is wholesome (besides the times when he is being an absolute menace) but it would definitely be elevated. With his mother being the goddess of love and beauty, he would do his best to ensure everyone feels loved and beautiful. Being stationed in camp half-blood, he would give all the girls flowers, brightening up their day and complimenting them on their beauty. When it comes to males, he would hype them up and play cupid, encouraging them to talk to the girls/males they have a crush on.

His cabin is number ten, and I would imagine it to be right by the water, the sun always shining in. His room in the cabin would be white with pink and creme accents. Pink silk bedding, a white desk, and a gold-encrusted mirror. It's no secret that Aphrodite is a bit vain, so he would put a lot of effort into his looks. His hair would sit perfectly, being brushed and combed with a rose-quartz hair tool. His skin would be clear and almost reflective. His lips would never be chapped, tinted softly with a pink lip balm. He would often show off his body, going for swims with the son of Poseiden (Nate possibly) his shirt being off, his abs prominent. A smirk would adorn his face knowing both males and females were fawning over him.

Going on to the desire and sexuality aspect. He knows he's handsome asf and he would use it to his advantage. He would flirt with multiple girls, even managing to get a few in his bed, but it would stop when he meets who he believes is the love of his life. The daughter of Hades.

Aphrodite's animal representation is usually doves and swans. In Chris's case, I think his would be a baby doe.

In the Percy Jackson series, Aphrodite's children didn't have many powers but the one that stands out would be charm speaking, almost like a siren song. Chris would definitely possess this power, being a smooth talker to get who and what he wants. As for a weapon, I could see him having a rose quartz shield paired with a sword, the handle of the sword being gold and white. The shield would be disguised as a ring, and the sword would be in the form of a pearl necklace.

his songs:

" He want lipstick, lipgloss, hickeys too" kiss me more- Doja cat

"Drop of a hat she's as willing as ,playful as a pussy cat" killer queen- queen (i like the 5sos version)

"i was made for lovin you baby and you were made for loving me" I was made for loving you-kiss

can't lie, all I was thinking about while writing Chris's part was @gamermattsgf fic silk ribbons 😭

Matt would be the son of Demeter

Demeter is the goddess of agriculture/harvest. Considering Matt has been the designated driver, does the laundry, and is labeled the navigator, I feel like this suits him. Agriculture is very important and tbh, without it, nothing in the world would work. I could see him always wearing jeans or overalls (barking at the thought of him wearing overalls omfg), he would wear a wife beater or a simple black t-shirt (preferably cropped teehee). He always would have his horse chain on, never taking it off, even when he's getting his hands dirty. Matt's quiet so I feel like that would carry on into the halfblood universe. He would stay near his cabin unless he was training or cooking in the camp kitchen. He would talk to a few people but would mostly keep to himself.

His cabin is number four, I would imagine it to be located near the back of the camp, close to mountains, and having a lot of land to farm. I would think it would be more of a rustic vibe, very serene. A lot of browns, cremes, with hints of green. A statue of his mother would be perched right in the middle of his backyard. He would sit next to it, offering her grains and cups of water as the sound of nature buzzed around them. Due to his mother being the goddess of harvest, he was in control of the food for the camp. He's basically a farmer. With being a farmer, there are multiple animals, his favorite being the horse. He would have an array of horses, his favorite being a pearl white horse he named Lucky. He would always take hikes along the trails, and teach other half-bloods how to care for the horses and how to ride them as well.

I could see him having a crush on Poesiden's daughter. It would be a beautiful relationship, after all, you cant grow plants or food without water.

In the Percy Jackson series, Demeter's children did possess powers. The ones I feel Matt would possess would be enhanced growth, (manipulate plant growth which would come in handy during battle.. He would also possess the power to manipulate seasons. It wouldn't be anything crazy, but he could make the temperature rise or fall drastically. His weapon of choice would definitely be a lasso, made with a golden thread. He would definitely ride on a horse, Lucky being the horse in question. The lasso would be disguised as the chain to his horse necklace, and the horse pendant itself would be Lucky.

Demeter's animal representation is usually a snake, pig, turtle doves, and a screech owl. The horse was also mentioned due to Poseiden creating the horse as a form of affection for Demeter. For Matt, I know for a fact his animal would be a horse (like I said multiple times) and a dog. Since I do think his love choice would be the daughter of Poseidon, he would gift her a horse.

His songs:

"I climbed a mountain and I turned around, and saw my reflection in the snow-covered hills" Landslide-fleetwood mac

"The dog days are over, the dog days are over. Can you hear the horses? Cause here they come." dog days are over- florence + the machine

"I've been searching for a trail to follow again, take me back to the night we met." the night we met- lord heron.

Nick would be the son of Athena

Athena is the goddess of war, wisdom, and craft. It's no secret Nick loves the idea of wielding a sword in a horse-drawn chariot, so this is perfect for him! He would always wear reds, golds, and black. I can deff see him wearing black docs for training, as well as jeans and some type of long sleeve. His attitude is very fierce, and he has a slick mouth. With his slick mouth comes wisdom, he's just very harsh with it. He is definitely the best fighter in the camp, being labeled as the winner and leader. I wouldn't say he was always looking for a fight but, he isn't afraid to get his hands dirty.

With his cabin being number six, I would think it's located near the training center of the camp. Lots of dirt and mud trails, and weapons being thrown across the front of the cabin. His room would have wooden flooring, with a four-post bed. The bedding would be plain white sheets with red satin pillowcases and a big red blanket. A bust of his mother would sit on his nightstand, a blade perched next to it. With fighting being in his blood, I could see multiple shields and swords in the bedroom as well, maybe some mounted on the walls.

As far as relationships go, he would want someone who is equally as skilled in fighting and can handle his mouth. With that being said, he would deff have his eyes on the son of Apollo. His archery skills and knowledge would captivate Nick.

In the Percy Jackson series, Athena's kids didn't have powers, they just had really good intelligence and fighting skills, as well as craftsmanship. Nick would have very good craftsmanship, constantly fixing things for people in camp half-blood, building buildings, etc. I also think he would be the one to come up with battle strategies during dire situations. His choice of weapon would switch between a sword and a staff. The sword and staff would be much like the son of Poseidon's, disguised as a pen. His staff would be disguised as a ring as well, throwing it up into the air and catching it in a dramatic yet impressive fashion. A horse-drawn chariot wouldn't be possible, so he does take one of Matt's horses instead.

Athena's animal representation is an owl. Despite Nick's fear of birds in real life, I do think he would take after his mother with the owl. The owl would alert him when there is danger near , and guide him in battle.

His songs:

"If it makes me a king, a star in your eyes" all for us- labyrinth

"And if you complain once more, you'll meet an army of me" army of me- Bjork

"And I had a thought about wreaking havoc on an opposition, kinda shocking, they want static with precision." enemy- imagine dragons

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im in love with this!!!! im deff going to do a version for the gods!!!

TAGLIST🍑

@bernardsgf @bernardsleftbootycheek @blahbel668 @mattfrfr @gdsvhtwa @sturniolo-aali @lily-loves-struniolos @kynda-avery @causeidontlikeagoldrush

@st7rnioioss @carolinalikesthings @mattslolita @suyqa @xxloveralways14 @pepsiimaxx @judespoision

@ivonchetooo1239 @imaslut4kehlani @that-general-simp @m4stermindd @itzdarling @gigisworldsstuff @adoreindie @braindead4l @pettydollie @chrissgirlsstuff @alexis007 @ratatioulle @yamamasjumpercables @luv4kozume @sturnioloslurps @kqyslyho3 @mattslolita

[hlficlibrary]

✤ Slow Burn ✤

A series of posts with the top five fics of each category by kudos plus five more hidden gems from that category! Remember to leave kudos and a comment on the fics you enjoyed to show your appreciation! You can find the library's other recs here.

- Top 5 H/L Fics -

1️⃣ Tired Tired Sea by MediaWhore / @mediawhorefics {M, 113k}

As a B&B owner on the most remote of all the British Isles, Louis Tomlinson is used to spending the coldest half of the year in complete isolation, with his dog and the sea as sole companions. Until, one day, a mysterious stranger on a quest to rebuild himself rents a room for the winter.

2️⃣ got the sunshine on my shoulders by @hattalove {E, 124k}

five years ago, harry styles left his tiny home town to make it big as a recording artist. he didn't have much regard for what he left behind - a life, a family, and a husband, who woke up one morning to find him gone.

now, harry has everything he could possibly want: he's rich, famous, and adored by everyone he meets, including his boyfriend. but when said boyfriend proposes to him, he's forced to face the uncomfortable facts of his past - and louis, who's spent the last five years returning every set of divorce papers harry sent him.

(or, an au based on the movie sweet home alabama.)

3️⃣ Collision by itjustkindahappened / @tequiladimples {E, 226k}

Mythology/Fairytale!AU in which Louis is a dainty fairy with a temper who wants to be intimidating and Harry hurts people. Naturally, they hate each other.

(Featuring Liam, the big and not-so-bad wolf who’s got a thing for humans, Zayn, a human with supernaturally good looks, and Niall, the cupid who just wants his job to be easier.)

4️⃣ Flightless Bird by audreyhheart {E, 97k}

AU where Louis Tomlinson is a principal dancer with The Royal Ballet. When his rival from ballet school, moody dance prodigy Harry Styles joins the company, old wounds are reopened and old passions reignited. During the company's production of Swan Lake the secret that doomed their love is finally revealed, but will it be too late?

5️⃣ Shake Me Down by @agreatperhaps12 {NR, 208k}

Harry's new to college, fresh out of Catholic school and conversion therapy camp, and Louis runs the campus LGBTQIA organization.

HIDDEN GEMS:

💎 This Multiplicity of Powers by @helloamhere {E, 149k}

Maybe in another universe he isn’t different. Maybe he hadn’t been given an impossible choice. Maybe he wouldn’t have lost everything and broken everything and then fallen impossibly, irrevocably in love with the first next thing that was kind. Maybe in that universe he doesn’t feel like he’s never breathing, always pretending, teaching the kids even though they all have to learn alone, trying hard not to read the headlines, and so afraid, every day, that he won’t be a good enough teammate to the superhero he can’t live without. He knows that love isn’t supposed to feel this way, slid secret under your skin like a surgical razor, an invisible war held close over the tender vein that keeps you alive. On the other hand, Louis wonders, had he ever known how to do it any other way?

Maybe there’s a universe where he doesn’t have to keep all his secrets on the inside.

But this isn’t that universe.

//an X-Men AU.

💎 ghost of you by beckywritesthings / @beckydoesthings {E, 109k}

As a rule, Mandalorians and Jedi do not get along.

So when Harry Styles, esteemed Jedi Knight, finds out he has to work with the hot-tempered Mandalorian Duke, Louis Tomlinson, he’s prepared for it to go poorly. But it doesn’t, testing both of their boundaries of what they deem acceptable for a partnership.

It’s the start of something, and as the galaxy dissolves into war, they find themselves clinging to each other, even as it drags up things better left in the past. As it turns out, nothing between them has changed.

Or, a Star Wars AU where Harry is Obi-Wan, Louis is Satine, and somehow there’s a love story between the cracks where there shouldn’t be.

💎 don't be afraid to love (and love again) by localopa / @voulezloux {T, 83k}

All Louis’ life, he’s known he’s been different. There’s always been something at odds about how he felt.

As the eldest daughter of seven kids, he knew something was wrong with his body. Something was off, he just couldn’t quite put his finger on it. His mum dressed him in dresses and tights, plaits in his hair as he wandered around with the local neighborhood boys. They called him a girl, called him she and Rosemary when his name is Louis. He had told the boys as such, but they would tell him Louis is a boy’s name, not a girl’s.

Louis is a boy. He knows he is.

or the one where louis is trans and afraid, harry is cis and brave, and being 100% yourself is easier said than done.

💎 Gemma's Dad (Could Use A Guy Like Me) by @lululawrence {NR, 83k}

The summer before Louis and Gemma's senior year of college was supposed to be their last big hurrah before they graduate college and become Real Adults in the workforce. They had it all planned and it was going to be filled with mornings skateboarding, afternoons at the pool, and evenings hanging out with as many of the neighborhood kids they grew up with as they can.

Of course, Louis wasn't planning on getting home and learning that Gemma's dad had gotten the house in the divorce and was dealing with things by focusing on work, the house, and his newly planted garden. It becomes obvious early on that Harry is a bit lost and Gemma is worried about him. To help both of them, Louis is more than happy to help Harry find himself again.

As the summer goes on, the adventures and day to day happenings allow Harry and Louis to spend a lot more time together than either of them ever anticipated and Louis finds it more difficult to keep his growing feelings in check than he ever thought it would be. After all, there wasn't a chance that Harry would ever be interested in Louis... right?

💎 When the Lights Go Out by thelarenttrap / @antidotetogo {E, 79k}

“Louis, what do you have to say about how last week ended?” the reporter asks. There’s a moment of silence. Harry is looking at the reporter, but eventually gives in and looks down the table at Louis. He’s looking straight ahead, as if Harry isn’t even in the room. “If you can’t take the heat, then get out of the kitchen.” Harry leans forwards, placing his arms on the table and leaning onto them to get as close to his microphone as he can while looking at Louis. “And what’s that supposed to mean?” Louis turns to him, his icy blue eyes meeting Harry's. “Driving is your fuckin’ job, act like it.”

In its near eighty years of existence, Formula 1 has never had an out gay driver. In 2017, Harry Styles signs a contract with Scuderia AlphaTauri alongside his childhood friend and competitor, Louis Tomlinson. The next decade of their careers is some of the most tumultuous press--on and off the track--Formula 1 has ever seen.

aka the one where Louis and Harry are childhood friends to enemies to lovers over the course of 15 ish years.

[gyllenhaalstories]

FIREWORKS — JOHN KINLEY 🎆

summary: does john ever feel like a plastic bag drifting through the wind, wanting to start again? yeah, probably. but this fic isn't about john's existential crisis. it's about keeping his mind occupied during the fireworks of the 4th of july.

warnings: smut (teasing, masturbation, fingering, edging, orgasm control, penetration, outdoors sex). 18+ NO MINORS.

word count: 2680

gifs credits: @/pedropcl (cropped) / divider credits: @/firefly-graphics

notes: i finally wrote for john (big thanks go to @sizzlingcloudmentality for helping me out with your amazing suggestions)! it's not the idea i've attempted to write like 4 times, but it's an idea. that's gotta count for something 🫡 thank you for reading & REMEMBER TO REBLOG!

"The truck is loaded and ready to go." John's smile faded when he saw the new bags waiting for him by the front door.

"Just in case." You justified without being prompted to.

"We're leaving for the weekend, honey." He bent over to unzip one of the kaki Duffel bags, he pulled out several mismatched fuzzy socks. "We don't need all that. Wait... Is that a candle?"

You nodded proudly when he held up the glass jar. "We agreed to have a relaxing weekend getaway. Candles are relaxing. Look! That's your favourite scent too!"

He grinned at the attention and closed the bag after securing the candle deep into the clothes you packed just in case. He stood up with the bag on his shoulder. He held on the strap with one hand and grabbed yours with the other, dragging you out of the house before you came up with the idea to bring the appliances too.

John shut the tailgate and walked around the pickup truck to open your door, making sure you got in just fine. After a peck on your cheek, he closed the door and made his way to the driver's seat.

"Do you think there's gonna be a lot of traffic?" You buckled your seat belt at the same time as John did. "People go crazy around this time of year." John shot you a look that meant to say when did they not?

"We're not taking the highway." He engaged on the street and made a few turns you did not recognize as your usual route.

You trusted him. He knew his away around endless deserts and bushy hills, this would be no different especially since John had helped you to plan this weekend getaway. You found a secluded Bed and Breakfast, hours away from the house. It seemed cozy, you were lucky to reserve a room during the busy weekend.

The village was so small, there was not a single activity planned for the Fourth of July. You could have told him you were both going camping without electricity or running water and he would have accepted the invitation. He would have accepted anything just to escape.

Your mind wandered while John kept driving into the sunset. You wondered what food they would serve for breakfast, what the backyard would look like. You hoped they had a garden. You wondered if this would become a yearly tradition, where the managers would recognize you and fold your towels into pretty swans before your arrival. You hoped it did. You wondered what John was thinking about, you turned your head to admire him.

He felt your gaze on him, he grinned. "Everything alright? Did we forget something?" He marked a pause, he turned on a different road. "Let me guess, you wanted to bring the lawn mower?"

"We don't even have a lawn mower."

"Shit, we forgot to buy one?" He chuckled. "The trip is ruined."

Your heart skipped a beat at the sound of his laughter. A rare treat. A smile lingered on his lips, growing wider when he set his hand on your thigh. Your hand covered his and your eyes did not leave his handsome face for dozens of miles.

He could feel you were getting bored. He was too, quite frankly. At a certain point, the scenery blended into one blurry painting of trees and run-down houses. He knew the destination was well worth the hours of driving, but he would not despise a change of view. In the meantime, John distracted himself with caresses and squeezes on your thigh. One moment his hand was down to your knee, but then it would move back up and his fingers would attempt to disappear between your thighs.

You shifted on your seat, trying not to let those touches get to you too quickly. You still had a long way to go, but if John kept teasing you it would be impossible to resist. His hand hovered until you settled down so he could place it back on your thigh with a firm grip. You spotted a lonesome traffic light in the distance.

"Is everything alright?" John asked again, glancing in your direction with a faint frown.

"It will be soon." You said with a smirk that did not go unnoticed.

John looked ahead, squeezing your thigh harshly. His hand pushed further up, but you closed you legs around him too tight to let him move. He scrunched his nose at the sudden, but small, frustration.

Your prayers for the green light to turn red were heard and you unbuckled your seat belt as soon as the truck went immobile. "Unlock the door." You demanded.

John did not budge, pretending he did not hear you.

"Unlock the door, please."

The lock clicked. You slid down the passenger seat, your skirt riding up while you did so. John watched you while you slammed one door, opened another. He turned his head while you clumsily climbed on the back seat of the truck.

"Nothing wrong with being the passenger princess," You answered the question he did not dare to ask. "I just wanted a little more space."

His face was still lit up by a bright red hue when you found a comfortable position. John put two and two together, indulging in your shenanigan without any hesitation. He focused on the road again, darting his eyes on the rear view mirror. "A little more to the left," you scooted. "Perfect."

The light turned green and the engine roared while John kept driving. You pulled on the the seat belt so it was loosely attached around you, giving you plenty of room to move. You spread your legs open, finding a position that was both comfortable for you and easy to admire for John.

"You're playing with fire." John scoffed.

"No, I'm trying to distract you from the fireworks." You corrected him and earned a grin in response. "The least you can do is say thank you."

"I'll thank you when I'll be satisfied with my distraction." You leaned forward, a playful slap landed on his shoulder. "Hey!" He adjusted the mirror so it hit the right angle, then he winked at you.

You sat against the large back seat. You ran your hands over your thighs, in the places John had touched. "How much time do we have left?"

John flicked his wrist, trusting his military watch more than the clock of the truck. "About an hour." He estimated based off the number of miles indicated on the last road sign.

Your fingertips drew abstract patterns on the inside of your thighs, approaching close to your core. You hummed, thinking about a plan to make the fun last. Your breath hitched when you reached the wet fabric of your panties.

John's breath hitched too when he caught a glimpse of you, staring at him while you pushed your panties to the side. He missed what happened next as the road became sinuous for a moment.

You brought your middle finger to your lips and licked it, eyes still glued on your man. The pad of your wet finger pressed on your clit. You moaned out his name while you began to rub in circular motions.

He caught you while your head fell against the back of the seat. His own jaw dropped slowly while he watched the expression on your face as you picked up the pace. The pickup veered into the other lane for a quick second, John straightened it up.

You stopped abruptly. "Be careful." You warned him.

"You're being dangerous." He warned you, too. He gave you time to settle down, to get further lost into your pleasure after your heart had skipped a beat in fear.

He stared ahead, now you were the one watching him. You watched as John blinked slowly. As his knuckles turned white from the tight grip on the steering wheel. As his Adam's apple bopped while he swallowed thickly. As a loose strand of hair escaped the sunglasses perched up on his head.

His voice drew you out of your fixation. You made him repeat himself.

"You're not cumming 'til i say so." Somehow, that did not make you stop. You rubbed more, more, more, and you pulled away right on the edge of your orgasm. "Good luck with that, babe. 'Cause we both know you won't last."

You exhaled, coming down from your first edge. "We both know you won't last either."

John's silence proved you right. Though he showed more patience and restraint than you expected. He coaxed you through some of your edges, reminding you to pull away at the right time and telling you that "you look so fuckin' pretty for me, that's it, fuck yourself good".

The more praise you earned, the harder it became to hold back. His words toyed with your mind, making it so incredibly difficult to not give in. To listen to his order and not cum until he commanded you to. This particular edge gave you a rough time, your fingers barely stroked your clit that you were about to burst into an explosive orgasm. You tensed on your seat, eyes shut and with a breath stuck.

John glanced at the mirror and saw you. He saw you were about to tip over the edge. It was written all over your face that you could no longer resist your own release. "Don't you fucking dare." He clenched his jaw and pulled over in a swift turn of the steering wheel. You shifted in your seat, causing you to stop at the perfect time. "You're not cumming. Not without me." He put on the brakes and lost no time to get out of the vehicle.

"Took you long enough." You spoke when the door opened before you. John reached into the car to remove the seat belt. He gave you a stern look that made you smile from ear to ear. He was just so fun to mess around with, until he was not... But you did not feel like pushing his limits too much tonight. You could save that for another time.

John helped you to scoot closer to the edge of the seat, he stopped you from closing your thighs together. Finally, he could touch what he had been craving. His fingers worked you close to another edge. And another. And another. Until you were writhing for him on the seat, until he was sure you had left a damp spot on it. He wanted to test your limits, just a bit, just for fun.

"No, no, no." You gripped on his forearm, trying to pull him away.

He grunted in satisfaction, you followed his command and he did not even need to remind you. "That's my good girl." He captured your lips with his, his beard tickled your skin. Like a magnet, he attracted you out of the pickup until your feet met the ground.

His tongue explored your mouth while his hands gripped on your hips. The second you pulled away to catch your breath, he made you spin on your feet. The buckle of his belt rattled while he rushed to pull down his pants and underwear just below his ass.

You bunched up your skirt for him, propped your leg up on the step. You earned a low, rumbling grunt as a reward when he pushed his cock in your wet pussy. In return, you moaned out his name again and caused him to bottom out inside of you.

"Got yourself ready for me, huh? Is this what you wanted all along?" The bruising grip of his rough hands on your hips made you wince. "You wanted to get fucked by the side of the road like a whore." He pulled out, then rammed himself all the way back in. "That's so cute."

His left hand abandoned your hip to travel up your sides then your shoulder. Until he found the back of your head, he pressed you down against the seat. With his other hand, he guided you to meet his thrusts. At any moment, someone could drive by. Not that you had seen many cars thus far, but it was a possibility. It added a whole new dimension that both John and you found pleasure in.

The show you gave him from the back seat, paired with palming himself over his pants, had gotten him riled up to the point he knew he would not last long. He wasted no time and enjoyed the feeling of your clenching walls to the fullest.

"Just like that! Keep... Fuck! Keep going." You snaked a hand underneath your body until your fingertips reached your clit, barely brushing over it to take you closer to your release.

Suddenly, John’s thrusts stopped. He turned his head to the side and watched as the sky was illuminated in the distance by red, white and blue fireworks. He took a second to admire them then he continued to fuck you, picking up the pace. So that you would moan louder. And louder. And louder. Until you were all he could hear.

The skin of your ass slapped against his thighs, adding to the obscene sounds. Your noises covered up the explosions of the fireworks.

"Thank you." John broke the silence, slowing down. He dragged his hips back and forth, making you feel every inch of him.

"What for?" You mumbled. You revelled in the way John’s cock stretched your tight pussy. Your slick walls clenched on him even more.

He punctuated his thrusts with grunts. He leaned forward, pressing down on your back and trapping you against the car seat. He whispered, his breath hot against your ear. "For being a good distraction."

"Good enough to let me cum?" Your voice cracked.

"Damn right." John smiled on your cheek while he pressed a kiss on it. "Cum for me, let me feel you."

The sky turned pitch-black again as if nothing happened. As if the fireworks travelled all the way to your core while you came for John. Stars spun around your head, you still saw them when you closed your eyes.

