#and then a banner falls from the sky reading IT WAS AN IMPORTANT LESSON AND EVERYONE AGREED THAT THEY UNDERSTOOD NOW

[unopenablebox]

hey do they make sexy gay regency novels that don’t ever sanctimoniously lay out the author’s social justice opinions

[avatarfromtheashes]

[Image ID: A header image with a low opacity painted background of the Fire Nation at sunset and text that reads “So, what is Avatar: From the Ashes?” //End ID]

Hey everyone! @yueqqi here, but I respond to anything including “dumbass (friendly).” 💙 From the Ashes has been a project I’ve been working on over the course of the last 8 months, first incepted in late May 2020 as a small Dungeons & Dragons campaign between friends. After the campaign ended with the first arc, I was inspired by the awesome fancomic work by @legendofgenji, @avatarhanami, and @niikocomic (please check them out if you haven’t already!) to realize all of mine and my friend’s (massive shout out to Magpie and Josh) worldbuilding and plot building into this project starting late fall of 2020. It might not be a fully fledged comic since we’re new with only a small team of worldbuilders/writers and 1 main writer/artist, but for now we will focus on sharing our story in the form of fic writing and concept art.

This is a fun project done on our own time, first and foremost. It is also an important project, for me anyways, to build on what Avatar could be, written by POC for POC, written by LGBT for LGBT, and to be shared with people who want to learn more about our communities and support us. The story’s narrative is supposed to expand on Chinese and other Eastern cultures and address serious topics that mirror our real world problems. As a Chinese diaspora author from a family who immigrated from post-war Vietnam, those topics are what I hold with importance and I hope to be able to share it with you. I love interacting, so the askbox is officially open! ☺️

What is your story?

From the Ashes, also titled Tian Hui Yuan (天灰園, meaning “garden that grows from the sky’s ashes”), is set during the time of the second earthbending Avatar of Korra’s cycle in a world ravaged by the Great War—which, wasn’t as “great” as it says on the tin until the end of the 36 years of battles with long intermittent periods of silence, when it devolved into an all-out nuclear war between the democratic Earth Republic and the Fire Nation. Who instigated the war? If you live in the modern Earth Federation, history lessons at mandatory school left it pretty fuzzy until recent years but everywhere else, including the remaining Southern Air Temple and the Northern and Southern Water Tribes, agree that it was President Qin Namyao of the Earth Republic who first developed nuclear technology for non-peaceful purposes and his successors that dropped the first bomb, the effects rippling even today in 539 AG, the rough equivalent to the 1980s era.

The three-month-long catastrophe led to tragic losses not only in the initial blast and ensuing fallout, but the generations of famine it triggered after the decade-long nuclear winter. With the first airbending Avatar’s help, society managed to rebuild itself within a century, though still long ways away from returning to how things used to be in peace times in between turf wars and fighting over resources. With the rise of Avatar Niraq, the second waterbender, the period of warring factions was put to an end—at the great cost of destroying autonomy and bringing down the working middle class in the act of rebellion against the upper class with the creation of the (now Old) Order to unite all the nations and their factions under a single banner.

After Avatar Niraq’s assassination and the New Order taking over and returning control to world leaders, 18 years later the new Avatar is (still) missing and the original plan to take the Avatar young to prevent another tragedy becomes more loose as tensions rise and the New Order has to reconsider their game plan on how to handle the Avatar—including arrest at best, or making them “disappear” at worst.

As for our new Avatar? He has no idea what’s coming, nor that he’s even the Avatar.

FtA focuses on Leaf’s story years after all hell broke loose, where things seem better, but the picturesque peaceful times keep unraveling to reveal a very ugly truth where what seems to be the right path is one in darkness and the seemingly amoral one is the only one that can make a change.

Who is the Avatar?

[Image ID: A young man in motion appearing to be in mid brake while running, earthbending shards of grey rock and kicking up a dust cloud. He is lightly tanned with slight pink undertones to his skin, with hazel eyes that lean more deep green, and he wears his brown curly hair in mullet, sadly missing the hair spray and mousse, with a slight chin scruff and a ratty mustache. The man wears a red shirt with its sleeves ripped an a v-neck ripped to expose his collarbones and a part of his chest, paired with a silver dog tag on a chain necklace, light wash skinny jeans with a brown and brass belt, and green canvas high tops with drooping flaps that look suspiciously like Converse. //End ID]

The Avatar is this idiot right here and his name is Leaf (Ye in Chinese, but to emphasize strangeness of his name, it stays in English except for nicknames) because he never knew his birth name. He hasn’t even mastered his birth element yet, smh. (Backstory? Well, that will be revealed. :) All you need to know is that he has a stack of crimes hiding there.)