John saw them too when he spilled his cum inside of you, coating your walls white. He stilled, replacing the sound of your skin slapping by his addictive grunts of pleasure. Slowly, he stood up straight, careful not to his his head against the door frame. He was even more careful when you did the same, his hand protecting the back of your head.

"Well..." You chuckled, coming down from your high. "The whole point was to avoid the fireworks. Should we just cancel and drive back home?" You would be disappointed not to visit the Bed and Breakfast, but you would understand if John preferred to stay home.

The unpleasant thought of unpacking the multitude of bags you lovingly forced him to bring along crossed his mind. His lips curled into an upside-down smile. "Let's just keep driving." He glanced down at your wrinkled skirt. His hands disappeared under them to rip your panties from you as you gasped at the gesture. With a proud grin, he walked around the pickup and sat behind the wheel again.

You regained your place as the passenger princess. Your eyes were glued on John as he engaged back on the road. He pressed a button, the window on his left slid open. He stuck his hand out and, with a shit eating smirk on his face, he let them go. Your panties drifted through the wind.

He chuckled when you abruptly turned to look at the side mirror. You distinguished a drop of red on the blackness of the asphalt that blended with the sky. You scoffed in disbelief while your panties disappeared into the landscape.

John's hand regained its place on your thigh, more so between your thighs. He groaned at the soft, slick skin under his fingertips. He dragged his hand up until it reached the familiar heat of your core. "Yeah, let's just keep going."

[inklore]

🩸 — 𝐇𝐀𝐔𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐇𝐎𝐄𝐃𝐎𝐖𝐍!

since the spooky season is fast approaching, and as a little kinktober appetizer, @psychedelic-ink and i have decided to do a little writing challenge to get us all excited and in the mood to be gripping the sheets from the spooky thrills of course.

and to keep this fun we have given you many many options! we have compiled a twelve day prompts list you can go by, or if that's not your thing we have listed twenty three different pick and choose options to create whatever kind of fic you want, even if you want to do half the days daily prompts but switch out this prompt dialogue for that au or trope or kink, you can literally do whatever your heart desires!

THE RULES.

the challenge will go on from the 19th - 30th of this month. you can do as many or as little amount of days as you choose.

any fandoms are welcome, literally any characters, ships, but please no rpf.

no minors should be interacting with let alone posting for this challenge.

dark content, light content, dubcon/noncon, is all welcomed but please tag everything accordingly. grooming, underage, and incest however are not allowed.

there are no word limits but please use that readmore.

tag #hauntedhoedown so we can read and reblog your work!

DAY ONE: taboo au + "i'll be your dirty little secret, if that's what you're into."

DAY TWO: murder plot au (lets kill this person together) + "crawl to me"

DAY THREE: inspired by your favorite lana del rey song (if not a lana fan then any fav song of yours) + stalker / yandere au or love triangle gone wrong

DAY FOUR: artificial intelligence au + "here, you are. you tiny thing."

DAY FIVE: gothic au + “worship me. until i tell you to stop.” + a masquerade au or a good ol' priest au

DAY SIX: animal shapeshifter au + "he's a monster" + "he's perfect"

DAY SEVEN: stranded au or slasher / summer camp au + sex in the woods or somewhere public (added bonus if it includes knife, blood, hunter x prey kink)

DAY EIGHT: cosmic horror au + "you're a fucking nightmare. kiss me."

DAY NINE: “do you like it when i bleed for you?” + the toxic exes trope or cult au

DAY TEN: zombie apocalypse au + "every moment might be our last, let's make the most of it."

DAY ELEVEN: black swan au or inspired by your fav psychological thriller + “they die for love, you kill for it.”

DAY TWELVE: vampire court au + "forever isn't long enough for me to forgive you."

if following the above isn't your thing and you want to pick and choose yourself that's great! we also highly rec this random generator if you wanna live life by the edge, each category has 23 options to pick and choose from so customize the generator accordingly!

AUs:

steampunk / cyber punk

fairytale retelling

revenge

mythology / monster

virtual reality

gothic

taboo (see great options here)

slasher

game gone wrong

witchcraft

addams family

bonnie and clyde

spy / secret agent

assassins

x-files

circus / carnival

hitch hiking

basement wife

time travel

urban legend(s)

american horror story inspired

vampire / supernatural

pirate / mermaid

DIALOGUE PROMPTS:

"do you like when i touch you like this? i can keep going if you want me to."

"i can see how badly you want this, so i'm going to make sure you get it." 

“this fear you feel? it won't last.”

“you are mine, whether you agree or not.”

“why do you keep following me?”

"i can't stop thinking about how perfect we would be together."

"you're not actually scared are you? of me?"

"i'm so close, can you feel it?"

"tell me what you want me to do and i'll do it, no matter the cost."

"you're like a sickness, a disease, and the only way for me to be cured of you is to let you completely consume me until my body has no fight left."

"i want to see you bleed."

"they're dead...because of you."

“i will keep hurting. i will keep killing. anything to protect you.”

“everything i've done.. every horrible atrocity, it's been for you.”

"it's just a little blood."

“don't you know how sick with love i am for you?”

“i would burn the world for you.”

"this is so fucked up." "you like it."

"finders keepers."

"what's your favorite scary movie?"

"tell me you want me back. tell me i'm forgiven."

"you're a monster." "that's never stopped you before."

"i've killed for you, who else can say that?"

TROPES:

mob / mafia

soft!dark

dubcon / noncon

soulmate / fated mates

mind control / telepathy

cheating

final girl

once is not enough

haunted manor

dark academia

enemies to lovers

haunted object

vengeful ghost

coven

ritual / sacrifice / blood magic

unrequited love

creation / creator vs monster

'i'll find you in every universe / century'

reverse harem

cursed / fuck or die

curiosity killed the cat

theatre phantom

fate worse than death

KINKS:

biting

corruption / authoritarian

somnophilia

begging

dacryphilia

breath play

knife play / blood play

jealousy / sharing / possessive

aphrodisiacs

hunter / prey

humiliation / degradation

mirror sex

deprivation / immobilized / bondage

costume

size

orgasm denial / overstimulation / edging

body worship

shotgunning / swallowing / facial

gagging

torture / surrender

hate sex / make up sex / phone sex

magical healing [redacted]

soft!dom / pleasure!dom

ETC PROMPTS:

a summer fling gone horrible wrong, or right

1970s porno filming (turned into a blood bath)

touch her and die except who the hell are you and why are you obsessed with me?

a trip to the circus (or carnival) ends with you stuck there...forever

you just inherited this creepy mansion where people where murdered what could go wrong?

a ritual gone wrong and now i'm bound to a demon

if 'this person' ever found out about this they would kill both of us (literally)

oh no i'm dating the town serial killer

passionate professor tells me to prove my devotion to the craft / class by doing something insane

we're the last people on the planet and you will be mine

daydreaming about being with you is better than actually being with you because i missed all the red flags and now it's too late

i got casted out of my world and ended up wounded and bloodied in your backyard, convince me why i shouldn't destroy your world out of anger

vampire has a taste for specific blood and looks like you have it

the creepy neighbor is too hot to be insane, right?

i keep seeing them in my dreams and i wake up with bruises and marks on my skin, it's definitely just wild dreams, right?

loving you is easier than hating you

got stranded in some little town that seems so cute, until night hits

'this person' ordered me to kill you but i actually think i'm in love with you

my lover is wearing the same costume as you and i can't tell the difference but i'm pretty sure it's them i'm fucking in this closet...pretty sure

confessing to a murder via a silly little ghost story around a campfire (but someone reads through the lies)

how far would you go for love? for the one you love?

in a past life you were the cause of my death so i'm here to exact revenge now that i've found you

we're at a fun little horror movie reenactment except people are really dying

we tried to make this writing challenge as fun and very 'choose your own adventure-like' as much as possible because we know how hard it is to stay motivated when doing these things.

so please feel free to use any and all of the prompts, tropes, kinks, etc as you wish. we're just super excited to see what ya'll come up with!!

so good luck and stay slutty spooky <3

[kiiwiigii]

The Red-Eyed Boy pt. iii

Pt. One | Two | Outtake

Alec x Swan!Fem!Reader

Summary: Alec returns and shows you how sorry he is. *wink, wink*

Warnings:

Smidge of angst

Smidge of bondage

Straight up smut

Word Count: 3,130

A/N: Today I learned that suck at writing smut, but please enjoy anyways. As with all my Alec fics, he is aged up. Also, I am fucking obsessed with this gif.

Tags: @rosedpetal, @lack-lust-3r, @badass-daisy-22

Alice and Bella eyed me warily from their spot on the kitchen table as I padded around the kitchen. It was my turn for dinner tonight and I was working on a new recipe.  

"Please stop looking at me like that. I'm not about to keel over dead and I'm definitely not about to poison Bella right before she gets married." 

I grinned when Bella scrunched up her nose in annoyance. 

"You're not gonna die because you're tied to Edward through a piece of paper, Bells." 

"Says you." She grumbled. 

"Have you heard from him?" Alice asked softly. 

"No." I pursed my lips. 

It had been nearly two weeks, and I hadn't heard a damn thing from Alec. I had called and texted only to be ignored and left on read. I knew he'd be mad, but for the love of God, he was taking this too far. I just wanted to strangle him. I had spent the first week moping before trying to shake myself out of it. I refused to let myself fall into the state that Bella had after Edward left. 

Although it was really hard not to. I still had my moments, usually in the evenings when I was alone. 

I paused in the middle of chopping an onion, looking over my shoulder at Alice. Her visions were the only thing I could really count on right now, unless I had a vision of my own. Unfortunately, sleep had been avoiding me, and when I did sleep nothing came to me. 

She shook her head sadly, indicating that she hadn't seen anything. Yet. However, she also hadn't seen anything different from her previous visions, so nothing had really changed, and that gave me hope. 

"So, Y/N, we have your first dress fitting tomorrow." Alice, thankfully, changed the subject.  

"Ooh yay! Do I get to see Bella's dress?" 

Bella groaned before plonking her head onto the table. She was so easy to tease. 

"If I didn't know any better, I'd say you didn't want to marry me." Edward entered the kitchen, shrugging off his jacket. 

I smiled watching them all together, happy to watch the little scene from afar. Eventually I had to turn back around, doing my best to hum a tune in my head, both to distract myself from the situation with Alec and so Edward wouldn't pick up on my depressing thoughts. This should be a happy time. 

Somehow, I don't think I was fooling anyone. 

It was official. I hated weddings and anything to do with them. I was almost positive that had I not been in a house full of vampires, Rosalie would have stuck a few pins in me on purpose.  

It was dark by the time I finally arrived home, and all I really wanted to do was shower and pass out on my bed. Keeping up a relatively happy façade almost 24/7 was exhausting. 

The house was dark, and I suddenly remembered that dad was out on one of his camping trips with a friend. Well, at least I would have the house to myself, and I could be as depressed as I wanted. 

I went straight to my room to gather some pajamas and a towel. I almost felt too tired to even shower, but I'll be damned if I'm not going to make sure I do some basic self-care. Throwing my bag onto the bed, I began to strip. 

"You should keep your window locked." 

I jumped and let out a scream, quickly covering myself, dress already hanging half off. 

It was Alec, propped up on my bed, another book in hand. How had I not seen him?? I even threw my bag in his direction. 

"Are you trying to give me a heart attack?" I wheezed at him, trying my best to get my racing heart back under control. 

"Not particularly." His eyes roamed over me, from head to toe, his eyes lingering on my neck, where my pomegranate seed necklace hung. And then the dangling straps of my dress. "You look beautiful, tesoro." 

I blinked rapidly, trying my best to figure out what the hell was happening. I hadn't heard from Alec in nearly a month and here he was, just sitting here. In my room. On my bed. As if nothing had ever happened.  

"Where have you been? Why have you been ignoring me?"  

He simply eyed me before closing the book with a thump.  

"I was extremely… angry. There was a while where I did not really have control of myself. I even scared Jane." He admitted. "I didn't want to take it out on you. Or for you to see that side of me." 

I glared at him. 

"So, you just disappear without a word? Didn't bother telling me that you were okay and that you just needed space? You're aware that I've had visions of you since I was like, six years old, right? I've seen you angry." 

"Not like this, you haven't." He said quietly. 

"Do you know what I thought? I thought you had left me. Despite whatever Alice's visions tell her, I know that they can change at the drop of a hat. I was just sitting here waiting, praying that you wouldn't change your mind." 

Fuck, here come the tears. 

He was next to me in a heartbeat, hands cupping my face. I tried to back away, but he kept his grip firm. 

"I would never leave you, Y/N." He said softly, wiping the tears away. "Ever. I have never been good at relationships. I have always kept myself at arm's length, but you, you are different. And when I saw you on that field, after the battle, I had never been so scared and angry in my life." 

He paused for a minute, searching. "Had I lost you, I would have burned the world down." 

My breath hitched in surprise, and I could feel my heart skip a beat. He kissed me then, and I allowed it, wrapping my arms around his neck as he reached for my waist. His kiss was soft and controlled, while mine was bordering on desperation. 

"Don't you ever do that to me again." He whispered against my lips, a warning. 

Why did that turn me on and piss me off at the same time? 

"I'm sorry, what was that? Because it sure didn't sound like an apology, Alec." 

He pulled me flush against him, nipping at my collarbone in reproach. I hissed in pain, but he quickly soothed it over with his tongue. 

"Then let me show you how sorry I am." He whispered.��

He pulled me in for a heated kiss and I couldn't help but gasp. Alec took the opportunity to dip his tongue into my mouth again, and the moan that worked its way up my throat had him growling possessively. 

I could already feel my nipples tightening and the wet heat between my legs. 

I grabbed him by the collar to pull him closer. He gladly obliged and before long, he had me pressed into the bed, right underneath him, his lips giving slow languid kisses anywhere he could reach. 

"Alec." My voice was caught in my throat. 

Goddammit. He hadn't even gotten me out of my clothes before he had me begging. Hell, he had barely even touched me.  

And I was supposed to be mad at him, dammit! 

He paused, lips at the swell of my breast. Finally, he lifted himself up so he could look me in the eye, searching my face. 

"Do you trust me?" 

I nodded my head furiously. 

"I need to hear you say it, Y/N." 

"I trust you." 

I was practically panting. 

Alec produced a long strip of gauzy fabric and slowly tied my hands together, gauging my reaction, before putting them above my head. 

"Did you come prepared with that?" I gaped at him. 

"No. I took it from your bag." He smirked. 

My bag? Since when did he have the time to go through my bag? I looked at my tied wrists again, trying to wrack my brain as to why I had a long ass strip of- 

'Oh my god.' 

It was the sash to my bridesmaid's dress. I know I hadn't put it in there. The last time I had seen it- Alice. She fucking knew. She had to. She had a vision and didn't even tell me. Granted, if this was a part of her vision, I would be highly embarrassed to hear her explain exactly what she saw. 

"Now." Alec put my hands above my head again, and then trailed his own hands down my arms to my collarbone, thumbing over the mark he had placed on it earlier. "Your hands stay put above your head until I say otherwise. If they do not, I stop. No matter what I am in the middle of." He warned, pausing to make sure that I understood. "Are you okay with this? If not, we can stop." 

I shook my head back and forth frantically. 

"Y/N, I need you need to say it out loud." 

"Yes." I breathed. 

"Good. If you become uncomfortable at any point you are to tell me." 

"Yes sir." It was out of my mouth before I even realized it and I blushed furiously. 

"Are you sure you're a virgin?" He teased. 

"Why don't you find out for yourself?" I teased back, a little breathless. 

Alec's brows raised before he smirked, leaning in closer, mouth right next to my cheek. 

"I think I am going to enjoy this very much." His hands began to make their way past my collar bone to cup my breasts through the fabric of my dress, his thumbs flicking slowly back and forth over my nipples.  

My back arched in a gasp, and he let out a hum, pleased with my reaction. Soon I felt more and more skin being exposed to the cool night air, his cold lips and tongue following right behind it, licking and nipping his way until, aside from my bra, I was fully exposed from the waist up. I blushed as he sat back, admiring the view. 

"You are truly beautiful, mio cara." He breathed.  

His cold hands caressed every inch of exposed skin, purposely avoiding the spots that I wanted him to touch the most. I pouted up at him and he swiped a thumb across my lip. 

"I must admit Y/N, I like seeing you like this. And I think you like it too." 

Slowly, I gave his thumb a long lick before sucking it into mouth. His eyes darkened even further, and I could practically feel the rumble of possessiveness in his chest. 

"Careful, amore." His voice was now husky and strained. 

I released his thumb, edging my teeth along the sides and cocked an eyebrow at him. "I thought you were supposed to be apologizing." 

His eyes were now pitch black. 

"I think you forget who's in control here." 

I let out a squeak as he moved aside and ripped my dress the rest of the way down, leaving me in just my bra and panties. He settled himself between my legs, to nip and kiss his way along the inside of my thighs. 

I sucked in a sharp breath when he placed a kiss right over my covered mound, and then nuzzled into it. My hands jerked and he looked up at me, remaining still. 

"Hands, amore." He chided. 

I immediately put them back in place, wriggling my hips in anticipation. Finally, he slid my panties down, revealing my inner most self, glistening and wet just for him. 

"Perfect." 

It was the only thing I heard before his mouth was on me and my back arched off the bed yet again.  

Keeping perfect eye contact with me, he gave me long slow licks, delving into me with his tongue. And then he found my clit. I couldn't help it, I cried out, my hands immediately coming down to lace themselves through his hair. 

This wasn't an apology; this was fucking torture.  

He paused with a growl. 

"Hands, amore." 

"But- but-" 

He lifted himself up slightly, a warning look in his dark eyes. "Hands." 

"Alec." I whined, wriggling my hips again and trying push him back down. "Please." 

"You know the rules, principessa." 

"Did you just call me princess?" 

He just smirked. "You're learning. Now, hands. If I have to tell you again, I will tie you to the bed." 

'You just may have to do that.' I thought. 

He watched me for a moment more before slowly lowering himself back down, wrapping his arms around my thighs to keep my hips level. He began his slow assault on me yet again and I did my absolute best to keep my arms above my head. It was working so far... barely. 

Before long I could feel a warm heat beginning to build low in my stomach.  

"Oh god, please don't stop." I chanted. "Don't stop. Don't stop. Don't stop." 

I wasn't entirely sure what was happening, all I knew what that it felt good, and he absolutely had to keep going. Otherwise, I was sure I was going to die right then and there. 

And then the bastard stopped. 

"Alec." I let out a low whine. 

He crawled back up to me, placing a kiss on my lips and I groaned at the taste of my arousal on him.  

"No cumming just yet, amore." He swept his tongue along my lips. "The only cumming you will be doing is on my cock." 

I almost choked. "Have- have you always been this dirty?" 

"You have no idea." He bit my earlobe and I squirmed at his words. “And this is only just the beginning.” 

"Well, it looks like won't be doing much of anything, since you're still dressed." 

"That can easily be remedied." 

My eyes widened as he slipped off his shirt. I had always known he was muscular but there was a big difference between feeling it and seeing it. Next came his pants and underwear, and I’m pretty sure my brain stopped working. 

How was that going to fit?? 

"Like what you see?” 

I simply nodded my head, my mind still trying to process the situation I was in... and the fact that his cock was rather... large. 

He leaned over and began untying my hands. I raised a brow at him. 

"I want you clinging to me when you cum." 

Oh fuck. 

My hands immediately went to explore his naked chest when he caught my hand and kissed my fingertips. 

"Are you still okay?"  

"Alec, I swear to God if you don't fuck me-" 

He cut me off, crushing his lips to mine and I suddenly felt him nudging at my entrance. He sat back briefly, rubbing himself in my juices, preparing. 

"Eyes on me, amore." 

I swiftly looked back up at him. I don't think I could have taken my eyes off him in that moment. 

Finally, finally, I felt him enter me ever so slowly. I let out a hiss of pain, my hands clutching desperately at the sheets, and he stopped, letting me adjust for a minute, all the while never breaking eye contact. This, this was something else. I had never felt so full.  

"Fuck, you're tight." 

I let out a whimper. 

"It's okay, mio cara." He kissed away the tears from my face, I hadn't even realized that I was crying. "I'm going to move now." 

And boy did he move. It took a few thrusts before the pain subsided and then I felt as if I was flying. He kept his thrusts steady and deep, his hands roaming my sides before cupping my breasts and placing gently kisses along the edges. And then proceeded to close his mouth on one of my nipples through the lace.  

"Alec." 

He didn't reply, deciding to suck harder and scrape against the sensitive buds with his teeth instead. If he kept this up, I wasn't going to last long, and I think he knew it. He sat up again, but this time he angled my hips up and I was suddenly seeing stars. He was hitting my sweet spot now and I couldn't contain my moans any longer. I could feel it building, and building, and building.  

"Don't you dare stop." I panted. 

"Eyes on me, darling." He ordered, grabbing my face, and making me look him in the eyes. "I want to see the look in your eyes when I make you come on my cock." 

Oh, God. He was speaking to me in Italian, and I didn't have the slightest clue as to what he was saying, but it was hot. 

"Alec, please. Make me cum. I want to come." 

"Fuck, so tight for me." He thrust harder and I could feel the walls of my pussy starting to tighten up. "I want to see you come undone around me." 

"A-Alec!" 

He forced me to look up at him again as I came hard, legs wrapping around his waist as he nearly collapsed on top of me. If I was seeing stars before, now I was suddenly seeing a whole fucking galaxy. 

"Fuck." He kissed me deeply as I felt him spasming inside me, cool liquid coating the walls of my pussy. 

He hovered like that for a long moment, his kisses turning into soft, languid ones, his hands roaming in even softer caresses. Finally, he pulled out of me, and let his eyes wonder over me. I'm sure I looked a mess, but he seemed to like what he saw, judging by the smirk on his face. 

"Come, amore. Let's get you cleaned up." 

"I don't think I can walk." I closed my eyes, doing my best to breathe and not die from great sex. 

"I can definitely help you there." 

I nearly yelped as he lifted me from the bed bridal style. 

"Is this your way of saying you want shower sex?" I wriggled my eyebrows at him. 

"I had not really thought of it, but if you insist." 

I laughed and snuggled into his chest. 

He paused a moment, really looking me over now. "I am truly sorry, Y/N. For everything." 

I placed a hand on his cheek. "Apology accepted." 

NEXT - (Outtake)

{Masterlist}

Translation (Done via Google): Tesoro: Darling/Treasure  Mio Cara: My darling.  Principessa: Princess 

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[asidian]

For the WIP guessing game: "Astarion"?

Oh, man. I feel like this is a casual inquiry on whether I've got any BG3 fics in the works , and the answer is not at the moment. I've sort of moseyed out of the fandom for the time being, though if I do a replay at some point, I may pick up writing for it again in the future.

I'll leave you with this, which is a snippet from a fic I had started, a sequel to one of my others, which is just sort of sitting in limbo right now:

It’s meant to be a joke. It’s meant to be some flippant, off-the-cuff remark – one final parting shot, before they go their separate ways for the rest of the afternoon. Someone has to venture back across Rivington to sell the weaponry they’ve collected, and that someone happens to be Astarion. He isn't entirely certain why they've trusted him with it, of all people – plans to skim a handful of gold off the top, to teach them better for next time – but if it will save him from returning to the blasted circus, he'll suffer having to play the errand boy. He swans his way toward the edge of the camp in the morning, just after sunrise. And it’s such an easy thing, to flash Wyll a coquettish smile. It’s such an easy thing to bat his lashes and say, “Don’t cry, darling. I know it’s a tragedy, having to go without me, but you’ll survive somehow, I’m sure.” Shadowheart snorts a huff of maybe-laughter, from where she's packing up her tent. Karlach whistles, loud and raucous. And Wyll flashes him a dazzling, princely smile, damn the man, and he says, “My heart’s breaking, truly. However will I manage half a day without you?” Astarion’s lips part to reveal his teeth; the grin is fierce, half challenge and half delight. “You’ll just have to write me. I'll expect a page, at least, of sweet little nothings."

[transgamerism]

Uh oh, new fic just dropped

Ao3 link in reblogs

Title: what healthy bloodsuckers need

Rating: T

Relationship: Astarion/Dark Urge

Summary:

“As their lifeblood flows out of them, Étaín relaxes with a shuddering sigh. This is what they’ve been aching for, even better than rinsing their hands in Alfira’s offal, this is a violence that quells their urge. As Astarion drinks from them, their evil thoughts, usually so disturbing and threatening to consume them, are utterly silent. Weakness begins to take them, dizziness and spinning nausea from blood loss.

…Maybe this is why their urges never fully went away, no matter how many times they wet their blade in battle and, once, in their sleep. All of those deaths were simply placeholders for their own.”

A vampire feeds, and a Dark Urge is temporarily sated.

Full fic under cut

Étaín doesn’t sleep well. They feel that perhaps they don’t sleep at all, only wait out the night terrors until they hear movement from others in camp and emerge from their tent again. Often the long shadows of the inside of the tent play tricks, showing them claws and looming figures and the visage of Murder itself. So they don’t immediately panic when a fanged creature leers over them, mouth agape.

When Astarion notices their open eyes, he freezes, then throws himself back away from them like a skittish, skinny coyote angling for too-ambitious prey. “Shit,” he says, eloquently. Étaín sits up from their bedroll, dismissing thoughts of blood welling from around fangs and how easy it is, really, to apply enough pressure to rip a throat open with their bite.

“And here I thought I was the only one around here with teeth,” they remark. He blinks at them with wide, round eyes.

Astarion doesn’t take the bait for a round of good banter like he usually would. Étaín wonders how rattled he must be. “I wasn’t going to hurt you!” he blurts out. “I just needed… blood.”

“Those are two conflicting statements. There’s no harmless way to bloodlet,” Étaín points out. Astarion slumps, eyes darting for the flap of the tent.

Étaín sighs. “So, you’re a vampire. Why didn’t you say anything?” They also wonder, privately, why they didn’t notice. Étaín knows corpses, that this one happens to walk and talk shouldn’t have made a difference. It’s obvious here, now in the dark of the tent. Their night vision casts Astarion in shades of gray, accentuating the sickly paleness of his skin and flashing brightness of his eyes. And in the still air, they can smell death, old and damp, like an open grave or snake’s nest. Étaín notices his breathing, slightly shallow in surprise, and wonders if it’s habit, a strategy to blend in among prey, or simply to scent fresh blood in the air.

He stares at them first incredulously, then sardonically, as if speaking with someone very stupid. “I don’t enjoy the idea of a stake to the chest, personally. Vampires don’t swan about announcing themselves, darling, it’s poor form.”

“But they leave exsanguinated boars in the middle of forest paths?”

Astarion scowls. “I-“ he takes a deep breath, tries again, “I’m unaccustomed to hunting wildlife. In the city, it was different. I was luring a different kind of prey, and not even for myself.” Before Étaín can inquire more on this, he speeds ahead, “But this, the fighting and the walking and the tadpole nonsense, it takes more energy. I feel so weak, I can barely hunt. That boar didn’t satiate me, I didn’t have the strength to move it. But… stronger blood. That would help.”

The thoughts of leaking bloody wounds and teeth and consumption return to the forefront of Étaín’s mind. They lick their lips. Étaín has fed on flesh, brainmeat and that looter’s larynx, but to drink fresh blood? An altoget free her different prospect. Astarion would be drinking from Étaín, of course, but turn about is doubtlessly fair play. They wonder what vampire blood is like, would they simply be tasting their own blood back in their mouth, or does it change once it enters undead veins?

“Fine,” they breathe, trying not to sound excited.

“Wh-really?” Astarion balks, and Étaín can’t help but chuckle.

“Yes, really. Only as much as you need,” they warn, without much real heat.

He bows his head. “Of course,” he purrs, “Not one drop more.” The permission has turned him back into a predator, with the way he slinks over them, guiding them back onto the bedroll and framing their body with his own. Maybe he isn’t accustomed to hunting, but he seems to know just what to do with a willing sacrifice, because he doesn’t hesitate before latching onto their neck and sinking his teeth in.

His fangs are so razor sharp they barely feel it, at first. A sting comes, delayed, followed by cold rushing through their veins. It sweeps away any pain, and as he nurses their wound, they feel their shoulder, neck, and face growing slightly numb. Perhaps a venom in the fangs meant to paralyze prey? These thoughts occur to them, but flicker away just as quickly, overcome by what can only be described as utter bliss.

As their lifeblood flows out of them, Étaín relaxes with a shuddering sigh. This is what they’ve been aching for, even better than rinsing their hands in Alfira’s offal, this is a violence that quells their urge. As Astarion drinks from them, their evil thoughts, usually so disturbing and threatening to consume them, are utterly silent. Weakness begins to take them, dizziness and spinning nausea from blood loss.

Astarion has now dropped all pretense, his hand clawed in the back of their hair to hold them closer to his mouth. He’s ceased breathing, his satisfied sounds coming up as airless rattles, something like a dead cat’s purr. Despite his promise, Étaín knows they will have to be the one to stop him drinking them dry. The knowledge floats to them, and they ignore it, just as they ignore the dredges of panic that attempt to stir in the face of certain death. If death can bring them this peace of mind, they’ve no interest in fighting it. Maybe this is why their urges never fully went away, no matter how many times they wet their blade in battle and, once, in their sleep. All of those deaths were simply placeholders for their own.

Étaín manages a breathless giggle at the prospect, the foolish obviousness of it, and their vision narrows to pinpricks.

Astarion is embarrassingly uncertain as to how long he was nursing on a corpse before he noticed. Étaín went rather still, he supposes, but he’s intimately aware of the way Cazador’s victims would go limp under his teeth, even before death. And, admittedly, he was unconcerned, as he was solely focused on the blood in his mouth. If all mortal blood is like what is currently singing in Astarion’s veins, he can barely blame Cazador for hoarding it so jealously. He feels nearly alive, or perhaps even better than that. He is alight, with movement and awareness, he feels swift and strong, even with the tadpole suppressing some of his greater undead talents. His panic at the corpse before him does not quell his vigor. When his gaze lands on Étaín, eyes open and unseeing, mouth cast in a shadow of a smile, he struggles to see them as little more than prey successfully slaughtered.

That thought spills down his spine like cold water, sobering him. It brings Cazador back to mind, his rules. Perhaps this is why he deemed spawn unworthy of blood from thinking creatures. He did promise that he’d only take what he needed, and now there’s a corpse on the ground in front of him, threatening to rip away the scraps of safety he’s managed to gather around himself. Doubtlessly his companions will turn on him now, and all due to a lack of self control. Even the damned dog they found leaves off a bone when ordered. Maybe this is what Cazador meant. Maybe even though he was able to defy the orders chiseled into his soul, he still failed.

Astarion needs space and air, away from the smell of blood. He needs to think. He hastily wipes his chin with the back of his hand, resists licking the streak of blood from his skin, and flees the tent. He almost immediately collides with Withers.

Astarion freezes in place, regarding the mummy cautiously. Withers gazes back at him, expression grim and unmoving as always. His words rasp from his dead chest solemnly. “In certain times, to maintain Balance, it is within my power to cleave soul back to body.” The words cut through the cool evening air, and Astarion nearly shushes him for worry of waking the others. “I require only one thing from thee.”

“What might that be?” Astarion asks warily.

“Equitable exchange,” Withers says gravely.

The words he spoke to Étaín upon first emerging from his sarcophagus come to Astarion’s mind. What is the worth of a single mortal life? “One moment,” Astarion says, before ducking back into Étaín’s tent. He rummages among their items, shamelessly. What could possibly be an equitable exchange for a resurrection in the dead of night?

He spies a small pouch, tied closed with a leather strip, and hastily pulls it open, pouring the contents onto the tent floor. A collection of carefully cleaned finger bones clack together as they fall out of the pouch. Astarion releases a long suffering sigh, scooping them up and putting them back, before snatching up a second pouch. This one clinks with the familiar sound of coin. He sorts through the contents and pokes his head back out of the tent flaps. “Will two-hundred gold pieces suffice?”

Withers nods once in assent, holding out his gnarled hand. Astarion places the pouch in his waiting palm, where it promptly vanishes into a puff of smoke. “Well counted,” Withers says, and then stands there gazing at Astarion until he comes the rest of the way out of the tent. Withers enters it and the flaps fall closed behind him. A pale white glow shines through the fabric, carrying with it an aura of utter, cold certainty. Whatever this is feels nothing like the healing magic he’s experienced before, no shimmer of life or vitality. It yawns open in Astarion’s chest, even on the periphery. Any impulse to take a peek at what is going on behind that curtain is tamped out. After a moment, there’s a sense like a book snapping firmly shut, and Withers emerges.

“It is done,” he says, and then shuffles off into the dark. Astarion pokes his head back into Étaín’s tent and listens intently. Their heartbeat is faint, but steady, as is their breathing. They’re curled in the fetal position on their bedroll where he left them, facing away from the tent opening. The marks his fangs made are starkly visible on their pink skin. He carefully picks out the shard of guilt that gets caught in the calluses around his heart, and secures the tent flap closed behind him as he retreats back to his own bedroll.

Étaín rises later than the rest of the camp, which is unusual. They’re accustomed to giving up on restful sleep well before dawn, stepping out of their tent to watch the stars wheel overhead and keep the low fire going until morning when Gale will need it for breakfast. Breakfast has finished cooking by the time they emerge from their tent, nursing a splitting headache and the remnants of the best and most dreamless sleep in their stunted memory.

Astarion is beside his tent, scowling over the sole of his boot, which has come loose, gaping open at the toes. When he sees Étaín, however, he slowly rises to his feet, hands half raised in supplication. Karlach notices them next, sitting by the campfire eating her share of breakfast sausage. “Hey, soldier! ‘Bout time you had a bit of a lie-in.” Étaín ignores her, approaching Astarion steadily.

They were dead. They recall it with the same numbing effect of Astarion’s teeth in their veins: the dark blood-blackened sky, the pyroclastic ash choking the air. The mere moments they spent outside of their body were as eons, until finally a bony hand grasped their shoulder. When they turned, they were in their bedroll once more, clutching their knees to their chest as sooty tears dried on their cheeks. Tears of disappointment, that their death wasn’t the resolution they sought, that the joy of dying was snuffed out by the horror waiting for them in the afterlife.

It wells up in Étaín again now, looking at Astarion’s hesitant face. Crushing despair, that what they give others is not something they can take for themself, and frustration at Astarion’s lack of self control pushing them over the edge. Would that he had been able to keep them teetering over that cliff, neither alive nor dead, a peaceful in between. They want to tear into him, drinking their borrowed blood into their own belly, taking back the gift they gave him that can never be returned in kind.

There are many that may argue, but Étaín can occasionally display a self-control of solid steel. Instead of sucking his veins dry, Étaín punches Astarion in the face.

They suspect it’s more the surprise than force of the blow that allows them to send Astarion sprawling back onto his ass in the dirt. He squawks indignantly, touching his face where they struck him, but wisely stays down when the others come rushing over to investigate. Étaín remains still, hands lax at their sides, biting back to urge to keep going until all of them there are bloody pulp left for the carrion birds.

Between the confrontation and the fresh bite marks on Étaín’s neck, crusted with dried blood, it doesn’t take long for the rest of the camp to realize what transpired. Shouting starts, Wyll’s freshly sharpened rapier at Astarion’s chest, Gale discussing with Lae’zel the implications of a Mindflayer tadpole imbuing a vampire with the power to walk in the sun, Shadowheart snapping that the tadpole is hardly the point right now. Étaín’s headache flares worse than ever. Karlach hovers near them nervously, reaching out to stop them when they approach Astarion again before snatching her hand back before she can burn them.

Étaín knocks Wyll’s rapier out of the way with the back of their hand and stands over Astarion, frowning down at him. His expression is guardedly neutral. Their fist left a red spot on his cheekbone. They sigh, and reach out a hand. The murderous urge wanes, at least a bit, enough that he’s in no danger of their claws. He eyes them warily, before taking the offered hand and letting them pull him to his feet, edging slightly behind them to avoid the pointy end of Wyll’s disapproval.

Wyll frowns deeply, but keeps his rapier poised at his side, rather than aiming it at anyone in particular. “This tadpole must have scrambled my brain more than I thought, for me to miss a vampire in my own camp.”

Astarion raises a finger. “Just a spawn, mind, so if you kill me, it won’t count.”

“If anyone is going to kill you, it’ll be me. And I’ve decided against it, for the moment,” Étaín says icily. The denial of a cold death at their hands doesn’t sit comfortably, and they grit their teeth before continuing, “I let him bite me, and he took a bit too much, left me with a headache. That’s all.” They produce a calm, reassuring smile, lips closed over their own teeth to keep anyone from noticing how much they ache to rip and tear.

“You let a vampire bite you?” Shadowheart scoffs.

Étaín angles their head down, eyelids fluttering in their best approximation of sheepishness. “Curiosity killed the cat?” they offer.

Lae’zel clicks her tongue. “If you were even half as foolish before the tadpole, it’s a wonder you’re still alive. I cannot begrudge any hungry animal that chances upon willing prey, but know this Astarion,” she rests her fierce gaze upon the vampire spawn, who blinks at her, “If I ever wake in the night to find your teeth at my throat, my blade will taste your blood before you ever taste mine.”

“It’s a foolish man who brandishes a sword at an enemy he might have otherwise clasped hands with as a friend,” Wyll says, and Étaín wonders if he has a list of heroic lines written down, or if they simply come to him in the moment. Either way, he tucks his rapier back into the scabbard belted to his hip.

“We shan’t be putting it to a vote, then?” Gale asks, appraising Astarion with a thoughtful expression. Astarion sneers back, and Gale shrugs a shoulder. “I’m not suggesting we throw you to the wolves, but when a danger is present in the camp, is it not prudent for the whole camp to come to an agreement on how to proceed?”

“What danger? Astarion declared his intention ahead of time, and consent was exchanged between informed adults,” Étaín says reasonably, “We merely need to work on his table manners. If he asks you for a bite, you’re welcome to say no.” The half truths trickle from between their lips, as easy as breathing. Perhaps they lied the same way, the evening they lured Alfira from camp and gouged out her eyes with their thumb nails.

Gale wrinkles his nose. “I’m sure you wouldn’t enjoy supping upon my blood, Astarion. I taste terrible.”

Astarion finally seems to pick up the thread of Étaín’s amicable deception. He smiles, cheekily showing his teeth. “Please. I’ve lasted this long without feasting upon the unwary, under the cover of night. No reason to suspect I’ll start now. It was just a little pick-me-up; squirrels and rabbits are all well and good for a quick snack, but slaughtering goblins is thirsty work.”

Shifty, grudging agreement passes along the rest of the group, and after a moment, breakfast resumes. Astarion slinks away to the camp chest, muttering about leather cords to mend his boot. Shadowheart crosses her arms, regarding Étaín sternly. “I can relieve you of your headache, but don’t let this become a habit. Repeated blood loss has more long term consequences than the usual heavy petting.”

“Depends on your version of ‘usual’,” Étaín replies with a smile, and Shadowheart rolls her eyes with a disgusted sigh, but the corner of her mouth twitches.

The morning continues without much incident, Shadowheart healing Étaín’s bite marks and blood loss easily. Lae’zel and Wyll are bent over an old map given by a trader in the Druids’ Grove, discussing the best path for a final approach to the goblin camp. Astarion has both boots back on his feet when Étaín approaches, and he frowns at them warily, one foot shifting back in preparation to counter another attack. They raise their hands in peace. The sickness from blood loss has subsided, replaced by that ever present headache. It’s worse today, triggered by their brush with death.

“Looking for an apology?” Astarion asks, a touch testily. Guilt is an ill fitting suit for Astarion, one he’s long since discarded, and any reminder of it is met with irritation and discomfort. Yet, they had been strangely small, curled on their side in death, all the richness gone from their pink skin. A pressed flower, dry and frail. It’s an image difficult to reconcile with the deadly vibrance of them walking the earth, rattling the carved rib bones of goblins in an eerie rhythm on the battlefield, or playing their violin at the campfire after a day of bleeding.

Étaín crosses their arms, appraising him. Their blood compliments him, his usually deathly pale skin barely blushing with vigor, lips pinkened and the red of his eyes simmered to a richer, almost brown hue. He still doesn’t look like a normal elf, but he’s closer.

“I just thought we ought to discuss how you’ll feed from now on,” Étaín replies.

Astarion brightens. “Looking for another nibble?” He’s teasing, but can’t quite smother the hopeful undercurrent of his voice.

Étaín sighs, considering. Aside from the obvious failure of their first flirtation with vampiric thirst, it wasn’t altogether unpleasant. If they can trust him to actually control his appetite, not tempting them with the caress of death, they might be persuaded to let him try again. “Perhaps later. In the meantime?”

They’ve surprised Astarion for the second time, it’s evident in the way his smile falls from his face and his eyebrows lift. It’s an expression more pleasant on his features than his usual sly smile, his eyes become rounder, mouth softening. It’s gone in a flash, and he says, “No innocents, you have my word.” Étaín wonders what he must think of them, that the perceived innocence of the blood on his tongue would matter. They consider this, picturing the pitiful unfortunates at the Emerald Grove, imagining them sucked dry, Astarion sat upon a pile of corpses, having gorged himself past the point of satiation. What feeling does it stir? Disgust? Horror, at the loss of innocent life?

Curiosity. How would he go about it, if given the chance? He knows his way around his blades, and the poisons they brew for him, and is a remarkable shot, but could Astarion truly defeat Druids in their own grove, as well as the remnants of Hellriders among the refugees? Assuming he could, would he spare the children? Étaín wonders if the paltry amount of blood they have in their bodies is worth the effort, or if the loss of such gentle, innocent life makes it all the sweeter. Étaín’s thoughts travel to Alfira, as they often do. Of that beautiful, bloody night they shared. Such a sweet girl, a kind girl. They reach for the panic they felt in the aftermath of her slaughter, the horror at their vile dreams becoming reality, but it makes their headache worse. Whatever had inspired those tears in them is long gone, leaving them feeling rather dispassionate about where Astarion hunts for his dinner.

“It’ll be interesting to watch you fight,” Étaín says, “with all your weapons. I foresee enough fighting in the coming days to keep you well-fed.”

Wyll calls their name from across camp, still standing over the map with Lae’zel, who is frowning at him. Étaín turns away from Astarion, and takes a single step before he says, “Wait.” They pause, looking over their shoulder at him. He seems conflicted. “Earlier. Why didn’t you tell them what truly happened?” Étaín arches an eyebrow, and he hisses in frustration. Lowering his voice, he adds, “That I killed you.”

Étaín turns again, stepping closer to him, waving at Wyll to signal they’ll be there in a moment. This close, they can see the bite scars on his own neck, digging into the muscle rather than the dark vein of his carotid artery. A cruelty.

“I didn’t tell them for the same reason I didn’t stop you in the first place,” Étaín says softly. “Some hungers are too strong to deny.” Whether Astarion understands that Étaín is referring to more than just his hunger for blood, they don’t stop to ask. While he’s still mulling over their words, they walk away from him briskly, approaching Lae’zel and Wyll and the map between them, turning their thoughts to the day ahead. They carefully tuck away the thoughts of Astarion’s fangs in their neck, and theirs in his, a monster eating itself until there’s nothing left. Those types of wonderings are for the night hours, and for now, they have other concerns.

[whimsicallyenchantedrose]

Season 3 Rewatch Drabbles: 3x7 Dark Hollow--part 2

Summary:  A series of 100-500 word drabbles to accompany my    rewatch of season 3 of Once Upon a Time.  There will be a drabble–either a deleted scene, a “fix it” fic or a character musing for each episode of the season.  Focus will be on Emma, Henry, the Charmings and Killian–with an emphasis on Captain Swan’s epic love story.

Word Count: 827

Other Chapters: (1) (2) (3) (4) (5) (6) (7) (9) (10) (11) (12) (13) (14) (15) (16) (17) (18) (19) (20) (21) (22) (23) (24) (25) (26) (27) (28)

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Note: I got an ao3 comment from Polkie2 on Chapter 7 of this fic that was as follows: “Oh, I would love a part 2 where he realized whose name she called when the shadows had him and Neal pushed up against the trees. Also realizing how panicked her voice was.”  After making the….possibly unwise…choice to share the comment on Discord, several of the enablers there demanded–not asked, literally demanded–that I agree to this request.  So here you go!  Your wish (or demand, as the case may be) is my command.

Killian tossed and turned a few hours later.  How he despised this bloody island at night!  Oh, to be sure, he despised it during the day as well, but the nights held a special kind of torture.

The nights were when the cries of the Lost Ones began.  Killian had never considered himself to be overly sentimental (although those who knew him tended to smirk whenever he mentioned that fact, damn them), and ordinarily, while he wouldn’t have enjoyed the crying of homesick children, anywhere but on Neverland, the sound would have been merely unpleasant.  Here…well, here, it seemed to reach right into his chest, to the deepest part of his being where he held close his worst memories of loss and abandonment.

He had to think of something else. Anything else.

And so he’d glanced around the clearing at their motley group lying here or there, wrapped in blankets.  The prince and princess lay sleeping peacefully, arms around each other.  Neal slept several paces away, his back turned to the group.  He’d clearly wished to join Swan under her blanket, much as the Charmings lay, but she’d gently but firmly insisted she needed her space.  A small smile graced Killian’s lips at the memory.

A smile, which quickly turned to a scowl as he realized the pettiness of the sentiment.  Hadn’t he just vowed to himself to dispense with this jealous nonsense?

Swan, herself, slept fitfully, tossing and turning as he had done, but he was pleased to see she at least slept.  She’d need the rest to prepare for their day ahead. The day when they executed their plan to storm Pan’s camp and rescue the lad.

What a day it had been!  Killian thought back over the events of the day, trying desperately not to get swept up in his own self-loathing over what Swan referred to as “the lighter incident”.  Aye, he’d acted like a child, but as she’d reminded him, what was important now was saving her son, and wallowing in self-hatred would do nothing to further that aim.

His mind flitted back to their time in Dark Hollow, to the moments immediately following the childish debacle.  The next few moments were a bit hazy, his memory capturing sensations more than crisp details.  The sudden cold as the shadows swooped in.  The icy, incorporeal fingers grabbing him, picking him up as though he were no heavier than one of the dead leaves that swirled around his feet.  The way his breath was knocked from him temporarily as his back slammed against the tree.  The red-hot agony as his tormenter began ripping his shadow from his body.  The agonized cry from Bae across the clearing as the same fate met him.

He’d shouted at Emma to leave, to save herself, just as he’d heard her own panicked scream.

Killian shuddered, hating the desperation in her voice.

But suddenly he realized…she hadn’t merely screamed.  She’d shouted a name.  His name.  She’d turned toward him as he was taken, cutlass out, fear on her face.  It wasn’t fear for herself; it was fear for him.

She’d channeled that emotion, used it to fuel her magic, used it to trap the shadow and save them all.  She was bloody magnificent.

A sudden warmth that had nothing to do with the oppressive humidity of the jungle washed over him.  In moments of crisis, in moments of great emotion, one tended to let their true feelings show, no matter how strong and fortified their walls, and it was clear she was not indifferent to him.  

Far from it.  That one, panicked shout of his name had spoken more to his place in her heart than a soliloquy could have.

She may not love him yet; he still couldn’t delude himself on that point, but she did care for him.  He was important to her, and it made all the difference in the world.

Killian settled himself in, wrapping his duster around him and closing his eyes as the warmth of that reality settled around him.

When I win your heart, Emma, and I will win it, it won’t be because of any trickery.  It’ll be because you want me.  

As the cries around him slowly melted away, he slipped into beautiful dreams of returning triumphant to Storybrooke, a successfully rescued Henry in tow, and of, as he’d promised her, the fun that was then to begin.

NEXT CHAPTER->

[snowbellewells]

Captain Swan Collab Words 23 fic: "Freed to Love"

This event was such a fun idea, and the three of us - @statustemporary @jrob64 and @snowbellewells - had a lot of fun working together and seeing our initial idea come to life. We decided we really wanted some whump and hurt/comfort taking place, and eventually we settled on a Revolutionary War time period AU for our setting. We also used a suggested quote about the persistence of hope, and the idea of being touch starved, both of which played into our idea well.

Thanks so much to the @CSCW23 @Captain Swan Collab Words 23 for the idea to create a story as a group. It really was a new and exciting challenge that made for a new CS adventure.

And a very special thanks to @hookedmom for all the time and care she took as our beta reader for this fic!!

Summary: Though the colonists' fight for freedom from the British brought Killian Jones and Emma Swan together, the dangers of war have also pulled them apart. Can Emma find her beloved spy again, or will she be too late? What other trials and hurdles will they have to cross before they are finally free to live and love as they have dreamed?

Reposting with additional edits and correct AO3 and ff.net links.

Can be read HERE on AO3 or HERE on ff.net, if that is your preference.