Team Avatar??

The team is called the Vine by the writers (ha, get it? Leaves from the... *crying*). You’ll see them around as I post their finished sheets! They aren’t the only main characters, though. :)

Who are the villains?

For now, all you need to know is that the Order acts as antagonists (obviously), but it gets heavily into some grey areas on who’s right and wrong here. There are bigger sharks in the sea, eventually.

Okay, so we know the rough backstory of the story. What about the plot?

Now, that would be spoilers. :) But if you want something to start guessing with, many game changing events can be described with Bon Jovi, Metallica, and Bonnie Tyler top hits. Here’s a Jon Bon Jovi pic from the 80s who may or may not have been the inspiration for Leaf’s aesthetic. 💙

[yuzusorbet]

Sendai Holiday 2019, Part 5: An Unexpected Journey

A fan told me about the special edition Yuzuru Hanyu subway card that came with 3 postcards and I quickly went to the Sendai subway station office to buy it.  The beautiful subway card was a one-day pass, unlimited rides.  Many fans used it to to get to International Centre Station where Yuzu’s Olympic Monuments are, and also to Izumi Chuo Station which is near Ice Rink Sendai, but I had already gone to these places before I knew about this special pass.  Well, I could always just keep it without using it but, somehow, I felt I had to make good use of this pass that has Yuzu’s SEIMEI silhouette on it.     

There is a 3.11 Memorial Community Centre located in Arai Station 荒井 at the end of the Tozai subway line 東西線.  The name popped up when I was searching online about Sendai travel.  I have never heard of this place before but since I could use my Yuzu subway pass and learn more about 3.11, I thought it was perfect.  Arai Station is just 6 stops away from Sendai Station.  (3.11 refers to the Great East Japan earthquake and tsunami, also known as the Tohoku earthquake, of 11 March 2011.)  

I arrived at Arai Station and there was a big sign pointing to the 3.11 centre.  It was within the station itself, at one end.

‘This post-earthquake restoration memorial facility opened in February 2016.   As a gateway to the eastern coastal area, which suffered tremendous damage from the tsunami, this memorial community center conveys the history of the region, the memory of the disaster, and wisdom and lessons derived from it to the world and to future generations.’ (credit)

On the first floor, there is a big 3D map that shows the extent of the coastal area ravaged by the tsunami.

On the 2nd floor, there are photos of the affected areas, in a timeline from the Showa period til present day, showing the devastation of March 2011 and restoration efforts.

The captions are all in Japanese but there are booklets that give the translation in English, Chinese, Korean and Thai.  You can hold the booklet and read the translated caption for each picture as you move along the wall.

There was one photo that struck me in particular.  People on the rooftop of Arahama Elementary School, with the black waters of the tsunami below.  They were students, staff and nearby residents who had fled there.  All were rescued by helicopter later.   Many thoughts ran through my mind.  How terrifying it must have been to watch the sea swallow up all that you live on.  And what about their family members who were not with them...... how many families could be reunited?  The young elementary school students, did they recover from the trauma?  How are they doing now.....

One of the staff told me that this school has been preserved as a museum and memorial of the disaster.  It has been open to public since April 2017.  He suggested that I take the short bus ride to the school and go into the building to have a look.  Oh my...... I was not prepared for that at all.  Do I really want to see the actual traces of devastation and tragedy??  It is too sad.....  After a bit of hesitation, I went outside the station and boarded the bus that goes to the school near the coast.  It was a regular bus that has a few stops along way and the ride cost 240 yen.   Part of the route was rather scenic with rice paddy fields. 

The last stop was at the school.  The building looked like a normal school from afar.   A banner along the 3rd floor says ありがとう 荒浜小学校  (Thank you, Arahama Elementary School).  It was put up by students in 2016. 

  There is some information in English on the board at the front.