"Freed to Love"

by: @statustemporary @jrob64 & @snowbellewells

Early morning dew soaks through Emma’s boots to her stockings. The wetness chafes at the skin of her feet and she holds back a wince with every step she takes. Her eyes remain downcast in the role of a perfectly submissive British nurse ready to abide by the orders of officers and soldiers alike. Her horse arrived late yesterday afternoon to the stern face of Colonel Sitwell, a high-ranking officer of the British military who is well aware that escorting a new nurse to camp is far below his station.

Last night’s rain is making the trip uphill more strenuous than anticipated. Sitwell’s boots kick mud back at her, staining the bottom of her gown, and a part of her wonders if he does it purposely.

Philadelphia.

She started in Fort Ticonderoga in late July, aiding the troops who overtook the abandoned rebel colonists’ camp. The end of August found her in Bennington, caring for the few wounded left behind after their defeat at Rebel hands. September brought her to Brandywine Creek, before her new orders informed her to follow the river to Philadelphia.

She has traveled so far just to end a few days up the river from David and Mary Margaret.

Emma’s heart pounds as they encroach on the troops standing guard outside the British camp. How many more can she bear to approach before she’s unable to handle the heartache?

All of them , she thinks immediately. She’d travel up and down the colonies if she has to, until she finds him. Her hands would service each wound on every British soldier if it brought him back to her. She’d swallow back the bile while they brag about killing her friends, she’d clench her fists as they discussed future strategies while on their sick beds.

She is trained for this. Mary Margaret showed her how to survive, while David taught her how to blend in. And Killian…

Her heart lurches when the familiar accents of British soldiers reach her ears. Emma barely pays any mind to what they’re saying. Instead, she embraces the only reminder she has of Killian, of the way he spent hours teaching her his accent to help her prepare for her role.

Despite the harsh, uncaring intonation, the familiar words that swirl in the air around her easily send Emma’s mind back to a happier early morning, months ago now, but emblazoned on her memory with the warmth and clarity of something from mere moments ago.  

Killian had come to the house to report his findings from a recent scouting mission, and when he finished, she had pulled him into the kitchen to speak privately, blushing hotly as she did so, the heat from the pot-bellied stove keeping the room toasty, though breakfast preparations were over.

Up to that point, they had spoken a few times, and Killian had also been friendly, polite, even playfully attentive with her, but Emma had not gotten the occasion to speak with him as much as she would have wished. Mary Margaret had encouraged her, with her ever-present optimism and her hope to see Emma as happily in love as she was herself; to take this very genuine opportunity to seek him out at once and gain the knowledge she sought.

Seated facing her on the rough hewn wooden bench at the Nolan’s kitchen table, Killian had grinned impishly as she settled beside him and arranged her skirts, clearly knowing what she was about, even though the tops of his ears were a heated pink to match her blushing cheeks. When she dared to look up and make full, uninterrupted eye contact with him, Emma had nearly toppled off her seat onto the floor at the electric impact of his gaze connecting with hers.

She was only saved from making a fool of herself prattling away nervously by Killian speaking. The gently cultured cadence of his words reminded her of her purpose, as he dipped his chin to look up at her rakishly through his dark lashes. 

And so it had begun between them that simply. She asked Killian for instruction in British pronunciation, accent, phrases, anything which might help her to better blend in and avoid detection as a patriot spy amongst the Redcoats. Granted, few paid much heed to what the nurses - or women in general - had to say; for once, her femininity was an advantage in the quest for near-invisibility. Still, she wanted to be ready. If the need to speak arose while she was posted in some hospital or camp, Emma was determined to sound as English as any fine lady in London.

Not only was it all too easy to pull up the hazy-warm and peach-sunrise-gilded memories and lose herself within their comfort, but as time and distance stretched between them and Emma searched fruitlessly once they learned of Killian’s capture, it had been one of the rare bits of joy left her for a momentary escape. She could envision his face so clearly within an instant of closing her eyes. The curious tilt of his head as he waited for her to speak whatever term he had just taught her. The way the tip of his tongue poked tantalizingly from between his parted lips to tease her mind addled with flustered desire. The way his lips moved deliberately, patiently, repeating whatever sound or inflection she attempted to imitate, until they were both satisfied with her repetition - usually left Emma nearly in his thrall before they were finished.

One particular morning as the seconds stretched and melted together between them like butter and honey slathered on a hot, homemade biscuit, making her want to soak up every delicious second she could, she paused hesitantly before bravely clutching his hand in shaking fingers, “And what would you say…”  she asked, clinging as tightly as possible to him while they both were still together and safe. “What would you say,” she tried again after swallowing hard and gathering her courage, “if you were captured and threatened with death?”

Emma had held her breath, waiting anxiously for his response, all the while knowing it would not be one to put her at ease, nor had she truly asked for the sake of gaining some stoic, proper British response for her own use. She knew Killian would never yield to questioning or torture, would not plead for his life or make any sort of fearful compromise, much as she might wish him to, if it meant his life. Emma wasn’t sure what she was hoping to hear, but somehow she needed his answer all the same.

“I’d tell them they might bloody well try to end me,” he had replied stoutly, the blue of his fathomless eyes almost drowning her as he held her gaze determinedly. “But I’m a survivor, Lass, and I will find a way to return to you. You need never doubt that.”

His words had left her breathless then, and now Emma forced herself to release the breath she held in her aching chest as she remembered that promise.

Opening her eyes again brings her back into the muddy, chaotic, and haphazardly organized camp around her, which seems all the more removed from the haven she had recreated in her mind’s eye, because of the loneliness that immediately accosts her and the complete absence of Kilian. Though the speech around her had brought those better days to mind at first hearing, now they seem to highlight just how alone she is, since none of the accented voices belong to him… 

“Miss Swan,” Sitwell growls. Emma shoots her gaze up to meet his and she purposely widens her eyes to bear the image of apologetic innocence. The move infuriates the officer further. His white hair is slicked back with sweat across his broad forehead, the wrinkles there crumpling together as he glares down at her. The lines around his mouth become more pronounced as his face fashions into a sneer and he juts his large nose up at her. “Has cannon fire damaged your hearing or are you fit to perform your duties to the Crown and His soldiers?”

“My apologies, Colonel Sitwell,” Emma says, effortlessly picking up the accent Killian worked so hard to teach her. “It won’t happen again, Sir.” She bows her head to him and clasps her hands together in front of her. Her small bag bounces against her hip and she thinks not of the weapons that have been stored there for months, swaddled between clothes and hidden in pockets.

Sitwell scoffs and strides into camp with the silent expectation that she is to follow. Hurrying behind him, she catalogs all possible routes of escape and makes a note to pay attention to guard rotation over the next couple of days.

The European theater of war plays out drastically different than it does in the colonies, or so David has said. Rules of engagement in Europe allow a modicum of respect for the treatment of prisoners of war, varying with rank. To escape while a prisoner is considered desertion and dishonorable. Except, they’re not in Europe, and British troops refuse to recognize Colonists as an independent entity, tossing all procedure out the window.

Will Scarlett’s return just a week after Killian was taken occupies the free moments in her mind. 

Malnourished, with a number of infected wounds and diseases bringing him knocking on death’s door, Will, a fellow rebel from their town, explained to the women that the British didn’t have the care or the resources to deal with their large numbers of prisoners. He’d been kept in a warehouse packed together with other prisoners, like a school of fish with vermin nibbling at their toes. Feces became their pillows and the dead bodies of their comrades their blankets.

Her friend’s words work as nightmare fuel when she lays her head down to sleep. Visions dance behind her closed lids of the worst possible scenarios.

Will was just an everyday soldier, but Killian – he’d barely been a man when he followed his brother into the Royal Navy at the end of the Seven Years War in the colonies. After his brother’s death due to their King’s nefarious orders, he swore off his homeland and pledged his allegiance to the colonies. She watched as he moved up in rank and provided crucial details and secrets of the British.

If what Will saw is what the British did with a regular soldier, what would they do with a traitor of great importance?

Emma's hope for the future outcome of their struggle against the British and for Killian's safe return to her had flickered like a candle struggling in the wind at the picture Will painted. For several frightening moments when he first told them of his experience, she had feared it extinguishing altogether. Her ability to believe had already been fragile; the odds were against them, after all. But as she cleaned and bandaged her friend's wounds, and allowed him to clutch her trembling hand in his, his bloodied knuckles made the bile rise in her throat once more at the idea that Killian could be bleeding out somewhere and she would never know. She had held on just as tightly, trying to impart to him what she needed for herself. She simply couldn't give up. Killian was a survivor; he would never stop fighting, and neither would she.

Emma attempts to swallow around the lump in her throat as she surveys the camp. The area’s fortification means a quick escape is too risky and more planning will be needed if Killian is here.

If he’s still alive , a dark corner of her mind taunts.

At the start of her search for him, Emma would have fought back tears. The topic proved too sensitive to truly dive into, and she felt the walls Killian worked hard to break down shoot right back up. Now she bats the whispers away without thought.

He is alive. She just knows. And she will find him.

Sitwell brings their brief and stilted tour to an end outside of the hospital tent. He pauses and debates with himself before eying her up and down. With a sigh, he turns away from the hospital tent and points to the other side of camp where a small tent is pitched. The material of it is weathered, with mismatched linens patched over holes. The tent sags and barely looks able to stand up, let alone handle the weight of the cloth.

“Understand this, Miss Swan,” he starts, eyes darting between her and the tent. “No matter what you hear – crying, groaning, screaming – whatever you hear, do not enter that tent. Is that understood?”

Her eyebrows pinch together in confusion and her heart skips a beat. In all of her stays at different British camps, she’s never received such an instruction.

Could it…

She briefly forgets the persona she’s created of Nurse Anna Swan and lets Emma Nolan take over for a moment. “What’s – ”

Sitwell doesn’t let her say anything more.

“Do not enter that tent,” he snarls. “Refrain from disobeying my orders, Miss Swan. Otherwise you may join the traitor on the execution block tomorrow.”

The officer spins on his heel and strides away, agitation dripping from him with every stomp of his boot. Yet she pays him no mind as she gazes at the collapsing tent across the way.

Traitor , her mind replays.

Killian , her heart hopes.

Gulping down a large breath, Emma eyes the soldiers of the camp for a moment to ensure no one caught her stare, before she dashes into the surgical tent. Her mind races and her fingers are sloppy, fumbling one too many bandages.

She found him.

*********

Emma is busy all day nursing the sick and wounded, but keeps an ear out for any mention of the traitor being held for execution. She’s torn between praying it isn’t and hoping it truly is Killian. 

As the sun sets and the day transitions into early evening, she becomes more on edge, anxious to see inside the prisoner’s tent. When she is finally finished for the day, she collapses onto a wooden bench outside the hospital tent. 

One of her fellow nurses - Belle, if Emma’s memory serves her correctly - pauses in front of her, gesturing toward a small building nearby. “They’ve a meal prepared for us inside, Anna,” she says. 

Emma hesitates. Should she take the time to eat when Killian could be in that wretched tent, tied up and living out his final hours? Grudgingly, she knows she has to keep up her strength in order to help her beloved escape. 

Rising from the bench and forcing a smile onto her face, she thanks Belle and falls into step with her. They enter the rustic building and find seats at a large, wooden table, where bowls of thin vegetable stew, a few strips of salted meat, and chunks of dark bread are set in front of them. The food’s aroma reminds Emma’s stomach that it hasn’t been filled since breakfast that morning, right after she entered the camp and signed on as a nurse. 

Knowing they will need food for the journey back home, she surreptitiously slips the jerky and half of the bread into the secret deep pockets of her skirt, cleverly designed by Mary Margaret, where they join the boiled eggs she saved from breakfast.

She is just dipping her last bit of bread into the broth at the bottom of her bowl, when the gruff voice coming from a junior officer makes her ears perk up. 

“Well, someone has to take him his tray, and it shan’t be me. I can barely tolerate the thought of a traitor in our midst, let alone feed the bastard!” 

Hurriedly stuffing the bite of bread into her mouth, Emma rises from her seat and approaches the man, her brain scrambling to formulate what to say. “Excuse me, sir,” she says, stepping into the man’s line of sight. “Is there someone who needs tending?”

The officer turns to her, appraising her with his eyes. “Who are you?” he snaps. 

“Anna Swan, sir. I’ve been working as a nurse.” She doesn’t add that she’s been there for less than a day. 

“Are you finished with your work for the day, Miss Swan?” 

“Yes, sir. I was just having my evening meal when I happened to overhear you say that someone needed a tray of food delivered to him.” She hopes he won’t detect the nervous quaver in her voice. “I would be willing to do that, sir.” 

“The man of whom I was speaking is a prisoner - a traitor and a threat to our beloved king and country,” he spits. “Why would you want to aid someone of such ill repute? Someone who is scheduled to be executed on the ‘morrow, I might add, as soon as our commanding officer arrives.”

Emma chooses her words carefully. “I am a nurse, sir, and as such, I have sworn to give aid to anyone in need, regardless of their allegiance.”

Time seems to pass at a snail’s pace as he considers her offer. She knows she is probably out of line for offering and could be facing punishment herself, but she simply cannot forgo the possibility of seeing Killian.

At last the soldier snaps his fingers and shouts over his shoulder, “Bring the food for the prisoner!” 

Emma prays her trembling legs continue to hold her upright. Once the tray, containing nothing but a small piece of bread, cup of watery broth, and a strip of jerky, is placed in her hands, the junior officer escorts her out the door. They trudge through the camp without speaking, until they come within sight of the ragged tent, guarded by two soldiers. 

“The prisoner is in there. Tell the guards Sergeant Gold gave you permission to enter the tent. The traitor is restrained and will pose no physical threat to you.” 

“Excuse me, sir, but if he is tied down, how is he able to feed himself?” 

“I was only instructed to supply him with food. Whether or not he is able to eat it is none of my concern.” After barking out those words, the officer turns on his heel and stomps away. 

Emma squares her shoulders and takes a deep breath, before trekking across the clearing to the tent. The guards drop the butts of their sidearms to the ground, crossing them in front of the opening to the tent as they shout in unison, “Halt!” 

“S-Sergeant Gold sent me to d-deliver this food to the prisoner,” Emma stutters. 

The two men eye each other, then one gives a slight nod and they return their muskets to their shoulders. “You may enter,” she is told. 

Emma ducks her head and pushes through the canvas opening. Once inside, she drops to her knees, her eyes trying to adjust to the dark interior. When they do, she wishes they hadn’t, because what she sees turns her stomach and breaks her heart. 

The man is sitting on the ground against the support pole in the middle of the tent, his legs extended in front of him with thick rope knotted around his bare ankles. His arms are behind him, and she assumes they are tied as well. He is stripped except for his tattered breeches and she can see bloody stripes across his emaciated body. His head hangs down, dark, matted hair obscuring his face, but Emma knows this man is her beloved Killian. 

Quickly, she sets the tray of food off to the side and crawls to kneel beside him. She notices crusts of bread littering the circumference around him and rage burns through her as she realizes that, even though food has been delivered to him, he has been unable to eat much, if any, of it. 

She nearly gags as the stench coming from his unwashed body fills her nostrils. Apparently, he hasn’t been taken outside to relieve himself and reeks of the smell of urine. “Oh, Killian!” she gasps. “What have they done to you?” 

His head jerks up. “Emma?” he croaks weakly. “Is…is that you, Love?” 

Her fingers brush his hair away from his face, a sob catching in her throat. His left eye is swollen completely shut, his lip is split open, and dried blood obscures most of his handsome face. 

“Yes, my love, it’s me,” she whispers. “I’ve come to get you out of here.” 

“You…shouldn’t…be here. I…I told you…not to come after me.” 

“I never listen,” she tries to joke. 

“You’re…impossible,” he sighs. 

“And you love me for it.” 

A hint of a smile quirks one corner of his mouth. “Aye, that I do.” 

“How long has it been since you have eaten?” she asks, turning to slide the tray containing the paltry meal closer. 

He grimaces. “I…I don’t know.” 

Emma holds the cup of broth to his cracked lips, tipping it until it dribbles into his mouth. His eyes close as he swallows, a moan escaping him as if he was enjoying a fine steak dinner. She pulls the cup away when half of the liquid is gone, tears pooling in her eyes as she watches him chase after it. 

Setting it aside, she picks up the chunk of bread and tears off a small piece. As she feeds it to him, she whispers, “We have to figure out how to get you out of here.” 

He finishes chewing and swallows. “Don’t risk your life for me, Love.” 

“Without you, I don’t have a life, Killian.” 

She offers him another bit of bread, but he shakes his head. “I wish…I could hold you right now.” 

Moving carefully so she won’t cause him any more unnecessary pain, she wraps her arms around his neck, scratching her fingers through his long, unkempt hair. His body shakes with a sob. “I…I’ve dreamed of having you in my arms, Emma. I have been starved for your touch.”  

She is loath to release him, just as desperate to feel his body against hers, so she murmurs into his ear, “I feared you were dead, and am relieved I have found you, but I heard them say that they…they plan to e-execute you tomorrow.” 

“Aye, so I have been told,” he confirms with a sigh. “I am surprised they have not done it already.” 

“They are waiting for the commanding officer to arrive so he can give the order. I am hoping the rain last night will delay him, but we cannot count on that. We have to get you out tonight.” 

Her heart aches as he lays his head on her shoulder, mumbling, “I do not think there is any hope of that happening, Love.” 

“If Mary Margaret has taught me anything, it is that there is always hope,” she says firmly. 

They are both startled and jerk apart when one of the guards shouts, “How long does it take to deliver a tray of food, Miss?” 

“I have to go,” Emma whispers, reluctantly pulling away from Killian, “but I will be back. Do not doubt that. I love you, Killian.” 

“I love you, too, Emma. Please be careful.” 

She nods absently while her eyes sweep around the perimeter of the tent, cataloging  weaknesses in the canvas. Before leaving, she feeds him the rest of the bread and broth, pockets the jerky, then kisses him tenderly, careful of his split lip. 

Just before exiting through the flap, she turns and gives him what she intends to be a hopeful smile. She is encouraged when he attempts to return it.  

The brisk night air of the impending autumn season greets Emma as she exits the tent. Bumps rise on her skin and a shudder runs down her spine during her short walk to the nurses’ tent. Lifting the flap, she finds their sleeping quarters still empty, Belle’s voice wafting through the air from the direction of the campfire. She’s only met the other nurses at their camp in passing at the change of their shifts, but worry creeps up her spine that one of them might walk in.

Her small bag sits on the ground at the foot of her bed, the gray and brown staining a far cry from its original white. A quiet thump fills the tent when she tosses it onto her bed linens, a soft clanging heard just a moment later.

If Killian was with her, he’d chide her for the careless way she shoves her hands between her clothes and blindly feels for her few weapons. There are three knives haphazardly sandwiched between layers of skirts, but pulling them only dampens her spirits. Her fingers grip their leather bound handles and her arm saws furiously at her blanket to no avail. If the blades can’t even rip the thin linen, they’ll be useless for Killian’s ropes.

Her heart starts racing as she fights to keep panic from clawing at her.

Emma paces the short length of the tent, hands on her hips as her mind offers solutions.

The knots are too tight and complicated for her to unravel, and Killian is in no shape to walk her through it. Which brings her back to cutting him free. The thought of stealing something from one of the many British soldiers around camp crosses her mind. She could sneak into one of their tents once they’ve fallen asleep, but she runs the risk of discovery. There’s no helping Killian if she’s delivered the same fate as him.

Belle’s laughter rings loudly in the slowly quieting camp, and Emma’s eyes widen in realization.

Her steps across the camp are soft and she keeps to the shadows of firelight. She moves slowly, eyes constantly roaming the area, her guard on high alert. The lanterns burn low in the tent where she spent most of the day, creating a glowing beacon on the edge of camp. The tent flaps gently move in the breeze, and Emma hears the voices of Zelena and Fiona, as they gather bandages to wash at the basin near the campfire.

The chill of the night starts to prickle at her skin, and her breath becomes visible in small wisps of white clouds before her eyes. She waits, shivering, for their footsteps to move away before she enters the back of the tent.

John Darling, a soldier not yet twenty, groans quietly six cots away from where she ducks in. His eyes remain closed as he calls for someone who is not there, and his blood is visible through the mountain of bandages she applied before the end of her shift. Her heart lurches as he continues to call for people she’s never met and with whom she doubts he’ll be reunited.

Emma swallows back the image that comes to mind of Killian sitting alone in his tent doing the exact same, as he receives food scraps he can’t eat and unable to move to relieve himself. Instead, she tiptoes over to the table that holds the equipment they’ve been using throughout the day. The amputation saw sits on the edge, blood staining the blade. She used one once, back in August after the British faced intense losses. The man said his name was Arthur; he had dark hair and blue eyes that made her heart yearn for Killian. She refused to look at him as she amputated his mangled left hand, but that didn’t stop the nightmares from replacing his face with Killian’s.

Her fingers move deftly past that to the scalpel. Blood stains that blade as well, but it is smaller and more easily concealed. It’ll be sharp enough to cut the ropes and easy to maneuver around his wrists without risk of injury.

Zelena and Fiona’s voices drift into the tent, and Emma glances up in alarm. In a quick move, she snatches the scalpel and rushes out before she can be detected.

Once outside the tent, a thought strikes her, and she seeks out the area where she knows discarded clothing of the deceased have been tossed. There are several jackets and shirts, but breeches are more difficult to come by. She digs through the putrid pile until she is lucky enough to procure two pair, bloodied and full of holes, but still usable. She tugs one pair on under her skirt, then stuffs the other pair, along with two shirts, into her blouse, and buttons it back up. Knowing they may face raw weather, she also picks out two uniform coats, rolling them up and clutching them tightly to her chest.

Moving as stealthily as she can with the extra bulk, she begins picking her way across the camp. Frustration sits heavy in her belly because she wants to hurry straight to where her love is suffering, but she can’t take the risk of being caught. 

Along the way, she catches snippets of soldiers’ conversations and can’t help comparing them to those of the soldiers in the camps of her fellow countrymen. They may be on opposite sides of this conflict, but the same topics occupy their minds - deep longing for their families, hot, home cooked meals and their homes. They’re not very different, after all; yet, they’re killing each other by the hundreds, in battle after battle. 

At last, she comes within sight of the shabby tent, still being guarded by two soldiers. Quickly stepping behind a large tree, she surveys the immediate area and decides on a route which appears to be safe. 

She is just about to step out when she hears a shout coming from behind her. 

“Halt! Thief!” 

Her blood freezes in her veins as her breath stutters in her lungs. Cautiously turning her head, she sees Colonel Sitwell striding across the clearing, approaching a young soldier who looks to be no older than a teenager. He is cowering in front of the officer, his hands clasped behind his back, holding what appears to be a loaf of bread. 

As Sitwell begins questioning the boy about where he is going and what he is doing, Emma turns her eyes to the guards in front of the tent and realizes their attention is drawn to the confrontation, giving her a golden opportunity. 

Crouching down to make herself as small as possible, she scurries to the back of the tent. A thin sliver of moonlight is all that illuminates the heavy canvas and she gives herself a few precious seconds to allow her eyes to adjust. Once she is able to make out a seam, she pulls out the scalpel and, starting a foot above the ground, slices through the thick threads. 

As soon as the seam separates, she drops to the ground, removes the pilfered clothes and pushes them through the opening, then she shimmies herself through. She gets up to her hands and knees, her eyes immediately trained upon the man still sitting in the same position in which she left him.

The dew has already settled on the grass in the darkening night, and Emma shivers as she stands just inside the tent - the leather boots she’s worn all this time are thin enough with gaps in the soles that some of the moisture has soaked through - making her teeth chatter along with the trembles of fear. The heat of the day has long since fled, and Emma feels the clammy chill down to her bones - aching for nothing so much as someplace safe and warm for herself and Killian. That desire drives her forward, despite the uncertainty that plagues her and the fear that she will fail him. She has to grit her teeth at the sight of Killian just feet from her, in a shelter full of rips and holes allowing wind and rain to blow right through, while his clothes are torn and threadbare - not even dry. They have barely deigned to feed him, and so of course he has not been granted any sort of blanket for the cold, autumn nights. She feels as though she is freezing; she cannot fathom the torment he has been going through. It’s a wonder he has not already succumbed to the elements and his countrymen’s gross mistreatment. She means to be certain he does not suffer even more with torture at their cruel hands.

She hates each hesitation as she sneaks across the dirt and grass at her feet; anxious to bolt and flee the danger like a startled rabbit. It is only Killian, so close again at last, who manages to stay her and keep her tiptoeing forward, making sure the way remains clear. All must still be distracted by Sitwell’s angry interrogation and the hapless young soldier he had accosted, to be checking in on their weak and battered prisoner, for she hears no further calls of alarm, no pounding feet bearing down, and she breathes out in relief.