The white sign at the 2nd floor shows the height of the tsunami that day.  The first level was totally submerged. (pic below)

On the 1st and 2nd floors, we can see the damage, and pictures show the aftermath, before the debris was cleared.  All sorts of things were pushed into the classrooms by the force of the tsunami.  A teacher’s car which was parked outside was found crushed with the debris in one of the rooms.

On the 4th floor is a room with a timeline of events on that day, from the earthquake to the tsunami and after.

The clock that was in the 1st floor gymnasium stopped at the time that the tsunami struck. 

There was also a video in the room, with the principal and other staff of the school commenting on that day, with English subtitles.....

“I grabbed the key for the rooftop and told everyone in all of the rooms to leave everything and go up to the rooftop right away.”

“It turned into a mountain, something like black mountain, it was sea water, it came and..... crash, it kept coming forward.”

“There was nothing left of the Arahama area.  It was a view of the bottom of the sea and all we could do was watch from the rooftop as the town was swept away.”

I cried as I watched the video.  My heart that was getting heavier and heavier could not hold it back anymore.

From the 4th floor, I went up to the rooftop.  So this was where the survivors were standing.  I could see the sea on one side....

and all around, rebuilding is going on.  New roads are being made, with bulldozers and excavators here and there.   It was too painful to think that this was actually a town filled with people and homes.

I remember the wind was very strong on the rooftop and the sky was overcast, so it was very cold even though it was in the warm month of May.  After taking some photos, I made my way back down.

The 3rd floor is closed but there is a very touching piece of writing by a teacher of the school, with English translation included.  Please read it from my photo below (4th pic).

The teacher’s reflections were full of sadness but also very uplifting.  “Kindness and gratitude in these hard times.”  So touching.  I hope to remember these words.

In front of the building is a ‘Closing of School’ monument, with the words of the school song on the transparent blue panel.  The school has been here a long time.  It was established in 1873 (Meiji year 6) and built on the current site in 1912 (Taisho year 1).

As I was leaving, groups of students came in large buses.  Each group had a guide talking to them outside first, then taking them around.  The school continues its purpose of educating and building up the nation. 

Goodbye and thank you, Arahama Elementary School.  I said a silent prayer as I left on the bus.  The serenity of the rice fields comforted my heart.    

For more info and photos of the school, here is a news article: The school that saved 320 people

Note: I spent about an hour here but one hour is not enough to finish looking at everything in the school.  Two hours would be good.  There are guide booklets in a few languages near the entrance of the school.  Check also the bus schedule.  It only runs once an hour. 

Much thanks to the staff at 3.11 Memorial Community Centre for their help.

Back home, I searched and read up more....

In addition to physical reconstruction, emotional and social support remain an important focus for rebuilding. “Up in Tohoku, a common term widely used to describe the emotional difficulty in what recovery really means after the disaster is kokoro no byōki (illness of the heart).  From continuing financial worries, divorces, depression, disconnected families to elderly survivors losing connection or meaning, there are ongoing situations of survivors falling through the cracks. [....]  Volunteers provide an invaluable message of encouragement, crucial to the long-term emotional recovery of survivors. [...]  Their return and interest in the community reinforces the message that others believe the rebuilding is worthwhile — and that they are worthwhile.”  (credit: Japan Times, link below)

I immediately thought of Yuzu.  Besides donating all his Olympic prize money for rebuilding, he goes back again and again to visit communities in the affected areas and to do ice shows for them.  His visits tell the survivors that they are worthwhile, that they are not forgotten.  How many lives has he saved in this way!  God bless all volunteers for their kindness and generosity.       

Thanks to Yuzu’s subway pass..... It led me on an unexpected journey to learn more about something very close to his heart and I am inspired again to do more.  Below are some useful sites that I found: 

https://www.japantimes.co.jp/community/2019/03/10/issues/new-approach-volunteering-tohoku/#.XUVS5lCLmCR

https://www.japansociety.org/page/earthquake 

https://www.tohoku.ac.jp/en/news/campus_community/news20181128scrum.html

Even though I only took 2 rides with the subway pass (going to Arai Station and back), I think I have made very good use of it. 

(All photos are taken by me;  please do not use or re-post my photos without asking me first.  Thanks.)

[theerased]

The Ghost in the Haunted Forest

Some magic burns in this world still.

He dreamt an old dream, of three dragons of different colors, a melting throne, and the Silver Queen drowning in blood. In the dream, his sword drinks her soul after a dance of blood and vengeance. The sword smokes and bursts into flames, but the fire is actually the dragon’s breath melting the Iron Throne. He stares down the dragon’s throat as he prepares for the end, but it never comes. Cursed is the kinslayer, condemned to live. His wound throbs and smokes, the skin hot to the touch. “What if one person stood between you and a better world?” she asks through the mouthful of blood. “Sacrifice is never easy, or it is no true sacrifice.”

He felt the wound on his chest, tender after all these years. The fingers of his sword hand flexed into a fist, then loosened. Pulling furs about his shoulders, he stood at the bedside, his dark grey eyes searching the remnants of the fire.

The cabin he’d built with his hands years before, when the spring waned and he’d grown weary of sleeping beneath the cold and open sky. Where this forest had been deadly quiet, life had returned. Once they had called it haunted, but now there were only but a few haunted places left in the world.

The messenger had arrived around noon the day before, hoisting the banner that once belonged to him. He’d not bothered to read the letter until last night, after he’d sent the messenger back on his way south. Aly had stirred in his bed while he parsed the words. He recalled another letter that had beckoned him to come, and he tossed this one into the flames. Dark wings, dark words, his father had always said. Queens were always calling, and though he bore this one love, he did not feel it necessary to pay heed. Again, he touched the tender wound on his chest.

Aly was kissed by fire, just like the queen beckoning him southward, and like another woman from his past. “You know nothing,” she whispered in his memory. A wildling woman who offered to share his bed years before, Aly comforted him through dark moods and melancholy evenings, evenings when he’d try to shut out his ghosts. One had come calling.

He ranged these woods in his youth, spoke his vows at a weirwood in this very forest. When he said the words, his wolf had wandered back from the depths of the forest, a desiccated hand in its teeth. He’d buried that wolf in the shadow of a heart tree a league south. He watched age claim the great beast the way it eventually claimed everything. He once refused a king’s offer because of that wolf, though he later became a king himself. Brother to two kings and a queen. Too many crowns, he thought. Too many thrones.

He used to dream through the ruby eyes of the direwolf nearly every night. Those dreams stopped when age took Ghost from him. Burying the great white wolf was like saying goodbye to a piece of himself, and he’d said goodbye to too many pieces of himself in his time. He’d been condemned to live out his days in the grey waste, and for what? The Old Bear had once asked him to have the courage to live, but on some days that felt like a bitter joke.

Bastard and oathbreaker. Motherless, friendless, and damned, he thought. Condemned to live.

“Only death can pay for life,” he’d heard once, long ago. He couldn’t remember who told him that. Had it been the Red Woman? The Silver Queen? It matters not, he supposed. There was nothing beyond the black veil where they each now dwelt; he’d seen that for himself. The wound throbbed. Their deaths paid for his life, and now he spent that life far from crowns and thrones and kings and queens.

Aly didn’t ask why he stared into the smoldering embers. He didn’t speak much, but he kept her warm and safe. Each night he wrapped his arms about her and fell asleep trembling. She was used to him waking up sweating and shaking, calling out names of companions long gone. His skin was covered in scars—his neck, his face, and a large curved scar over his heart. But he was kinder than the wildling boys she’d known in her youth who would take what they wanted and gentler than the other crows she was unfortunate enough to encounter.

“I shall take no wife; I shall father no sons,” the vows said. He remembered the bright red leaves of the weirwood where he spoke the words. Sam took a wife, Sam fathered sons, but not me, he thought. There was a time when he thought maybe there was a chance, maybe he and his Silver Queen might bear children, but it would never come to pass. She threatened his sisters who would never bend the knee. His role was never to carry the legacy; his was to live and die at his post. The fingers of his sword hand traced the curved scar over his heart.

“Jon,” the letter read in perfect script. He vaguely remembered watching her writing lessons with Septa Mordane, in what felt like another life. “By royal decree, you are hereby pardoned of your crimes. Return to Winterfell and a seat of honor at our table, your family’s table. We have had words with the King in the South, Brandon of House Stark, who concurs with this pardon. However, he informed us that you would not accept it. Our brother knows much, but not all. Prove him wrong, Jon. Prove him wrong.” The letter was signed, Sansa Stark, Queen in the North and Lady of Winterfell.