Her eyes begin to water almost immediately - the stench unbearable in such close quarters - and her emotions nearly overcome her at Killian’s being forced to remain in his own filth; a man proud and fastidious of his manner and appearance, determined to present himself in his best light whenever possible. The wounds she had seen on him previously must be festering and growing infected. She cringes against the pain and shame she knows he must feel, in spite of it being no fault of his own.

Finally at his side, Emma drops to her knees and reaches out to clutch his shoulder, shaking gently and hissing urgent whispers of his name.  When he fails to respond immediately, it strikes her all over again just how serious his condition is, and she wastes not another second before beginning to saw at his bonds with her stolen blade. To her dismay, Killian’s dark head lolls lifelessly, chin against his chest, until in her haste, she accidentally nicks the tender skin at his wrist.

With a startled grunt, he jerks an inch or so away weakly, and finally turns to face her, his unswollen eye fluttering uncertainly before managing to focus blearily and murmuring “Emma?” in question, as if he does not quite trust his own vision. “Why are you back here, Lass? If they catch you…” he sucks in a quick breath, whether from the effort it takes him to speak, or from jarring some injury she cannot see, Emma’s isn’t sure, but she aches for him all the same. He struggles on breathlessly, “You have to leave me here and get out. I am not worth – ”

“Hush!” she scolds sharply, giving the single word as much volume and strength as she dares. Her eyes spear his, staring him down with a look that allows no argument. She has managed to break through the ropes holding his arms behind him and around the central tentpost, and Killian nearly slumps over on his side at the sudden release of tension, but she steadies him, then cups his scruffy, nearly-bearded chin in her hand, willing him to accept her words as fact. “You are worth it. I won’t hear another word,” she whispers.

For a moment, unbidden and breaking across his face like the sun from behind the clouds of a storm, a smile upturns his cracked lips, and he chuckles just barely in spite of his condition, then merely sighs, acquiescing to her words largely out of sheer fatigue, but indeed loving her for them.

Releasing his chin, Emma gives a curt little bob of her head and reaches to the pile of shabby, but at least dry, clothing she had managed to scavenge. She had dropped it hastily to the side in her hurry to reach him and make sure he was still alive. Holding out a shirt, she gives Killian a hopeful look, tremulous smile aiming to inject inspiration into both of them for this perilous escape they are about to attempt.

She watches him try to work the feeling back into his hands and arms after their being bound behind him for so long. His limbs move awkwardly, even as he reaches forward to take the shirt she offers.

Killian’s eyes roam her face with entirely too much awe for her comfort, drinking her in hungrily and as though she has done something noteworthy rather than merely rooting through a pile of discarded uniforms and cutting through tent canvas to crawl back to his side. He simply nods to her in agreement.

His silence unnerves Emma; she is used to a lilting flow of eloquent words from Killian - so much so that she has often wondered if he talks for his own entertainment as much as he does to charm her. Whatever the case, his gently cultured, warm, and soothing voice had been one of the things she missed most desperately about him while they were parted, and she cannot help but worry now, as the quiet persists, just how little strength her beloved has left.

When he fumbles to get his hands into the sleeves, a strangled sound and arrested movement at his effort to raise his arms and slip the shirt on over his head attests to just how much pain he is in. Emma soothes him regretfully, reaching out to ease his arms down to his sides and guide his limbs gingerly into the garment, swiftly securing the fastenings as well.

“I’m so sorry, Killian,” she whispers, hating that it had taken so long to find him, that he had ever been hurt at all, and that she has to press him now when he cannot move without causing further anguish. But he is already shaking his head at her, forgiving what she cannot help without a moment’s hesitation. 

He is panting once he finally gets the shirt on, and the sheen of sweat glistening on his face concerns Emma more than she wants to admit. How is he ever going to flee as quickly as they need to, over rough terrain, if just this has taxed him so badly? And, even if they get away, how how sick is he and how badly is he hurt? Will they be able to help him recover? 

Emma bites her lip against another swell of emotion at just how large the shirt appears on Killian’s emaciated frame. His collarbone protrudes sharply where the neck of the shirt hangs low, to a degree that Emma knows it would not have done when last she saw him.

Hesitantly she tries to help him stand, not wanting to insult or demean him - a man of lesser strength might not have clung to life as long as he has - but she genuinely fears he may not be able to support his own weight, and she isn’t sure what she will do otherwise.

Killian grunts, clenching his teeth and lurching forward to plant his hands on the hard-packed dirt and push himself upwards, then leaning against the tent post, he does indeed manage to leverage himself to his own two feet. It isn’t without obvious discomfort and struggle, and he lists worryingly to one side, though Emma isn’t certain if he is favoring broken ribs or trying to appease the stretching of the whip weals on his back.

She has already seen more of his body bared to her eyes than ever before - more than is entirely proper. It is far from the interlude she would never admit to having envisioned when they would finally explore each other’s bodies one day. All the same, she will not let that keep her from any small modicum of comfort she can offer him, not after all he has already withstood. Blushing hotly, but ready to press on, Emma is about to hold out the stolen pants in offering, when with a low moan, Killian crumples back to his knees weakly, barely catching himself by leaning once more against the post which had held him captive.

Heedlessly, Emma tosses the breeches away in alarm. They will have to worry about comfort and his taking further chill later. He cannot stand much more of this, and she has to get him out. His eyes rise to hers looking so pained and ashamed that Emma wants nothing more than to wrap his trembling frame in her arms, hold him close to her, and comfort and soothe him until he is well again. That he would feel embarrassment in front of her for something he cannot help, weakness forced on him through malnourishment and abuse, breaks her heart anew. She can hardly stand to push him further, but there is nothing for it.

She only shakes her head when he attempts to speak. “We’ll manage,” she asserts with a false bravado. There is no other option. She won’t even allow herself to consider it.

He nods again, some of the resolute steel she knows and loves at last returning to his gaze. She places her hands under his arms, and with them both heaving and straining, Killian gains his feet once more. This time Emma doesn’t let go, keeping one arm around his waist as he uses her as a crutch, sliding her shoulder under his arm so he can brace against her. 

Quickly grabbing the pack she has carried with her from camp to camp, she leads forward, and together they take the first few shuffling steps toward the hole she has made in the back of the tent. She can tell he is lightheaded, hurting, struggling even to breathe properly, but now that Killian is up, his survival instinct - or at least his concern for her survival - has him painstakingly putting one foot in front of the other.

It is only as they near her makeshift exit that Emma realizes in horror that the distracting commotion which had been going on outside has calmed, and that she is still dressed exactly as anyone else in the camp would have seen her earlier. Quickly she cautions Killian just to lean against her for a moment, seeing his discarded tricorn hat in the corner of the tent, she grabs it, stuffs her brightly identifying hair up under it, then unbuttons the waist of her skirt and flings the long, heavy material away. It is far from a brilliant disguise, but that would only cover her absence for so long, anyway. Once Killian’s escape is discovered, the new nurse who had asked to bring food to him, then disappeared the same day she arrived, is going to be the most likely suspect. Her shaking hands quickly transfer the food she managed to grab from her skirt pockets to her stolen breeches, and she stands to let Killian lean on her again. She doesn’t have time to worry over any other items left behind at the moment; they just need to make haste as soon as possible.

As she adjusts her grip on Killian, Emma realizes once more just how poorly he must feel. Unlike his usual self, he has not a playful comment or even a salacious wink for her, despite the fact that she has seen him shirtless, helped him dress, and shed her skirts in front of him. She sends up a silent prayer that they can make it to the surrounding woods before they are discovered. She knows he cannot run full tilt - he can barely stand - so they must manage some sort of a head start. 

Dipping her head to peer just barely through the roughly torn flap of tent in which she created an exit, Emma sees that although things have grown much calmer since she snuck in - Sitwell must have carted off the poor younger soldier he caught stealing - the other staring eyes throughout the camp have returned to their previous concerns and conversations. Though it still feels much too risky, far too exposed, the time will not get any better for them to escape.

As a last minute thought, Emma changes her mind, throws on one of the jackets, grabs the breeches she’d tossed aside, realizing she’ll eventually have to get Killian into enough clothing that he doesn’t freeze. Then, half-supporting and half-tugging him, Emma ducks her head to slip out of the prisoner’s tent through the hole she made, making sure Killian follows without stumbling or getting caught on the ragged edge.

Killian bites his lip against the agony that each step and merely standing upright clearly causes him in an effort to ease her nerves and steel himself for flight. He nods, visibly marshaling every last bit of strength he possesses to push forward as they step onto the dew-wet grass. Holding her gaze for one brief, but weighted moment, he then bows his head to watch each wobbly step he struggles to take. Gritting his teeth, the wounds that burn and pull each time his feet strike the ground try to steal his breath, but he forces himself to move on, matching Emma pace for pace.

She doesn’t dare speak, but she urges him along in her head, silently cheering with each foot they progress across the trampled field and closer to the treeline, nearer to the relative cover and safety of the woods nearby. Heart pounding in her ears, frantic and alert for the first sign they have been found out, Emma forces herself to lead without looking back, to focus on the shadows and brush of the forest as they draw blessedly nearer. Twenty-five feet…fifteen feet…ten…just a few more feet…

They have only just gained the edge of the woods when a shout of alarm goes up. Bellows of “The prisoner has escaped!” and “Search the area!” ring out, along with the sound of feet pounding and general mayhem as the camp mobilizes from the drowsy comradery of evening by the fire to the dogged pursuit of a fugitive. Emma’s breath catches in her chest with fear, and she risks one frantic look thrown over her shoulder as they dodge beneath low-hanging branches and plunge into the darker foliage that surrounds them just in time. 

She sees torches - far too many to evade it seems, as panic momentarily takes hold - fanning out from the camp in all directions; some moving closer to them than she can bear already.

This time it is Killian who brings her back to the present, to the immediate steps before them. “You can do this, Emma. Bloody brilliant you are,” he pants. “Lead on, we’ve almost made it.”

Grateful for his steadying belief, though she knows he is half-delirious with pain and fever and is no more certain of their escape than she is, it is the jolt Emma needs to shake her panic and bring her back to her task. Turning once more, she steps forward again, only to snag her foot on an uprooted twig, making her stumble forward off-balance, bringing Killian with her.

The ground seemingly dissolves beneath their feet, falling away to nothingness and sending them plunging downward into the dark. It happens so suddenly that Emma has rolled and pitched against the hard, sloped ground several times before she can cry out, thankfully. A wounded grunt is all she hears from Killian before hitting the bottom of an incline hard enough to knock the air from both of their lungs as she lands on top of him with a sickening thud. 

Scrambling off of his body, Emma tries to squint in the dark to find his face in front of her, stomach turning at the thought of having hurt him further. “Killian?” she whispers, not daring to speak any louder. He doesn’t respond, but before she can try anything else, she hears yelling and footsteps drawing nearer, crunching through twigs and fallen leaves. Wrestling a dirt-stained, ragged gray blanket from the pack that is miraculously still on her shoulder, Emma flings it desperately over them both, hoping it will blend into the night and the overgrown vegetation at the bottom of this steep dropoff. There is nothing else to do, with their enemies nearly atop them. She holds herself motionless, her hand over Killian’s chest, feeling for the barest rise and fall, praying the Redcoats will pass by and fail to see them.

Each agonizing second seems to stretch on for an hour as she waits, but slowly, painstakingly, the tramp of threatening forces move on, circle back, and judging by the calls she overhears, return to the main camp to regroup. They will be back on her and Killian’s trail by first light, but it is a miraculous reprieve in that moment, and she lurches upright to see if he has regained awareness to carry on.

“Killian?” she pleads once more, clutching at his shirt and gently trying to shake him awake. “Killian, please! You have to answer me!”

At last his eyes flutter open, though focus in them is far from clear. “Emma…?” he mumbles blearily, the words hazy in a loose-lipped mush. “What happened?”

“I tripped on a root of some sort, and we tumbled down a ravine. I- I’m sorry, I didn't see it until it was too late.”

He reaches out unsteadily and cups her cheek as if to brush her apology and fear away, despite the ever-weakening tremble of his limbs.

She presses on doggedly. “The blanket has hidden us from your jailers for the moment,” she adds, “but we better get as far as we can before daybreak. They will be after us again, no doubt.”

Doubt and an embarrassed uncertainty flicker in Killian’s eyes, but he does not speak, only pushes himself into a sitting position through sheer force of will. “You may have to help me up,” he finally relents, no longer meeting her eyes, but Emma is so relieved and glad that he is awake and willing to try, that she somehow musters the strength and adrenaline to help him lever himself back to his feet.

Rather than attempting to scale the hill they had tumbled down, they follow a small trickle of water running along at their feet, which becomes a stream after a mile or so. Pausing briefly to see that Killian gets a drink and has a crust of bread she stuffed into her pocket, Emma wrestles the ruined pants Killian wore off his legs, hurrying to dip a less dirty part of them into the stream and wash his skin the best she can, knowing that despite the cold, it must be done since he’d been forced to wear them so long. She doesn’t dare look him in the face as her fingers skim his bare skin, and she still looks off to the side determinedly as she helps him wrestle the change of breeches she had stolen over his jutting hipbones, urges him back to his feet and fastens the breeches securely. She shoves the other pair in her bag for the moment, to avoid leaving evidence behind. They just need to focus on getting out of here. Anything else they could work through, once they were safe.

By the time the first pale rays of sunrise start to color the sky, Emma hopes they have covered enough distance to avoid detection. They are heading for David and Mary Margaret’s quiet, out-of-the-way farm, but they will not make it today, not before Brits catch up to them.

Luckily they find a small cave, and Emma presses them as far into the dank, winding depth of it as they can possibly get. Sitting at last, she urges Killian to rest, his head in her lap, her hands smoothing through his matted, sweat-soaked hair. Watching over him, fretful and sleepless, she tries to gauge how long it has been and listens for any sign of discovery. When she finally sneaks out, she discovers they have made it until dark again and they can press on. 

She counts each ragged breath that rattles through Killian’s shockingly light frame, and thanks the Lord above he hasn’t been taken from her yet. They are still together, and will fight on.

*****

They have been traveling for two days when Emma again hears the low babbling of a brook. Killian struggles during their journey, relying heavily on her to help him move. His weakened state only worsens with the small amount of food she can scavenge and no canteen to provide him hydration. Blood seeps through his pilfered clothes to stain her own when she supports his weight on their walk. She thanks the heavens he’s only awake during the night hours so he doesn’t see it, all the while cursing herself for not being able to do more for him.

But the sound of fresh water is enough to give her a sprinkling of hope.

Emma practically drags Killian in the direction of the noise, eyes frantically scanning the tree line for an enemy to surprise them. If worse came to worst, she’d drop Killian to the ground and batten her defenses, grabbing the blunt blade from her boot. She’d fight the entire British army if she had to, just to help him.

Thankfully the only other inhabitants of the woods are the animals that scurry across their feet.

Killian’s eyes blink rapidly as he fights to stay awake. She knows that they’ll have to stop for a full night tomorrow or the next day. He needs to regain his strength, and, aside from a few hours rest the night before, Emma hasn’t slept a full night since before arriving at camp. Adrenaline has kept her going thus far, but even she knows it’s not sustainable.

“We’re almost there,” she whispers to him, Killian’s head lolling against hers as he grunts a reply.

Twigs scratch at their ankles, and the cool night air wraps around their shoulders in a deep embrace. Moonlight offers their only source of light, and Emma desperately clings to the moon beams that shine down between the treetops.

Relief floods her body as they break through a particularly profuse thicket and the creek flows just a few paces from their spot. Rocks litter either side of the stream, one large enough to lean Killian against. She drops to her knees once he is situated. Dew seeps into her clothes, a wet patch gathering quickly where she kneels. The cool sensation is nothing compared to the water.

Emma dunks her hands into the water in a quick fashion, hissing when the brisk liquid stings her fingers. She quickly pulls her hands back and looks to Killian. “You need to drink,” she murmurs, not expecting an answer that he has no strength to give. Taking a deep breath, she sinks her hands into the water, up to her wrists and cups them together, gathering water that she hastily carries over to him, tipping her hands onto his lips. Water slips between her fingers as she tries to give him some, droplets slide down the sides of his face. He gasps as he gulps down the meager offering.

She repeats the process until she suspects his stomach is getting upset. Her fingers tear the hem of her borrowed clothes and rip a few bands of cloth. The moon highlights the blood cresting on his skin from the open wounds along his body, the dirt collecting on his person.

“I need to clean you,” she whispers as her hand cradles his cheek. Killian opens his eyes to meet hers, and she sees the corner of his mouth lifting under his unruly facial hair.

“You’ve done enough, love,” he says just as quietly. “Give me a moment and I can wash myself.”

“The water’s cold,” she argues.

“Suppose I’ll need a distraction then.”

Hydrated and more awake than he’d been when they arrived at the creek, Emma helps Killian shed his shirt and aids him in kneeling at the creek’s waterbed.

Killian stares at the water, and Emma notices a faraway look taking over his face. The look is one she’s become familiar with working on other soldiers. Memories – nightmares really – that haunt even their waking hours. Her hand reaches over to cover his shaking fist crushing a band of cloth. She swallows as he suddenly swivels his head to her, blinking a few times before he offers her a wobbly smile.

“Do you remember when you caught fish?” she asks. Her tone is light and her smile is encouraging. The undercurrent of teasing that usually accompanies the story is barely tangible.

Killian breathes out a small laugh. “You would never let me forget.”

A nod is shared between them and her voice offers a distraction as he dips the cloth, hissing as it touches his raw skin.

The sun was barely rising over the horizon, when a specialized knock echoed throughout the quiet Nolan house. David and Mary Margaret were undoubtedly already awake with the livestock kept on the property, but Emma had hoped for a few more hours of rest. Her feet ached and her fingers felt numb, her first week spent treating wounded Colonists draining every ounce of her energy. She won’t be shipped out to a British camp for another few months; her secret coding needed to be finely tuned and her stitchwork would give her away as an inadequate nurse.

She winced as her fingers worked to knot the belt of her robe. Sleep still scratched at the edges of her consciousness, but her racing heart beat it back vigorously.

Emma opened the door in a rush, breath caught in her throat from anticipation. She sighed heartily when she realized it was merely Killian standing on the porch. A woven basket hung off of one arm, and he clutched a bouquet of wildflowers in the opposite hand.

“Morning, lass,” he greeted with a wide grin.

She squinted as the early sun rays overwhelmed her sight. “To what do I owe this honor?” The door squeaked momentarily as she leaned against it, her heart racing for an entirely new reason. A smile threatened to emerge as she struggled to keep a disinterested face in the presence of such a magnificent man.

The sun shone on him like he was a gift from above, just for her. Golden rays of light gleamed on his dark hair to create a halo and his grin was certified to make any lady swoon. His eyes crinkled in delight as he gazed down at her, and she swallowed hard as she awaited his answer.

“I remember you mentioning over the summer how much you missed cod,” he said as he maneuvered his way inside the house. The basket is placed gently on the kitchen table while the flowers remain in his tight grasp.

“I don’t think that’s enough of a remarkable statement to explain your appearance this morning. Nearly everyone in town misses the cod.”

Killian grinned, something quick and hidden as he ducked his head out of her sight. Her statement was true, no matter the humor he found in it. The increasing warships offshore had chased the fish further out into the ocean. The wider landscape made it difficult to catch a quantifiable amount of cod to justify the trip, not counting the dangers that came with being in the same waters as opposing military forces.

“Well,” he started, “it does offer an explanation for my appearance.”

“Oh?”

Wildflowers were suddenly thrust in her direction, and she blinked for a few moments before it finally registered. Killian’s arm was extended to her and nerves crept up his tense shoulders. “Firstly, these are for you.” His tongue poked out of his mouth to wet his lips, her attention dramatically pulled from the flowers by the movement. The sight was always a distraction when they practiced her accent, but now it felt like it had intent. An intent to tease her, to bring her to a different focus.

Belatedly, she took the bouquet from Killian. “Thank you,” she said softly, taking a moment to smell the flowers. No one had ever brought her flowers before. Most girls she grew up with were married off with children of their own by now, but she found herself too different from them to warrant the attention of a gentleman in town. Until Killian.

“And this is for you as well.” Killian proudly walked over to the basket and pulled back the linen covering its contents. “Freshly caught cod.”

Emma stepped closer and peered into the basket. A gasp left her mouth before she covered it to prevent her laughter from becoming noticeable.

“What?” he asked.

“You have never been fishing here before, have you?”

“No… Why?”

She failed to keep the laughter from her voice as she spoke. “These fish aren’t cod.”

A slew of expletives was voiced under his breath as he moved to her side. His hand reached for the basket to examine the fish closer. “Are you positive?”

She huffed. “I may not be a fisherman, but I do know my food.” Her eyes examined the fish, wrapped and salted to preserve it for the days long trip back, as a smile threatened to appear on her lips. “These are summer flounder, which are still edible and mild tasting. I appreciate your efforts.”

The amusement left her body as she watched Killian’s face fall and his demeanor depress. His hand toyed with the edge of the basket as his jaw ticked from how tightly he clenched it. She called his name only to receive a shake of his head in return. He dropped his weight onto one of the kitchen chairs and sagged into the seat.

“I wanted it to be perfect,” he murmured to himself. Emma followed his lead and sat beside him. The urge to reach out and grab his hand between her own brewed deep in her stomach.

“Wanted what?”

“Apologies, love,” Killian said. He offered his best self-deprecating smile for a brief second before he returned his stare to the table. “I had hoped to present this as my official request to court you, but alas, I’ve made a fool of myself, instead.”

Her throat dried at his words and the butterflies in her stomach fluttered. He wanted to court her? The mere thought left her practically speechless. Killian had wanted to present her with her favorite meal – cod – and picked flowers for her by himself.  He traveled in dangerous waters just to impress her.

She hummed, bringing the flowers to her nose. The fresh aroma made her head spin in the most delightful way, and she sent Killian a shy smile. “It seems to me like you’ve been doing a splendid job, so far.” He grinned back at her for a moment before it fell at the sight of the summer flounder. “You really went out to sea to catch these fish? For me?”

There was no teasing inflection to her words, a heavy weight instead accompanied them. Their eyes met over the table, and she watched Killian’s throat bob as he swallowed hard. He matched her seriousness and kept their eyes connected; his single word answer said a million things to her.

“Aye.”

Emma placed the bouquet gently on the table between them and refused to let her eyes trail away from his. She leaned forward as he watched in anticipation, breath hitched in his throat.

Their lips met, and Emma finally tasted freedom.

*********

“Just…a little further…Killian,” Emma gasps, her arm tightening around his waist. Her eyes are trained on the small house shining in the moonlight in front of them, but they also continue to dart around for any sign of being followed.They’ve been careful to travel only at night, seeking out dense woods where they could hide and rest during the daylight hours. 

It’s taken them nearly a week to reach Mary Margaret and David’s farm, their progress hampered by the constant surveillance of their surroundings for fear of being captured, and by Killian’s injuries. Emma has tried to treat his wounds along the way, cursing herself for not grabbing any medical supplies when she pilfered the scalpel and clothing. He was also weak from lack of food, since the small amount of food she smuggled and berries she was able to find were not doing much to build his strength. 

But now, the end of their arduous journey is finally within sight. Emma tries to quicken their pace, but Killian’s groan of pain reminds her that he’s already going as fast as he can. He hasn’t once complained, but she knows every step has been agony for him. 

“I’m sorry, Killian. Please forgive me for my impatience.” 

“You…you’ve been anything…but impatient, Love,” he rasps. “I should be…apologizing for…causing you all this trouble.” 

“Hush, now,” she admonishes. “You are worth everything to me. I would go to the ends of the earth to find you and bring you home.” 

“It almost feels like…that’s how far we’ve come,” he says with a dry chuckle. 

She laughs in response, her heart lifting a little over his attempt at humor. They continue their laborious trek over the uneven ground until finally, they are standing on the small wooden stoop at the back of the house. 

“I hope someone is awake,” Emma whispers. Raising her hand, she raps on the door three times, pauses a few seconds, knocks twice, then twice more in rapid succession. 

The wait seems interminable until they hear a familiar voice saying, “Identify yourself.” 

Emma almost cries at the sound of her brother’s voice. “Em-” Her voice is suddenly not working, so she clears her throat and tries again. “Emma Nolan.” 

There’s a pause. “What happened when I was twelve that you always thought was your fault?” 

Without hesitation, she replies, “You fell out of a tree and broke your left arm trying to rescue my kitten, Patches.” 

She smiles at Killian as they hear the sound of a key turning. Before she can react any further, the door swings open and she’s pulled into a crushing hug. 

“Where have you been?” David’s voice rumbles under her cheek where it’s pressed against his chest. 

“Let us in and I’ll tell you.” 

“Us?” he questions, pulling away to look behind her. 

“I found him,” she says simply, reaching to take Killian’s hand. Even in the dim light coming from the fireplace in the kitchen, she can see David’s eyes brighten. He steps out of the way so the two travelers can enter. 

After closing the door behind them, he turns around and the happiness in his eyes instantly turns to dismay when he takes in the condition of the other man. Before he can say anything, Mary Margaret’s voice can be heard from their bedroom doorway, asking, “Who was it, David?” 

“See for yourself,” he answers, grabbing a match to light a kerosene lamp on the kitchen table. 

She emerges, tying the belt of a thin, cotton robe. “Emma! We’ve been…” Her eyes move to the figure leaning on her sister-in-law. “Oh, Killian! Look at you!” Pulling out a chair, she helps Emma gingerly lower the injured man into it. 

“I’m alright,” he says, but can’t stop the groan from escaping his lips when he’s fully seated. 

Mary Margaret immediately begins assessing the injuries to his face. “David, please bring the basket of supplies. Emma, get a wash basin of water and a cloth.” 

They both scurry to do as told, coming back to find Mary Margaret has already started working on the shirt fasteners. “Have the two of you had anything to eat?” she asks.

“Just whatever we could scavenge from the woods,” Emma answers, placing the basin on the table and tossing the cloth into the cool water. “I ran out of the food I was able to steal from camp.” 

Mary Margaret finishes with the fastenings and pushes the shirt aside, gasping when she sees how much weight Killian has lost. “I’ll, um, I’ll let you clean him up while I heat some chicken stew.” Emma can see tears shining in her eyes when she turns away. 

After setting the medical supplies on the table, David moves to the fireplace to remove the kettle. He pours some hot water into the basin, replaces the kettle, and returns to help Emma peel the shirt off of Killian. When he sees the wounds from a whip across his back and chest, his mouth tightens into a straight line, his eyes hardening with anger. 

Emma speaks as she squeezes out the cloth and begins tenderly wiping her beloved’s face. “When I found him, they were holding him prisoner, planning to execute him the next day, as soon as their commanding officer arrived.”

She continues relating the conditions in which he was held, as she moves on to begin sponging his neck and chest. Mary Margaret and David share grim looks as they listen, appalled at the way their friend was treated. 

“He was actually much worse than this, but we came across a clear creek and he was able to wash himself off a bit, even though the water was pretty chilly,” Emma says. 

“David,” Mary Margaret says, turning quickly to her husband. “Can you please begin filling the tub with water? I’m sure soaking in a hot bath would feel good, wouldn’t it, Killian?” 

The man looks up at her with bleary eyes. “Aye, it would.” 

“Take the tub into our bedroom, David. We can move into one of the rooms upstairs and Killian can have our room so he won’t have to climb the stairs.”

David sets to work getting the metal tub moved and filled with water, while Mary Margaret dishes up bowls of reheated stew for Emma and Killian. His hands are shaking as he spoons the food into his mouth, slopping some into his unkempt beard. “Sorry,” he apologizes. 

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Mary Margaret says, as Emma dabs the spill away with the cloth. “Just don’t eat too fast. Your stomach is going to have to get used to having adequate food in it again.” He nods in understanding, giving her another look of gratitude when she sets a plate containing several slices of bread between him and Emma. 

They’re just finishing their meal when David rejoins them in the kitchen, announcing that the bath is ready. He offers to help the other man bathe, and it’s a testament to how weary and weak Killian is that he accepts. 

Once the men leave the room, the women have a whispered conversation. “Do you think there’s any chance they’ll find him here?” asks Mary Margaret. 

“I really don’t think so. We were very careful and diligent about not leaving any evidence behind. You and David taught us well.” 

“How did you find him?”

“I kept moving from camp to camp, working as a nurse. If I didn’t find him in one place, I would move on.”

“You were very fortunate to find him when you did. If you arrived even one day later…” 

“I don’t even want to think about that,” Emma shudders. “I came so close to losing him.”

Mary Margaret reaches over and pats her hand. “But you did not. That is the important thing.” 

“Now we need to help him recover, and I fear it is going to take a long time. He is very weak. There were times when I was afraid he would not have enough strength to make it here.” 

“I suppose you will not want to be far from him tonight,” Mary Margaret observed. At Emma’s confirmation, she added, “We can set up a cot for you just outside the bedroom so you will be able to hear him, should he need you.”

By the time the two of them retrieve the cot from the attic and take it downstairs, David is exiting the bedroom with a concerned look on his face. “A couple of his wounds appear to be infected, but I can’t be sure until we see them in the daylight. I cleaned them the best I could and bandaged them. I know you wanted to tend to him tonight, but he is utterly exhausted, so I already helped him to bed.” 

“That is probably for the best,” Mary Margaret says. “I think we all need to get some sleep. Emma is going to sleep on the cot so she can be there for him if he needs her.” 

“Do you want me to fill the tub with clean water so you can take a bath, too?” David asks Emma. 

“No, I will just take a sponge bath using the water in the basin. I’m so tired, I would probably fall asleep in the tub.” 

Husband and wife empty the water from the tub and carry it out, then set up the cot in the kitchen and cover it with bed linens, while Emma washes up and changes out of the filthy, stolen set of clothes into a soft, flannel nightgown. Releasing her hair from the tight bun, she brushes the snarls and tangles out of her long blonde tresses, then, after bidding her brother and sister-in-law goodnight, goes into the bedroom. 

Sitting on the edge of the bed, she observes her love by the dim light of the kerosene lamp on the nightstand. His face is relaxed in sleep, but she can still see the cuts and bruises marring it. Tenderly, she reaches over and brushes some strands of still damp hair away from his brow. Leaning down, she brushes kisses to his cheeks and lips. “You are safe now, my love,” she whispers. “No one is ever going to take you from me again.” 

After watching him sleep for a few more minutes, she moves out to the cot, climbs between the soft, clean sheets, and falls into the first deep sleep she’s had since she said goodbye to Killian months ago. 

*********

Emma is awakened in the middle of the night when Killian begins groaning loudly and thrashing around in the bed. She throws back the blanket and rushes into the bedroom, distressed when her hand touches his forehead and feels the heat radiating from it. 

Quickly, she goes back into the kitchen and pumps more water into the basin, adding a couple of washcloths to it before carrying it into the bedroom. Nudging the extinguished lantern aside, she makes room for the basin on the nightstand. 

She wrings out the first cloth, folds it, and lays it across Killian’s forehead, then repeats the process to lay one on his chest. He begins mumbling, but she doesn’t think he’s quite awake. Leaning down, she speaks into his ear, “What do you need, my love?” 

He runs his tongue over his dry, cracked lips, murmuring, “Thirsty.” 

Returning to the kitchen, she fills a glass with water and brings it back. She slides her arm behind his back to help raise him up, tears coming to her eyes once again when she feels the sharpness of his shoulder blades through his nightshirt. 

He gulps the water thirstily and thanks her, before she lowers him back to the mattress and kisses his feverish brow. After returning the glass to the kitchen, she refreshes the washcloths with cool water, then sits down on the wooden chair beside the bed, turning to face him. She sleeps fitfully the rest of the night, reapplying the cloths and checking his temperature a few more times.

Once the morning light begins filtering in through the thin curtains, Emma dresses hurriedly and goes into the kitchen to find Mary Margaret already preparing dough to make bread. She looks up at Emma with a smile that fades when she sees the worried look on her face. 

“What’s wrong?” Mary Margaret asks, pulling her hands out of the dough and wiping them on a towel. 

“Killian has had a fever all night. I’m afraid he does have an infection.” 

“Is he awake?” 

“Not yet. I know we need to examine him more thoroughly, but he needs his rest, too. Do you think I should wake him?” 

Mary Margaret ponders for a moment. “Let him sleep a while longer. David has gone out to ride the perimeter of the property. When he gets back, we will find out what he thinks we should do.” 

Emma pinches off a small piece of dough and pops it into her mouth. “Is he making sure we weren’t followed?” 

“He knows you were careful, he just doesn’t want to take any chances,” Mary Margaret explains, beginning to shape the dough into small loaves. 

Upon hearing a sound from the bedroom, Emma turns and hurries in there. She finds Killian sitting on the side of the bed with his feet on the floor, his head hanging down and his hands gripping the edge of the mattress. 

She steps in front of him, cupping his face in her hands and gently lifting it. “Good morning, my love. How are you feeling?” 

He manages a weak smile. “Much better, being here with you, Love,” he says, his voice rough with sleep and fever.

Combing her fingers through his hair, she asks, “Do you want some breakfast?” 

“Aye, that sounds good.” 

Emma discreetly runs the back of her hand over his forehead, troubled to still find it overly warm. “Do you need help getting dressed?” 

“Trying to peek at me naked, are you?” he jokes weakly. 

Despite her concern, she still blushes and can’t help but smile. He has always had a knack for making her laugh, and she’s pleased to see he hasn’t lost his sense of humor. “I’m just trying to be helpful.” 

He turns his face to press a kiss into her palm. “You are helpful, and also very beautiful. My beautiful saviour.” 

Her heart swells at his words and all she can think to say is, “I love you.” 

“And I, you.” 

She dips her head and brushes a kiss to his cheek. Leaning her forehead against his, she sighs. “I cannot believe I actually found you and we made it back home. There were times when I thought I…” The emotion makes her breath catch in her throat. “...I would never see you again.” 

“You can’t get rid of me that easily, Emma. You should know by now that I’m a survivor.” 

“The order of execution did give me pause.” 

“Point taken.” 

She soaks in a little more time of being able to touch him, before declaring, “I’ll go upstairs and get some clothes for you.”

“Thank you, Love.” 

Giving him one more kiss, she exits the room. David is stomping his feet off on the mat inside the kitchen door. “Is everything secure?” she asks. 

“As far as I can tell,” he answers. “How is Killian this morning?” 

“He is carrying a fever, but it does not seem to be as bad as it was in the middle of the night. I’m going to get clothes for him. Could you please go in and check on him?” 

“Of course,” David agrees, already heading toward the bedroom. 

Emma goes to the cedar chest, where Mary Margaret keeps extra clothes for anyone in their spy network who is in need of them. Kneeling down before the chest, she takes the opportunity to send up a prayer of gratitude and also a plea for healing. Killian may be putting on a brave front, but she knows him. He’s weak and in pain; far from the strong, robust man he was months ago, before he went undercover behind enemy lines. 

Gathering the shirt and knickers into her arms, she descends the creaking stairs, finding Mary Margaret removing the bread from the oven. “Is David still in with Killian?” Emma asks. 

“Yes. He came out to get some clean water, whiskey and towels. He said Killian has wounds showing signs of infection and he has heard that pouring alcohol on them helps.” 

Emma grimaces. “That sounds like it would be painful.” 

“Not as painful as amputation, should the infection get worse,” Mary Margaret notes quietly. 

Emma’s face pales as she thinks about the possibility. The wound around his left wrist, caused by the ropes with which he was tied, is especially concerning; the flesh around it red and angry, while the wound itself appears to be festering. 

“David said Killian is relaying information to him about the enemy’s position and strategies. Even being held for execution, he was gathering vital information. That man of yours is a model of bravery, Emma.” 

Now her chest swells with pride, but the moment is interrupted by a hoarse curse coming from the bedroom. “Bloody hell, David! That bloody hurts!” 

The two women share a concerned, and slightly amused, look. “At least he has a little fire in his voice,” Emma comments. 

Her sister-in-law nods in agreement before asking, “Should I prepare a tray of food for him?” 

“I’m sure Killian will insist on joining us out here. He won’t want you making a fuss over him.” 

“He deserves to be fussed over, after all he’s gone through.” 

“I agree, but you know he won’t see it that way.” 

Emma approaches the bedroom door and taps on it lightly. At David’s permission to enter, she pushes it open and peeks in. “I have some clean clothes.”

“Bring them in, I just finished treating his wounds,” David says, tying off a bandage around Killian’s wrist. 

Emma’s eyes scan over her love’s form as he sits slumped on the side of the bed. He looks up and manages to give her a small smile. “Thank you, Love.” 

She deposits the clothes on the bed beside him and catches David’s eye, communicating silently with him to ask about Killian’s condition. The grim set of his mouth and slight shoulder shrug tells her he shares her concern about the other man. 

Emma picks up the shirt, unfolds it, and carefully pulls it over Killian’s head. David helps guide his arms into the sleeves, Emma ties it, and a lump forms in her throat when she sees how loosely it hangs on him. Mere months ago, he would have easily filled it out with his muscular physique. The stolen shirt was also baggy on him, but she tried to reason that the man to whom it belonged must have been much bigger than Killian. Now, there’s no denying that he has indeed lost a substantial amount of weight during his captivity, and her hatred toward the soldiers of his former homeland intensifies. 

She holds out the remaining clothes to David. “Please help him put these on while I go help Mary Margaret get breakfast on the table,” she says, knowing her voice sounds gruff from the raw emotion she’s feeling. 

Turning on her heel, she exits the room. 

*********

The next two days for Killian are a series of ups and downs. He continues to run a fever, sometimes mumbling deliriously because of it. His stomach repels the food he eats ravenously, the vomiting causing his already dangerously weak body to weaken even further. Heedless of the custom dictating unmarried couples not sleep together in the same room, they move the cot into the bedroom so Emma can get to Killian more quickly when he needs her aid. 

There are far too many moments when she wonders if they escaped and made the dangerous trek back home, only for him to die anyway. 

Yet, in the mornings, after a good night’s rest, he’s fairly alert and his endearing personality comes shining through. They’re relieved to see his wounds responding to their careful treatment, the fiery looking skin around them returning to normal as the infection ebbs away. 

On the third morning after their return, Emma is awakened by Mary Margaret rushing into the bedroom, shaking Emma’s shoulder as she whispers urgently, “Get up! David just found signs of someone being on the property, and we need to get the two of you down to the root cellar!” 

“Enemy soldiers?” Emma asks, throwing off the covers, her heart in her throat. 

“He does not know, but he also does not want to take any chances. He and Leroy have gone out again to see if they can find anything else, and he wants me to get the two of you into the cellar.”

Emma pulls her robe on and ties the belt, then slides her stocking feet into her shoes. Mary Margaret is trying to rouse Killian, but it’s proving to be a difficult task. “Gather as many quilts and blankets as you can and go down to the cellar to try to make up a bed for him on the floor,” she instructs Emma, her voice still a whisper but full of tense anxiety.

Emma hurries to do as she’s told, emptying the linen closet under the stairs. It takes two trips down the steep, rickety steps to get everything to the dank root cellar. The pungent smell of earth and unwashed vegetables fills her nose as she tosses the thick quilts on the ground in the corner under the stairs, quickly straightening them the best she can and dragging sacks of grain over to use as pillows, before dashing back upstairs. 

Mary Margaret has managed to get Killian standing and into a pair of breeches. She’s just tugging a heavy, knitted sweater over his head, his arms sliding sluggishly into the sleeves, when Emma re-enters the room. She grabs his boots from under the bed and works to get them on his feet. 

When he’s dressed, the two women half drag him to the opening in the kitchen floor between the fireplace and the stairway, which leads to the cellar. Emma moves down the steps backwards so she can help guide Killian with her hands on his hips, while Mary Margaret is behind him, supporting him under his arms. As they struggle to keep him moving, they both give him quiet encouragement, praying they can get him out of sight in time. 

It seems to take an eternity until he finally sets foot on the packed dirt floor. As they maneuver him behind the stairs and lower him to the pile of quilts, Mary Margaret whispers, “There is a lantern and matches on the shelf, but only light it if absolutely necessary because it might show between the floorboards. As soon as I get back upstairs, I will get a basket of food together and bring it down to you. Oh, and there’s a chamber pot under the table.”

“How long do you think we will have to stay down here?” Emma questions. 

“I do not know, but it’s better to be prepared in case it ends up being a while. Please remember to stay as quiet as possible,” she reminds them needlessly. After squeezing Emma’s hand, she turns and bustles up the stairs, dropping the door down behind her. 

Emma and Killian are left in complete darkness, and she fights to tamp down the panic tightening her chest. Her eyes work to adjust, beginning to make out the shapes of objects around her with help from the tiny slivers of light sneaking through the floorboards overhead.

She turns her attention to the man lying on the pile of quilts, head resting against a burlap bag of grain. He’s still feverish, and she fears the dampness of the cellar is going to exacerbate his condition. Her hands grope for the pile of blankets she had dropped carelessly to the floor. 

As she unfolds one blanket after another and lays them over him, she listens for any sounds coming from above. Everything is muted, but all she can hear are shuffling footsteps she’s sure are Mary Margaret’s. 

Soon, the room is flooded with light again when the trap door is lifted. Emma rises and hurries to the bottom of the steps to take the basket of food and pitcher of water from her sister-in-law’s hands.

“I think I heard David and Leroy’s horses returning to the barn,” Mary Margaret tells her. “Hopefully they have some good news and you will not have to stay down here very long.” 

Before Emma can answer, Mary Margaret returns to the kitchen, leaving them in darkness once again. Emma cautiously picks her way back across the floor, setting the food and water down when she senses she’s back at Killian’s side, then sits down herself. 

“Killian,” she whispers into his ear, “you need to drink some water. Can you sit up?” 

He pushes himself up, groaning with the effort. Since she doesn’t have a cup to pour the water into, she holds the rim of the pitcher to his lips, slowly tipping it up until he’s swallowing the liquid. She gives him several sips before he pulls back and taps her arm to signify he’s had enough. 

“Do you want something to eat?” she asks, but he’s already dropped back down to the makeshift bed. 

“Not…right…now,” he forces out through chattering teeth.  

“Are you cold?” 

“A…bit.” 

She already used all of the blankets to cover him, so she does the only thing left she can think to do to help him get warm. Peeling back the blankets, she stretches her body out alongside his and pulls the covers up over both of them, then wraps her arms around his thin frame and buries her face into the crook of his neck, breathing warmth against his skin. 

Soon she can tell he has fallen asleep, but she remains awake and alert. All is quiet upstairs, but just as she’s dozing off, she hears muffled pounding on the back door. Her eyes pop open and her breath catches in her throat. 

Murmuring voices reach her ears and she strains to listen, but can’t make out anything that’s being said. Heavy boots thud across the floor, and Emma holds her breath, praying whoever is up there doesn’t discover the trap door beneath the innocuous-looking braided rug. 

The voices increase in volume and she can catch a word here and there. “...nobody…sister…left yesterday…” she hears David saying. 

Another deep voice, obviously a man’s, responds, “...proof…evidence…escaped…” And then the word that makes her heart stop “...traitor.” 

She hears doors slamming and wonders if Mary Margaret had time to hide the cot before their unwanted visitors arrived. She has to believe she did, since her sister-in-law has plenty of experience with hiding evidence. Their spy ring has been active since the beginning of the rebellion, and they’ve had a few close calls, but they haven’t lost anyone yet. 

Killian shifts in his sleep, letting out a soft moan, and Emma swiftly covers his mouth with her hand. Chances of anyone upstairs hearing him are almost nil, but she doesn’t want to tempt fate. 

Disconcerting noises continue for what seems like an indeterminable amount of time, until at last, the door slams and silence settles again. Emma strains to hear anything, but there is absolutely no sound at all. She should feel relieved, but she’s worried for her brother and his wife. What if they’ve been taken by the soldiers? If they have, will they become prisoners of the British army? Unbidden tears fill her eyes at the thought, and she forces herself not to think along those lines.

It is several minutes before she realizes she still has her hand over Killian’s mouth. She removes it and strokes his cheek, allowing herself to enjoy the prickling of his beard against her palm. 

She has no idea how much time passes until she hears the sounds of someone entering the house and her entire body tenses. If the soldiers have come back to search again and find the hidden cellar door, she and Killian are helpless and will without a doubt be captured…or killed. 

Her heart is pounding so loudly she’s afraid she’ll give them away, when she hears light tapping on the floor above them. Three knocks, followed by two and then two more in quick succession. She wants to hope, but what if it’s a trick? 

Then she hears Mary Margaret���s voice through the floorboards. “It’s me, Emma. They’re still on the property, so stay put.” 

They stay hidden in the cellar the rest of that day. Emma is eventually able to get Killian to eat and walk in small circles around the crates of vegetables, but most of their time is spent lying on the nest of quilts. In between fitful spurts of sleep, they have whispered conversations and cuddle together. Emma understands the danger they’re in, but she has to admit she doesn’t mind the time spent in Killian’s arms. 

Later in the evening, Mary Margaret brings down more food and water and tells them that David is pretty sure the soldiers are long gone, but as a precaution, recommends they stay in the cellar overnight since they could be waiting to see if there’s any movement from the house after dark. After her sister-in-law goes back upstairs, Emma lets tears of exhaustion and relief pour down her face as she buries it in Killian’s chest. 

*********

David and Leroy thoroughly inspect the property early the next morning to ensure the soldiers have moved on. Once they return to the house and give the all clear, the two men help Killian back up the steps. While Mary Margaret and Emma collect the blankets and begin making breakfast, David fills the metal bathtub and assists Killian into it. Being in the cellar all that time is surely detrimental to his recovery, and they want to drive the chill and dampness from his body with a long soak in hot water. 

Mary Margaret fills Emma in on the men who searched the house and barn as they fry eggs and slices of ham. “It seems they sent men more interested in finding something of value to steal, rather than finding the two of you, because they were looking in places where it would be impossible to hide - inside cupboards, behind the stove, in dresser drawers. If the situation hadn’t been so nerve wracking, I would have laughed at their blatant disregard for their mission.”

Emma manages a small smile, knowing if the British would have sent doggedly determined men like Colonel Sitwell and Sergeant Gold, she and Killian would surely have been discovered.

“It was our good fortune that they were more preoccupied with burglary, though,” Mary Margaret continues. “I do not think they realized that a house can have a cellar beneath it. As many times as they tramped across the kitchen floor, they did not notice the hollow sound of it.” 

“The search seemed to take an eternity and I do not think I breathed the entire time,” Emma states. 

“I was holding my breath, too. That is the closest call we have ever had.”

They are plating the food when David comes out of the bedroom, carrying a bucket of the bathwater. “Killian wants to join us in the kitchen for breakfast,” he informs them, before emptying the bucket outside. 

“He is feeling up to it?” Emma asks, a hint of worry in her voice. 

“He says he’s tired of being a bother to everyone. And yes,” he adds quickly when he sees Emma getting ready to object, “I assured him that is not true, but you know he is stubborn.” 

“Yes,” Emma agrees, “but his stubbornness is what kept him alive.” 

David nods with a grin and disappears into the bedroom again. Emma and Mary Margaret share a smile and finish putting the food on the table, eager for the four of them to be eating together again, just as they had so many other times.

On the eve before Killian left to infiltrate enemy lines, he shared a hearty meal with Mary Margaret, David and Emma. 

“We double checked the route Killian will take to try to find the British encampment,” David said between bites of his hash. “He should be able to follow the river almost the entire way.” 

Emma blinked rapidly to keep the tears from falling. She had seen many spies off on missions, and had been sent herself, but this time was different. This time, it was the man she loved who was putting himself in danger. 

She felt his knee bump against hers under the table and knew he was well aware of her thoughts. He always seemed to be able to read her like an open book. Swallowing hard, she turned to look at him, valiantly forcing a smile onto her face. He returned it with one of his own, though it didn’t quite reach his beautiful, blue eyes. 

They finished their dinner, speaking of mundane topics to skirt around the issue that was weighing heavy on all of their minds. Afterwards, Mary Margaret waved away Emma’s offer to help clean the kitchen, and Emma knew it was because her sister-in-law understood her desire to have some time alone with Killian. 

The two of them walked outside, enjoying the evening’s cool respite after the heat of the mid-June day. 

“You plan to leave at daybreak?” Emma questioned, already knowing the answer. 

“Aye. The sooner I depart, the sooner I will be able to come back to you.” He took her hand and brought it to his lips. “There’s not a day will go by I won’t think of you.” 

“Good,” she replied with a slight smile. 

They continued walking until they were on the back side of the barn, out of sight of the house. Killian turned and took both of Emma’s hands. “I will miss you, Love.” 

“Promise me you will be careful and will come back to me.” 

“I will try my best, but you know as well as I that what we do is dangerous. Extremely important, but dangerous.”

She nodded solemnly, casting her eyes down to the ground. After several moments, she looked back up at him. “If we do not receive any communication from you for more than a month, I will come looking for you.” 

“Emma…” 

“You know you would do the same for me,” she interrupted, before he could object.

“Of course I would, but we do not know exactly where I will be.” 

“It does not matter. Wherever it is, I will find you.” Wrapping her arms around him, she pressed her cheek, damp with tears, to his chest. “I will always find you.” 

Returning her embrace, he pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “I love you, Emma.” 

“I love you, too.” Turning her face up to his, she added, “We probably will not have any time to ourselves tomorrow morning, so I want to give you something now.” 

His brows rose in question. “What is it, Love?” 

“This,” she said, then pushed up onto her toes to press her lips to his. It was a tenderly sweet kiss, expressing all the love, fear and longing they shared, and neither wanted it to end. When it finally did, she pulled him close again. “Take that with you to remember that I am here, waiting for you.” 

The next morning after a quick breakfast, Killian mounted his horse, pressed his fingers to his lips and waved goodbye to her. She wouldn’t see him again for more than three long, agonizing months.

*********

Two mornings later, Emma opens her eyes and immediately rolls over to face Killian. His eyes are also open, and she can see that they appear clear, bright, rested and fever-free. 

She wastes no time throwing back the covers and getting off of the cot to go to his bedside. “Good morning, my love. You look like you feel better.” 

Pushing himself up onto his elbow, he gives her a lopsided grin. “I do feel like I have re-entered the land of the living.” 

Emma sits on the side of the bed, brushing his shaggy hair out of his eyes while releasing a sigh of relief. “I was beginning to wonder when you would decide to stop making us coddle you,” she teases, her heart lighter than it has been for as long as she can remember.

“Do you mean to tell me that by recovering, I will be giving up my chance to be coddled?” he asks, flopping back down onto his pillow. “Perhaps I haven’t thoroughly thought this through.” 

She leans over and boldly presses a kiss to his lips. “I believe there are better ways for me to pay attention to you, than by nursing you back to health,” she says, only pulling away far enough to look into his beloved cerulean eyes. 

“Do tell,” he grins, reaching up to twist a lock of her hair around his finger. 

A knock on the door interrupts their private moment, and Emma sighs for an entirely different reason. Killian finds her hand and brings it to his lips. “Best answer that, Love.” 

She nods in resignation, rising from his bed and grabbing her robe from the nail beside the door. Once she has cinched the belt around herself, she opens the door to find Mary Margaret on the other side. 

“How is the patient this morning?” 

“Much improved,” Killian answers for himself. 

Mary Margaret steps into the room to see for herself. “Oh Killian, you do look better!” 

“Back to my devilishly handsome self?” he cheeks. “After all, the bloody Brits pretty much knocked the handsome out of me.” 

“No army is that powerful,” Emma assures him, earning her a warm, loving smile. 

She knows he still has a long recovery ahead, but it relieves her to see that he finally appears to have turned the corner. 

*********

It takes several months for Killian to completely regain his strength and health. He stays with David and Mary Margaret during his recovery, so he and Emma are able to spend every day together while their relationship continues to deepen and flourish. 

One day, when Killian is almost fully recovered, he asks Emma to take a walk with him after the evening meal. She can tell that something is on his mind, and when she questions him about it, he turns to face her, gently clasping both of her hands. Then he slowly lowers himself to one knee and Emma gasps, realizing what he intends to do. 

Looking up into her beautiful face, he says, “Emma, I know that we face an uncertain future, but there is one thing I want you to be certain of - that I always, always want to be by your side. So…Emma Nolan, will you marry me?” 

“Oh, Killian,” she begins, tears already escaping her eyes and trickling down her cheeks, “you know how much I love you, but are you sure this is the right time? We still do not know when or how this conflict is going to end.”

“That is exactly why I think we should get married. I do not want to waste any of the time I could have as your husband, because we have no guarantee how many years we may have together. I love you, Emma, and I don’t want to wait any longer to marry you, but if you do not want…”

“No, Killian,” Emma interrupts firmly. “I am not saying I do not want to marry you, because I do, with every fiber of my being. I just do not know if we should take the time to plan a wedding, when there is still so much work to do for the cause.” 

“I understand how important our work is, but you are more important to me.”

Emma sinks to her knees and frames his face with her hands, scratching her nails lovingly through his beard. “And you to me, my love. You are right - we should not let what is happening around us dictate our lives. So yes, Killian, I will marry you and be the proudest and happiest woman alive.”

Killian huffs out a relieved breath and flashes her a dimpled grin, before dipping his head to claim her lips in a celebratory kiss. No one knew what the future held, but the newly engaged couple was sure that whatever it was, they would face it together. 

*********

The conflict, which becomes known as the Revolutionary War, will drag on for another six years. The spy ring organized and aided by David and Mary Margaret will operate until the end, providing important intel to the Continental army. After their close call, Emma and Killian won’t risk going behind enemy lines again, but continue to work tirelessly for the cause nonetheless. 

One evening, nearly a year after Killian’s capture, their daring escape, and his lengthy recuperation, he and Emma sit on the rickety wooden steps leading up to the back entry to David and Mary Margaret’s home. They watch the sun set with golden spangled light on the field and trees of this land for which they are fighting, and for which he nearly died, fingers twined together and Emma’s head lying on Killian’s shoulder. They are in the process of working with David to save the money to purchase a few acres next to he and Mary Margaret’s property, where they will build a home of their own, when the fighting is over, and hopefully the colonies are left to self-govern.

Emma sighs, in as near a state of perfect contentment as she can remember feeling in some time. There were many dark moments in the last months, and even years, and she knows better than to think the future will be perfect or easy. But the hope that feeds her, bolstered by the strength of their love, is a source of joy that she trusts will endure through any challenge. She might once have thought hope and true love fanciful notions from fairy tales rather than the stuff of real life. 

It’s true that people often speak of hope as if it’s this delicate, ephemeral thing made of whisper and spider’s web. She knows better though, after what they have been through. Hope is not fragile or fleeting. Hope has dirt on her face, blood on her knuckles, the grit of the cobblestones in her hair, and just spat out a tooth as she rises for another go. But that’s the beauty of it; hope will always get up and start again.

Killian’s arm around her lends the warmth of any blanket as he draws her closer to his side, murmuring his love for her into the skin at her temple before placing a chaste kiss there as well. The fight may not yet be over, but that time will come. They will see the battle through and celebrate that day - a happy beginning - together.

*********

Tagging a few who might enjoy: @searchingwardrobes @kmomof4 @jennjenn615 @whimsicallyenchantedrose @laschatzi @apiratewhopines @anmylica @stahlop @bdevereaux @xsajx @bluewildcatfanatic @gingerchangeling @gingerpolyglot @spartanguard @therooksshiningknight @optomisticgirl @tiganasummertree @teamhook @revanmeetra87 @booksteaandtoomuchtv @kazoosandfannypacks @xarandomdreamx @motherkatereloyshipper @winterbaby89 @justanother-unluckysoul @the-darkdragonfly @donteattheappleshook @elizabeethan @darkcolinodonorgasm @hollyethecurious @artistic-writer @killian-whump @cocohook38 @wefoundloveunderthelight @drowned-dreamer

[synonymroll648]

Don’t be shy link the fic

hello this is a call to everyone to go read (and pray when the summer ends) by sunlight-and-storms (copperzinnias) on ao3 aka @/cadence-talle on tumblr if you haven't already!! it's a sophiana summer camp au and it is beautifully burned into my brain <3 could scream about how great it is but. you can do that yourself :) once you go read it :)

[levi501ackerman]

Steel Heart Chapter 29:

Swans Mate For Life

Hange x Reader Chapter Index Masterlist AO3

Megan's Note: Finished the semester with all A's! Happy Holidays <3 After Steel Heart I'm only posting long fics on AO3 Posted: 12/27/24

Word Count: 7.1k

!!! WARNING: Sexual Themes !!!

Levi was right. He seemed to always be right. With the wind flowing through your hair and the sun’s heat beaming down on your delicate skin, you were free. With each moment closer to the castle, grand expectations loomed over you. You weren’t sure what they entailed, but your mind was already feeding you your own expectations that you couldn’t measure up to. But riding a horse through the grassy meadow with various colors of flowers hid the responsibilities restraining your heart. 

Levi could tell you were tangled in your thoughts by how hard you squeezed his waist while riding to the next resting point. It was the third or fourth time within the hour that he told you to loosen up. But the dwelling dread demanded your attention, and suffocating Levi was the byproduct. 

Peeking among the clouds were the faint towers of Mitras Castle reaching for the heavens. You saw the grand towers once before, a while ago, and the visual was an astonishing reminder of how large the castle was. It was so magnificent you could see the tops of the castle from an impressive distance. Its opulent beauty was home to your parents and soon yourself. Knowing how much your life would change with a single location was odd. 

Hange was spearheading the travel to the next destination point. The plan was to camp a couple of hours outside the City of Mitras for the night and then, in the morning, enter the City of Mitras and return to Mitras Castle. The goal of this entire journey. 

Your fingers latched onto the golden swan locket. It brought comfort to you as if Hange was always with you. You plunged your nails between the crack and forced the locket open. It was empty and you wondered what you could place in the center of your locket. Hange suggested a lock of each other's hair because it was romantic, but you were unsure and wondered about the possible alternatives. You snapped the locket shut and your thumb grazed over the engraved word, ‘Forever.’ 

A single lonely willow tree marked the top of the last grassy hill before a flat meadow leading to the center of the walls. The walls that enclosed the City of Mitras and Mitras Castle were in view yet a few hours away. The sun beamed in the orange west sky and the breeze rustled the hanging leaves. When Hange reached the bottom of the hill, their white mustang came to a halt and Hange motioned to the general area.

Eren and Connie led the horses attached to the carts further away from the base of the hill while Niccolo halted his horse. Levi tugged on the reins and Beauty stopped at the base of the hill. Then Levi hopped off Beauty and offered his hand for assistance. 

By the time the small campsite was set up, the blue sky transitioned into an orange daze. Levi had a small pot of tea over the campfire and Niccolo was chopping vegetables. Connie was doing push-ups closer to his tent, wanting to keep his strength. It was a casual, mundane scene. A group of friends in clean clothes around a campfire, listening to the crackling flames and the faint whistling of the breeze. There’s no Princess, no knights, and no duties. A casual group of travelers camping between the City of Mitras and Orvud District. 

Hange focused on drawing a rough sketch of the new invention they wanted to send to Stohess. The harpoon gun. A simple machinery that could fire a sharp blade into an enemy and a crank reels them into a sharp spear at the tip of the barrel. Their devotion to their drawing was adorable. At moments of analyzing and critiquing their blueprint, they chewed on the end of the pencil. Seeing Hange at work was fascinating and inspiring, as it showed them wanting to make a change in the world.  

“Your drawing looks good, Hange.” They clicked their tongue, staring at their rough draft, then sighed.

“I’m not the artist, Moblit is.” They bitterly muttered under their breath. Like a needle prick in the side, you regretted your compliment that was filled with positive intentions. Only to unintentionally resurface Hange’s wounds. Hange turned the pencil around and aggressively erased a part of their drawing. You placed a gentle hand on their shoulder.

“Give yourself more credit . . .” You soothed and lightly squeezed their shoulder. Hange rolled their shoulders back and then they raised their arms to stretch. Hange hummed and then stood up. 

“Bathroom break,” Hange turned to you. “Do you need to go?”

“Yeah,” you lied, wanting to stay with Hange. They offered a hand and they pulled you up from the log. Levi's pot of tea whistled and he pulled it away from above the fire. 

“I’m going to start dinner fairly quickly,” Niccolo called out as you followed Hange toward the willow tree on top of the hill. Eren laid in the grass with his arms folded, shielding his eyes from the sun’s rays. He didn’t react as Hange stepped over him, comically, earning an amused huff from you. 

“Thank you, Niccolo.” Hange called back, and Niccolo flashed a friendly smile at you. 

There was something about the way Hange walked. With each step treading up the hill, you were mesmerized by how Hange’s long legs carried them. Their stride was entrancing and exuded confidence. Hange’s sleeves crippled in the breeze and outlined their muscular arm. Your eyes trailed down to their feminine hands, bruised with the souvenir of battle. 

You wanted to feel their skin against yours, yearning for a sense of comfort. But the desire had to remain hidden from the rest of the knights. There can’t be any more mistakes. No more emotional reactions that may lead to the exposure of your bond with Hange. You blinked rapidly, watching the grass crunch under your boots. 

How can I protect Hange . . . ?

Hange pulled the drooping leaves of the willow tree to the side, motioning you to enter. The thick leaves hung low to your ankles, almost like a wall surrounding the tree. Rays from the sun peeked through the layers of the willow branches and leaves, presenting faint light in the shaded private sanctuary. The tree's tall, slanted, dark trunk split into multiple branches. It was a vibrant, beautiful tree. 

“Wow . . .” You whispered.

“Willow trees can live up to sixty years—sometimes seventy,” Hange said and you felt a tickle, then Hange’s hand caressed your lower back. They gave a friendly smile, and the sparse light shone through the leaves, scattering specs of light across Hange’s face. Their glasses reflected the light, glaring the lens and obscuring their eye from you. The pattern of light was like glitter glistening over their delicate skin. The curtain of the leaves hid you from the rest of the knights and courage surged through you. In a single motion with all your strength, you shoved Hange against the tree bark. “ OOMF !” Hange gasped and you forced your lips onto theirs. Hange jerked at the encounter. You missed the landing, feeling Hange’s lips on the corner of your mouth. You tilted your head, shifting directly onto their soft lips. The heat rose in your face, and your hands quivered as you clasped them onto Hange. One on their waist and the other on their arm, using your weight to pin them against the trunk. You felt their shoulders relax when it dawned on them what you were doing. Hange’s hands caressed your body and they leaned into you. When your lips parted, following Hange’s guidance, they gingerly brushed their tongue against yours, stirring a familiar sensation between your legs. You pulled away from Hange’s touch, resting your forehead against their chest and catching your breath. Hange tilted their head back against the trunk, their chest was heaving and then they let out a breathy chuckle. “I peed a little.”

“Hange . . .” You giggled unsurely. “What?”

“I didn’t know you were going to push me.” Hange’s laughter grew louder and infected you. You stifle a chuckle against Hange’s shirt, eyeing the chain of the golden swan locket around their neck. Hange curiously watched as you pulled the chain up, revealing the locket from under their white collared shirt. You placed it against the fabric, admiring the jewelry as if it were a physical display of Hange’s adoration. A sun ray peeking through the leaves landed perfectly on the locket, spotlighting the golden swan. So precious, so endearing. The light in the dark. “You’re feeling bold, aren’t you?” Hange teased.

You trailed up to Hange’s dilated doe eye, not forgetting to glance at their flushed and puffy lips. Then, you gave in. Utterly and completely immersing yourself. You wrapped your arms around Hange, pulling them in for a hug. They tenderly wrapped their arms around you, protecting you. You could hear Hange’s heart thump from within the cage of their body, a rhythm of precious life, evidence of a soul. 

I have to protect Hange . . . at all costs.

Their spirit, their soul, their body, their honor . . . at all costs.

When your back was to Hange as they squatted and peed, you gazed at the drooping leaves of the willow tree. The leaves brushed against one another as the breeze carried their delicate stems. Nature is delicate. Flowers, trees, and plants are oblivious to humankind's corrupt intentions. . . 

Then, the idea came to you all at once, frightening you. The possibility . . .

You are a good person. You are. 

But the things you do for Hange . . .

You don’t know how to fight and you don’t know the impending harm encompassing Hange . . .

The possibility . . . 

At all costs . . . right . . . ?

There’s Hange Zoe and you and those who want to harm Hange Zoe and you.

“—Oh! Sorry!” You spat out when your consciousness returned and realized Hange was nudging your arm while repeating your name. 

“ . . . Are you okay? What were you thinking about?” Their innocent voice was sincere. You couldn’t meet Hange’s eye, it was like one look and they would know. It was impossible that they would know your thoughts, but . . . at the same time. You avoided them, guilty of the possibility . . .

“I’m just . . . worried about meeting my parents, that’s all.” You lied. Hange knew there was more to your reply. But they didn’t push. They didn’t want you to dwell on the inevitable. You didn’t even want to think about tomorrow. You glanced at Hange’s locket, lying against the cotton fabric. Once again, light seeping through the leaves of the willow tree shone on the locket, illuminating the golden swan. The odds were highly unlikely, yet it happened twice. Perhaps it’s a sign? Perhaps this was nature’s way of excusing you.

“I’m sorry about your mother. I hope she is alive when we reach Mitras Castle.” Hange swept the leaves to the side, offering you an exit. You fidgeted with your hands, your thumb scratching the skin next to your index finger’s joints. 

“What are your parents like?” You asked, Intentionally allowing Hange to speak. 

“I don’t talk to them.”

“Oh.” 

“Yeah.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Hange sighed. “I estranged from my parents long ago . . . I think the resentment wore off; however, there isn’t much time. My father raised me as a boy because he wanted a male heir to carry the legacy of being a Knight of the Royal King’s Guard. When I was young and lost my eye, I was a very angry and hurt person. I argued with my parents and one thing led to another and I don’t speak to them . . .”

“Hange . . .” Your heart ached, and you wanted to hold Hange in your arms. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be. We’re okay now.” Their nonchalant voice had a hidden wounded tone to it. “I received a letter from my parents when I was promoted to Commander. As I said, we're okay now.” Hange gently nudged you. 

When the sun was lower in the west sky, dinner was ready. Niccolo made a simple beef and vegetable fried rice that warmed your stomach. It was filling and there was plenty for everyone to have two or three plates. He intended to use as much vegetables, eggs, and meat as possible because Levi mentioned they would most likely throw out the unused food. Rico and Kitz took back as much food as they could, but in the end, they wanted the group to have a week’s worth of food just in case there happened to be more trouble. Niccolo was considerate and intentionally chopped some carrots, bell peppers and cabbages to feed Rai. 

As usual, you sat on Hange’s right and placed Rai’s cage on the grassy ground. Occasionally, shoving vegetables through the openings of her cage. It was wonderful how mundane the moment was and the sky was a gradient of breathtaking hues. To the west were the remnants of the sun’s light, casting an orange illumination and blending into a pastel pink. The green leaves of the willow tree behind where Levi, Niccolo, and Eren were enhanced by the lustering pink ombre sky. A lavender haze was the last stretch before the east sky turned dark. 

“You must feel excited to return to the castle and be out of harm's way,” Connie said while going for a second plate of the beef fried rice. You recalled the moment you first met Connie, along with Levi and Jean and how you were terrified of them harming you. 

“I was terrified when I first met you, Jean and Levi.” You said, hoping to avoid the topic of returning to the castle. 

“I remember . . . you swung Miche’s sword at me,” Hange chuckled at Levi’s memory, and Nicolo’s face was amused as he listened.

“That’s right, Levi told me you did that. High five!” Hange playfully raised a hand and you smacked it with all your might. 

“Yeah, but you weren’t wearing armor. I thought you were scavengers! So I told the story Sir Miche Zacharius told me. I was being careful and following his orders.” You shrugged. 

“You did the best you could in your position,” Levi said, sipping his tea.

“He’s probably at Mitras Castle by now. Levi said Miche had jaundice and an infection. How did he step into an animal trap?” Hange asked, fully turning toward you.

“Well, we were walking all day through a forest and then I heard a loud metal snapping sound and Miche yelled and then I saw the metal spikes of the trap clamping into his knee.” Hange inhaled a sharp intake of breath while Coonie groaned, cringing at your story. “Yeah . . . I helped him walk to the cottage and then I sewed his knee up. I did my best, but it got infected . . .” You sighed. “Then yeah . . . I stayed with him in the cottage and we ran out of food and Miche got sicker and sicker. That’s when I took his sword and left the cottage.”

“I bet Commander Miche is grateful for your loyalty,” Connie said, placing a slice of beef into his mouth. 

“Hey, I bet Miche is at Mitras Castle in the hospital being taken care of by the lovely nurses,” Hange joked, trying to lighten the air. 

“Yeah and Jean is unconscious in the bed next to him,” Eren added.

“When he wakes up, he’ll get attention from the nurses.” Connie and Eren laughed and their smiles were infectious. Your lips broke out into a smile. Then you imagined Jean, pale and thin, lying in a bed. You recalled how Jean was confused the last time you saw him. Jean called you Hange a few times the night you were abducted, even though you and Hange don’t resemble each other. 

You leaned forward and picked up a piece of bell pepper from the plate in front of Rai’s cage. Rai enthusiastically ripped the pieces of the bell peppers from your fingers, munching on the vegetables adorably. 

“When we return to the castle, you’ll be expected to address us formally.” Levi glanced between you and Hange. “We’ve been relaxed, but you’ll have to start using our titles upon your arrival. Your parents will be displeased if they think your guardians didn’t raise you to address people with their titles . . .” You sighed defeatedly, then recalled when Sir Zacharius said you could call him Miche when it was only you and him.

“That’s right, Y/N, it’s proper to say our titles, but hey, we’re still us! We’ll always be around to help you.” Hange said, suddenly, it felt like you were far away from the knights. Like you were already apart from them. A while ago, Levi mentioned how a knight would be appointed as your number one guard and that Hange couldn’t be appointed because they were a commander. 

“Levi, you said a knight was going to be appointed as my number one guard . . . do you have any idea who?”

“I’m not sure,” Levi took a quick sip of his tea. “Your parents and the Commander of the Royal King’s Guard will decide.”

“I know you’re a Commander,” You turned to Hange as they chewed on a mouthful of fried rice. “But why can’t you be my number one guard? You’re the closest knight to me . . .” To your surprise, Hange and Levi locked eyes and knowingly glanced at each other. They always knew what the other was thinking. It looked like nothing related to chastising, pleading, or guilt. More like a sheer sensibility. 

“I create a lot of projects, Y/N. I enjoy creating and improving weapons.”

“But what if the knight that becomes my guard is weird?”

“I Guarantee whoever is assigned to you will be kind and protect you.” Hange soothed, yet their words went in one ear and out the other. How often were you going to see Hange? How much were you and Hange going to be apart? You imagined laying in bed at the castle and suddenly, a ward of the Marleyan Cult attacked Mitras Castle. In the distance, loud explosions followed by deep creaking sounds of towers plummeting to the ground. Then, it becomes hard to breathe as you choke on the thick smoke of fire and dust of debris. You imagined yourself in a bedroom in the castle alone—without Hange as the knight guarding you gets their throat sliced by a cultist. Then the door of the bedroom bursts open and an enraged group of men dart for you, grabbing you, touching you, conquering you as they drag you out of your room. Yet you’re screaming— “Stop.” Hange’s voice was distant and impatient. “Seriously, Y/N. You won’t encounter danger in the castle.”

“Breathe,” Levi said from across the campfire. 

“Princess, are you okay?” Connie asked and you couldn’t register what Hange was thinking as they stared back at you, apathetically. You realized how loudly you were breathing and made an effort to stifle the intake. Guilt flooded your chest and you looked deep into Hange’s eye, looking for the comfort they weren’t providing. It was odd and you weren’t sure why Hange’s disdainful expression was directed at you. Hange’s eye downcasted to the ground, glancing at Rai in her cage. 

It was peculiar and you weren’t sure to apologize or that you even did something to upset Hange. Your stomach coiled, and you couldn’t help but notice how much your leg bounced. Then Hange’s face softened briefly as if there wasn’t ever a sign of disgust with you. As if it didn’t exist at all. Their lack of instantly comforting you was like an odd limbo that quaked the ground beneath you. You became so reliant on Hange’s reassurance that a moment without it felt like a heavy weight dragging you through the cracks of the earth. The extremity of grasping someone’s full attention is hopelessly ephemeral, yet all we desire and crave to own.

“When you see Mitras Castle, you’ll be around so many people, knights, and guards that will do everything to protect you,” Hange said, mending the distance your mind conjured. Their voice was soothing and caressed your worries. “The safest place within the walls is Mitras Castle.”

“Then . . . why was I raised in Shiganshina?” The group of knights were stunned into silence. If the premise was that the Castle within the walls is the safest place, why weren’t you kept there? You’ve been through countless situations, facing death head-on. . . Since you were so valuable and the heir to the throne . . . why? Why were you sent away from the safest place within the walls?  Hange shrugged and the fire popped faintly. Connie didn’t have an answer and Eren didn’t have an idea. 

“When you meet your parents, ask them,” Levi said. If it was your parent's call, why would they send you away? It seemed . . . strange, unlike the logical thing to do. You blinked and then rolled your eyes. 

“I feel overwhelmed.” You simply stated and Niccolo stood from his log, collecting everyone’s plates. Connie placed a hand on your shoulder which was surprisingly comforting. Then, Hange began rubbing circles in your lower back. Their touch was vital to healing every and all of your wounds. 

“Thank you,” Hange grabbed your plate, stacked it on top of theirs, and then gave it to Niccolo. “I think we should rest early tonight.” Hange proposed and then Levi poured another cup of tea. “Remember, full armor riding into the City of Mitras tomorrow.”

“Thank you for another delicious dinner, Niccolo,” Eren said and the rest of the knights joined in praising Niccolo’s cooking. 

Connie and Eren extinguished the fire while Niccolo wiped the dishes clean. Levi and Hange carried supplies back to the carts as the sky turned darker. You sat on your bedroll while holding Rai in your lap, affectionately petting her. She was climbing on your chest, seeking attention each time you stopped petting her momentarily. 

Hange’s bags, books, and armor were splayed on the wooden table of the large conference tent. Gleaming in the candlelight was Hange’s sword. Their steel sword was unattended, lying on the table with no one around but you. It called you. The light reflecting off the steel blade beckoned you. Their sword was right there. 

You carefully picked Rai off your lap and set her in the cage. Your hands quivered as you latched her cage, you told yourself it was because you were cold. Then, you carefully walked across the tent, each heavy step feeling like a blaring signal for others to notice. 

The steel sword shined, free of imperfections, as if it had not slaughtered an astonishing amount of cultists. A weapon that made Hange untouchable. Their initials, HZ were engraved at the base of the blade. You held your breath as you gingerly lifted the sword by the blade, bringing the handle closer. The intricate design on the handle appealed to the eyes, and your fingers grazed the ornate pattern encrusted. An odd juxtaposition that a beautiful sword was a lethal weapon to end a life. A crested sword belonging to Knights of the Royal King’s Guard. A symbol of status—a higher rank than a Knight of the Scout Regiment. Tiny amethyst jewels embedded in the handle signified an even higher rank—a jeweled knight. There are only six jeweled swords. The tiny jewels were the perfect size . . .

When Hange entered the tent, you nearly jumped out of your skin. They amusingly huffed at your reaction, then raised their eyebrows.

“You’re not planning to kill me, are you?” Hange playfully asked, your heart thumping in your chest like you were caught doing something you shouldn’t.

“No.” 

“Are you okay?” They carefully grasped the weapon from your hands. Their bruised hands were delicate and something was alluring about how their fingers wrapped around the blade. Hange’s fingers are dainty yet thick and rather appealing. 

“I just wish I knew how to fight . . . how to protect you.” You whispered and Hange set the jeweled sword on the table. You stared at the sword, avoiding Hange’s eye. Your hand trailed up to the swan locket, drawing Hange’s attention. 

“You don’t need to . . .” You sighed, feeling defeated. With arriving at Mitras Castle and the Marleyan Cult being weak, there almost seemed to be no point. Yet, there was something in the back of your mind—a foreboding feeling that you would need to have the skills. 

“Okay . . . .” Through the lens of Hange’s wire-rimmed glasses, their brown eye twinkled and then Hange drifted from you. They left you in place as they walked to Rai’s cage, squatting to meet her level. Hange cooed playfully at Rai and they stuck their finger so Rai could sniff it. 

You’ve been wanting it for a while. Hange’s full attention. Their soul. Hange’s wispy bangs hung in front of their face, shielding their eye. They looked dainty and adorable interacting with Rai. You softly went over to Hange and tugged them by their bicep. Hange glanced up at you from where they were squatting and the candlelight warmed their cheeks. Their warm brown eye entranced you. Their eye didn’t leave yours as they rose and you felt a power shift when Hange stood tall.  

You slowly reached for the golden chain around Hange’s neck, lifting it from their skin. The golden swan locket rose from beneath the collar of Hange’s cotton shirt. Then, you laid it flat against the fabric. Perhaps it was the golden hues reflecting the candlelight, but the golden locket shone brightly in the dim tent. It was the brightest thing to you. 

Then Hange carefully placed a piece of hair you didn’t notice was caught in the corner of your eyelashes behind your ear. You coyly smiled at Hange’s touch and then clasped your hand around Hange’s wrist. Hange read you like a book, and they touched your cheek, caressing the precious skin that encompassed your soul. 

“I just want to say . . .” Hange whispered, their voice was low and effortlessly attractive. You tilted your head into Hange’s palm, languid and comfortable in their possession. Hange closed their eye and their feminine lashes framed their lid. Then they pulled you in and they rested their forehead against yours. Two swans. “I know we won’t live forever . . . but I know our hearts, our souls, eternally belong together.”

Your heart swelled at Hange’s words. They lingered in the air, floating gracefully and pleasantly settled deep within your soul. Hange’s lips pressed against yours and the sincere gesture made chills scatter down your back. It was gentle and more innocent than the kisses before. There was something magnetic about it, like it was more than physical, like your souls were joining together. 

Hange pulled away from yours and you leaned toward them, aching for more. Your eyes stayed closed and you felt Hange press a gentle kiss upon your forehead, admiring their precious possession. Their closeness, their carefulness, their act of indulging in their privileges—them. 

“Please . . .” your voice wavered with the weight of your greed. “Give me your life and I’ll give you mine.” 

Hange wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you closer. Claiming you as theirs. Their lips vigorously plunged onto yours and you placed your hands on Hange’s face. The feel of their body against yours was all consuming and there was a stirring feeling between your legs. 

You submitted to Hange’s guidance as they led the kiss. It was an act of trust to let Hange lead. In your life, you wanted to make choices and be in control. But with Hange you could relax. You knew Hange would always protect you. Hange will always support and stay with you. Through hardships and through the constraints between duty and desires, Hange will guide you through the darkest times because they are the light in the dark. Always and forever. 

The ache between your legs yearned for more when Hange broke off the kiss. The tent was filled with heavy breathing as you both tried to catch your breath. Hange swallowed and then took off their glasses. Then Hange leaned down and picked up Rai’s cage and moved it closer to the table. You stared at yours and Hange’s bedrolls, which laid next to each other. It dawned on you how you were truly going to be tying your souls. Forever. The nerves struck you and then you rolled your wrists, trying to soothe yourself. Hange was about to see all of you and you were about to see Hange. 

Hange came in front of you, and their doe eye was dilated. There was a silent moment when you and Hange stared at each other, waiting for someone to cross the threshold. There was a precious feeling of staring into Hange’s eye like you truly saw them—seeing their soul. The darks of one’s eyes are vast and familiar all at once. Hange took the initiative by unbuttoning the top of their white cotton shirt. The skin that encased their body was slowly revealed with each button undone. 

You went for the buttons on your white cotton shirt. Your hands shook from the nerves of presenting all of yourself to Hange. It was more harrowing that Hange watched you while you coyly worked at the task at hand. With each undone button, cool air tickled your skin. Hange pulled their shirt from their shoulders, revealing their sacred chest. Their nipples were erect and they dropped their shirt onto one of the bedrolls. 

You met Hange’s gaze as you prepared to reveal your skin to them. The rate of your heart increased as the build-up was filling to the brink. With a gentle tug, you pulled off the cotton fabric, dropping it where Hange did. Hange’s eye flickered to the swell of your chest and you scanned Hange’s toned stomach. Hange was a thin yet muscular person and this time, you could admire their body. They had prominent feminine abs and their arms were chiseled. A strong and healthy body protected their soul. You hoped Hange liked your body and they found it attractive like you found theirs. The thought left you vulnerable and unsure of yourself. 

It was more nerve-wracking when Hange started undoing the buttons and zipper of their slacks. You trembled and reached for the button of your tan slacks. It was going to be the most revealing part of undressing yourself. Hange pulled down their pants and underwear, and you followed after.

In a tent, somewhere between the City of Mitras and Orvud District, were two souls seeing each other in the flesh. A divine moment. The candlelight flickered in the tent, illuminating the pure bodies. It was more intimate than when you bathed in the river with Hange.

Hange’s eye trailed down your body, taking in the form of your body. They absorbed every detail and curve—capturing the beauty within all humans. Hange traced the silhouette of your legs, entranced by the body that caged you. Standing before Hange and having them quietly observe you was quite daunting.  

Hange stepped closer to you and you let out a shaking breath as they leaned in to peck your lips. You felt their lingering touches around your stomach as they glanced between your bodies. Then Hange kneeled on the bedroll and you watched as they lowered themself closer to your most intimate area. Heat rose to a boiling point and your cheeks turned pink. You followed Hange’s move and kneeled on the bed roll. 

Hange moved their wispy hairs behind their ears, and then, after a moment of innocent eye contact, they leaned in and kissed you. They pushed into you, causing you to lean backward. You hesitated momentarily and then let Hange lead you. It was slow and intoxicating. Hange crawled over you as you laid on the bed roll. Then Hange pulled their knee all the way between your thighs. Hange pressed their lower thigh against your private area, and you quietly gasped against Hange’s lips as the pressure was pleasurable.

Hange kissed the side of your mouth and peppered gentle pecks along your jaw. You breathed heavily and ached for friction. You closed your eyes, giving in to Hange’s touches, letting them take control. You tilted your hips against Hange’s lower thigh, detecting a subtle good feeling. Hange kissed the skin below your ear and trailed down your neck. 

“You’re gorgeous, Y/N,” Hange’s breath warmed the skin along your collarbones. 

“I-I was so nervous you wouldn’t like my body . . .” You admitted. Hange kissed your collarbone and back to your neck. It was pleasing to have them touch you this way.

“Your body is beautiful and healthy . . .” They kissed the other side of your neck. “Your body envelops the soul I’m in love with . . .” Hange whispered against your skin. They kissed down your chest and hovered over the swell of your breast. You flinched when Hange took in the nipple and placed a hand on your other boob. They were gentle with your precious body, moving your breast in circling motions while sucking lightly on your nipple. 

It was overwhelmingly wonderful and pleasure built between your legs. You could feel the damp skin on Hange’s lower thigh and your most private area. Like an instinct, you clamped your thighs around Hange’s, seeking more pressure against the sensitive part. You’ve been depraved for so long. You breathed heavily, trying to stifle any noises that may be louder.

Hange pinched your nipple and kissed further down. They removed their leg from your most private area and Hange continued further down your body. Their golden locket tickled you as it trailed along your body. You longed for the friction that pleased you. Hange’s hair lingered over your stomach as they kissed your abdomen. You closed your eyes, letting Hange be in full control.

They settled between your thighs and kissed your lower stomach. You jerked your thighs instinctively due to Hange being so close. They retracted their hand from your boob and wrapped their arms around your thighs. Hange had you right where they wanted you. 

They planted a kiss on the soft skin of your inner thigh and there was a jolt of excitement, longing for a more intense sensation. You flinched your legs again and Hange trailed gentle kisses down your thigh. You couldn't help but tilt your hips toward Hange, wanting them to cross the threshold. But they didn’t. Hange went to your other thigh and peppered kisses along the skin. You craved Hange’s touch. Longed to intertwine your souls. Your most private part throbbed, begging Hange to continue. Hange’s warm breath between your legs scattered shivers across your body. 

“Your pussy is beautiful,” Hange whispered. Then you felt their warm tongue lick your pussy. You gasped at the sensation and jerked your thighs shut around Hange. They didn’t react, only licking you once more. 

“Please . . .” you whispered and threw your head back. You tilted your hips into Hange’s mouth, pleading to continue giving you the euphoric feeling. Hange lapped at your drenched pussy, sending lewd audible sounds in the tent. The sensation of Hange’s tongue and the sounds of the act riled you up to where it was difficult to stay quiet.

Hange devoured your tender skin, keeping their eye on you. Indulging in the privileges they wanted for so long. They reveled in the way the steady pace of their tongue had your head thrown back. They pulled your thighs apart and you couldn’t help but submit to their control, allowing your body to be at the mercy of Hange. 

You quietly whimpered as Hange tasted you. Your legs grew weaker as you succumb to Hange’s repetitive simple action of licking your sensitive spot. Accepting that the intense pleasure from Hange’s mouth was not going to stop. 

The pillar candle on the table had shrunk in size and the air in the tent was warmer. Beads of sweat collected at your hairline and you rolled your head to the side. You parted your mouth, sending breathy moans in the air. 

Hange latched their mouth onto your pussy greedily, sucking on the sensitive spot. You moaned softly, wishing the intense feeling would never stop. You grabbed onto Hange’s forearms wrapped around your thighs, wanting to grasp at something to hold on to. You squeezed your thighs at the rising intensity of pleasure. 

It was too intense to stay quiet, and Hange could sense the pleasure that was building. Hange removed an arm from your thigh and reached up to cover a hand into your mouth. They stifled your moan and you whimpered into their hand.  

Hange continued sucking on your sensitive spot as your legs trembled beside them. You squeezed the arm you held, pleading for a release. Your slick pussy was basking in the warmth of Hange’s mouth. 

You parted your legs, desperate for a release, while you whined into Hange’s hand. Then Hange sent you over the edge. Your legs shook as you tried to keep them still, but your body was receiving the ultimate pleasure. A divine sort of pleasure you begged to feel forever. You couldn’t control your body and you arched your back, rolling your hips into Hange’s mouth. They desperately pressed their hand against your mouth, trying to contain your moans. Hange latched onto your pussy as juices damped their chin and lip. They watched you writhing in intense pleasure that you could barely handle.  

Your body went slack on the bedroll when it calmed down, but Hange continued lapping at your juices. They licked your quivering pussy and your weak body attempts to regain composure. Hange’s tongue sent an overstimulating sensation between your legs as they hungrily licked every drop of you. You weakly pushed Hange’s face away from your pussy, as they attempted to continue licking your sensitive spot. They finally gave in and stopped licking your precious pussy. 

They got on their knees and peered down at your slack body, admiring their work. Hange wiped the juices running down their chin. Then they crawled over you, placing loving kisses along your skin. Hange’s locket dragged against your skin, sending shivers to your breasts. 

Hange tenderly placed a kiss against your cheek, and you tilted your chin to feel their lips. Their lips grazed over yours, teasing and depriving you of their kiss. Then their plushy lips encompassed yours, and Hange gently worked their tongue into your mouth. The sensation of their tongue playing with yours sent another wave of excitement through your body. 

The quiet air was serene and heavenly. In this world, there was only you and Hange. The flame of the candlestick glimmered in the dark, and a breeze shook the tent. 

Hange hovered over you, determined to feel a deeper level with you. They bent your right leg to your chest and placed their right leg on the outside of your left thigh. Their body was entrancing and beautiful. You wanted to capture the moment of Hange’s body flushed with excitement and glistening with sweat. 

Hange held your bent leg as they lowered their pussy onto yours. It was damp and slick with the juices of your bodies. They grinded into you, letting out a soft moan. The pressure was overstimulating. You whimpered, accepting Hange’s overwhelming pleasure. They held your leg and leaned over you, placing their hand beside your body. The golden swan necklace dangled from their neck.   

“You sounded so pretty when I was tasting you,” Hange whispered, rolling their hips against yours, earning another breathy moan from you. “You were so wet . . .” They quickened their steady pace. Hange was eager for the ultimate pleasure and they peered down at your body. Just admiring your body under them added to the heat between you. They loved how weak and spent you looked from only their mouth. Their sensitive spot pressed against yours and Hange’s breath hitched. “You feel so fucking good.” 

For a moment, your eyes tricked you. The image was fleeting. You swore you saw gorgeous white wings extending from Hange’s back—the wings of an angel or perhaps a swan, a halo from the heavens, a savior, glowing in the dark, majestic and captivating as the wings spread.

Hange increased the pressure on your pussy, and the intensity of their hips. They moaned softly and then they bucked their hips. The golden necklace dangled over you, inches from your skin. Then a wave of pleasure washed over Hange and they desperately rocked their pussy against yours. They bit their lip, trying to stifle their cries. Hange chased after the ultimate pleasure, whimpering and dragging their skin against yours. 

They laid over you, weak and well-spent. Your legs, bodies and souls were entangled. Hange’s breath was warm against your skin. You wrapped your arms around Hange, hugging them, trapping them—they’re yours always and forever. After a moment, Hange rolled over and you both shuffled into the warmth of the bedrolls, holding each other’s bodies and touching one another’s soul. 

━━ ⊱ ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆ ♡ ⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ ⊰ ━━

The candlestick had just enough wax left by the time Hange fell asleep. Hange’s jeweled sword was still lying on the wooden table. It beckoned you. It tempted you. It called for you. With Hange being deeply asleep, the window of opportunity was open. As silently as you could, you uncovered the top part of the bedroll and the cold air flushed your skin. You shivered and held yourself, trying to relieve the cool sensation that was everywhere on your naked body.

You tiptoed, hoping Hange wouldn’t wake from the deep sleep they deserved. The steel sword was vulnerable on the table. You brought your hand to your locket, caressing the symbol of your bond with Hange. 

The flame of the candle flickered, producing the last remnants of light. It was like a physical time limit. Your heart raced as you stared at the steel sword. Shiny and clean in all its glory. A weapon.

I don’t know how to fight and I don’t know what dangers Hange may face . . .

You traced Hange’s initials on the base of the blade. Then, your fingers crept onto the handle of the sword. The ornate pattern along the handle was cool to the touch. Then you grazed the tiny amethyst jewels embedded in the crested sword. Your heart thumped in your ears. You picked up the sword, admiring the blade, the handle, the jewels. 

At all costs . . .

You turned over your shoulder, and Hange laid peacefully in their bedroll. Their chest rose and fell, indicating Hange’s deep and vulnerable rest. They were the most precious person and the person your soul was tied to. You glanced at the ornate handle. 

I must wield this weapon . . .

End of Act III

next chapter: Chapter 30: The Heir to the Throne

chapter index masterlist

[sergeantpixie]

The Fool in her Wedding Gown; and

I am teaching myself to be free, please!

I am genuinely in awe at how tonally different the two stories you picked are, Gabby!

The Fool in Her Wedding Gown:

Vibes, just vibes, nothing but vibes. This is the demonic possession story I mentioned to you! We've got demonic possession and vampire hunting and lots of moody vibes. Bella Swan is the main character very weird to write a character with the same name as me because I'm chronically addicted to ruining defining characteristics. And man, did I ruin her.

And also because I listened to this version of Where Did You Sleep Last Night/In The Pines too many times. However, the story title comes from the Crane Wives album!

It's five years post Bella and Edward's wedding, and she returns to Forks, Washington for the first time, alone. The Forks Police Department has been dealing with a string of unusual deaths - all caused by sulfur poisoning.

an excerpt:

All rational thought has abandoned her, she only knows she does not want it to happen like this; this is not how she wants to become a vampire. Bella will not be like Rosalie Hale.

I am teaching myself how to be free:

A Rory-centric fic titled after Various Storms and Saints by Florence + The Machine!

Rory’s Wild moment takes decidedly more effort. And blood and sweat and tears and really gross camp meals. And not to mention bugs, can’t forget the bugs. All Rory wants is one moment of fucking clarity, is that too much to ask? Apparently so because all she has are blisters, chapped lips, a sunburn, and a cut that she’s starting to worry is infected.

Nine years post the Revival, Rory Gilmore takes another page out of her mother's book. Clarity doesn't come quite as easily to her.

"Of course we're all worried, Rory," Paris is saying. "You showered in the boys' shower for a month when you found a spider in the girls' room at Branford! Why would you decide to go camping?" "I don't know," Rory admits. "I think I'm having some kind of personality breakdown, is that a thing?" She sniffles pathetically. "I can smell myself!" "Yeah, you're singlehandedly diminishing the skunk population of California."

ask me about my WIPs!

@randomestfandoms

[trophywifetroybarnes]

heyyyy!! LOVED ur fic and was wondering if uve got any new ones in the works?

i answered one ask and then told myself i deserved a treat, hence the delayed response im sorry, thats my bad

that being said, first of all, thank you so much???? you dont know how much that means to me! i'm so glad you enjoyed it.

and, regarding any prospective works, yes actually! i have a longer fic that im currently working on (its the reason for all the over the garden wall posting, the swan posting, and the shirley endgame poll) and honestly its a struggle because ive never quite written something like this before, and considering the pov character is Elijah, its definitely something new for me. but, without going too much into it, its an elijah & ben + elijah & shirley fic first, and a trobed + jeffshirley fic second, even though the original premise i had for it started off as a trobed fic lmao

i do have a smaller oneshot im working on as well. it was based off this post, but i can just explain it here too! so, if you've ever watched Bluey, there's this episode called fairytale. bandit, bluey's father, is telling his kids a "real life fairytale" as a bedtime story, and it involves what he claims is the first ever meeting (short as it is!) he has with chili (their mom) from when they were kids during a vacation at a camp site. however, chili doesnt remember this meeting at all although she does say that her family vacationed there often and so timelines do match up, even if she has no recollection of it. in the end its left open-ended. popular fan theory suggests that the girl bandit met--he didnt get her name, it was a few seconds meeting where she returns his hat to him--was actually brandy, chili's older sister. but regardless, the idea of a small incidental meeting, is just so cute.

and, i also have an annie fic, but thats mostly bc i had like, this need for FBI agent Annie getting with a down on her luck former-conwoman from London. i was watching cw's nancy drew as well as some white collar and i guess the though of it just wouldn't leave me alone.

[pentuppen]

Writing Patterns Tag Game!

Never done one of these before but I got Tagged by @dustdeepsea so I figured I would give it a go! Also @dustdeepsea i snagged your formatting because I am lazy!

Rules: list the first line(s) of your last 10 posted fics and see if there's a pattern!

~o0O0o~~o0O0o~~o0O0o~~o0O0o~~o0O0o~~o0O0o~~o0O0o~

The Devil You Don't (BG3 unfinished series. Rapahel/Tav. explicit)

The library was a place in which a thousand journeys waited.

2. Unleashed (BG3 Unfinished series. Book two of The Game series. Tav / Astarion spawn. Explicit)

Warner Gould half stumbled out of the Blushing Mermaid, weaving on the threshold for a few seconds before he bounced gently off the doorframe and half floated down the wooden stairs.

3. Bitter Suns (BG3 one shot. Gortash / Durge. Explicit)

Her mind was a spiral of revelation, coming undone at the seams she had roughly tied into place over the last few months, the urge once again circling her body like a shark, waiting for the first drop of her weakening will to fall like blood in the water.

4. Loose The Arrow (BG3 finished series, book one in The Game series. Astarion ascended / tav, i think at this point you can assume they are all explicit lol)

It was a perfect twilight by the time she’d finished setting up the camp.

5. Mid Winter In Moonrise (BG3 One shot. Astarion ascended/tav/halsin. Created as a xmas special for all the people who got me through 50 chapters of Loose the Arrow)

Twas the night before Deadwinter and all through the woods, not a creature was stirring…aside from the druid who sailed through the air and hit the trunk of a tree.

6. The Things We Must Do (DA:I Solas/lavellan angst fluff and smut, old fic)

The old wolf roamed across the Exalted plains and a trembling silence followed, broken only by the sound of dry grass beneath weary feet.

7. See Her Run (DA:I Solas / Lavallen angst fluff and basically unfinished because I ran out of steam)

When he had once sat within the painted rotunda of Skyhold and idly imagined her stepping amongst the ancient shelves of the shattered library, it had not been like this.

8. The Lady Doth Protest (DA:I One shot. Pure Blackwall/trevelyan smut)

He watched her mingle with the sycophantic ranks of nobles and dignitaries alike, a glittering array of strutting peacocks and bejewelled swans, all of them speaking from behind masks, whether they wore them on their faces or behind their lying eyes.

9. In Red (DA:I One shot. Pure Iron Bull / Trevelyan smut )

They meet on the battlefield again, and this time they are on the same side.

10. What You Owe (DA:I 3 parter. My very first fic, a Solas / lavellan angst smut sobfest! I made a lot of people cry)

“It was cruel of you to seek me in my dreams”

~o0O0o~~o0O0o~~o0O0o~~o0O0o~~o0O0o~~o0O0o~~o0O0o~

Not sure what any of that says about me other than I am a bit long winded lol

Don't actually know many other authors I can tag because im old and mostly shitpost stupid memes! But I will ask @nusaran and @chewchewman to take a stab at it!!