He wondered at the lord she had wed and the sons she had borne. They had taken her name since she was royalty of a great house; she was the Stark in Winterfell, and that still meant something in the North. Her third son bore his name he knew, the full name he’d wanted his whole life more than anything. Jon Stark must be eleven years old now. But that wasn’t my true name, he thought. I don’t dare speak my true name.

Why must there always be a choice? Why have the gods always sought to test my will in one impossible direction or another? Or maybe just the one god, the one that Melisandre always spoke of, the one who sparked fire into my blood to bring me back from beyond that black veil? The magic burns through my veins still. Only death can pay for life. And what was it for?

“You saved the world,” a voice whispered back from the embers. “Thanks to you, the world did not end in ice or in fire.” Now he was an old man and grey. He was what his father would never be. What his brothers Robb or Rickon would never be. And his other brother was out there creating a better, more loving world. Bran the Broken they called him, but who was truly broken in the end?

“There is no end,” the voice told him.

I sound like Edd, he thought, full of tedious complaints. His eyes stopped searching the ashes and turned back to Aly. She watched him quietly; he had been so deep in thought that he hadn’t noticed her waking.

“You been quiet all o’ the day and night. Since that kneeler came from the south yesterday. What was ‘e on about?”

“A letter. From the Queen in Winterfell.”

“What she want? You t’come before her the way y’used to?”

“No,” he replied gruffly. “It’s not important. Nothing could bring me back.”

“Come back t’bed then. Keep your queen warm.”

Aly’s words stung, but he couldn’t turn away from her. “If I look back I am lost,” the voice called to him.

The two had coupled for years upon years, but no fruit bore from the tree. He was the last in a line that stretched back to Old Valyria, not that he thought on it much. When he first ventured north of the Wall with the wildlings, he considered his parents, his true parents, more than ever before. A prince who died at the Ruby Ford, long leagues from the woman he loved, whose name rested on his lips at the end of his life. A wild and willful maid who died in a bed of blood, begging her brother to keep a promise that the boy must live.

“Kill the boy,” Maester Aemon told him once. “And let the man be born.” Now it mattered not. The destiny had been fulfilled, the promise had been kept.

When he swept Aly into his arms, he tucked hair behind her ear and laid a kiss upon her forehead. Her hair smelled like the Silver Queen’s—like roses. “Remember who you are,” that same voice called to him. As he tried to fall asleep, he stared at the sword resting against the wall. The familiar white wolf’s head pommel, with eyes of garnet that glared in the dim light. He recalled a knight called Giantslayer who told him that a man who bears Valyrian steel should use it for more than scratching his arse. Where would that sword go once he was gone?

Before he built this cabin, he wanted to make sure the threat of the Others was truly gone. He and Tormund Giantsbane set out into the real North, past the Fist of the First Men, past the Frostfangs, to the Land of Always Winter. They were well provisioned, and spring seemed to follow them as they crept further north. Eventually life stopped following behind, and there was nothing but rocks and frozen ground. Lights danced in the sky above them, jade and opal and tourmaline and amethyst. There were no structures until they came upon an altar in the shadow of a crystalline mountain. They investigated the surroundings but found no evidence of the white walkers or their corpse children.

That was the last time he felt he truly needed the sword that was given to him by Jeor Mormont, with steel that seemed to flow through the air, that he had once used to cut down adversaries one after another. He remembered the unexpected clang as it once stopped a white walker’s blade, and then sent the Enemy to its final reward.

The sword was another piece of him, maybe another piece that he should bid goodbye.

In the morning, Aly found him packing supplies on his horse.

“Are you going back to Winterfell then?” she asked sadly.

“For a little while.”

“Why? What did the letter say?”

“It said I was pardoned of my crimes in the south. The queen my sister beckoned me to join a high seat at her table, but that’s not why I’m going.”

“Well why are you going then?”

“There’s a boy down there, a son of hers. He has the name I always wanted. I have a gift for him.”

He flexed the fingers of his sword hand before placing it upon the wolf’s head pommel at his hip.

“Come with me, Aly.”

“T’the realm of the kneelers? That’s not the place for me, Jon.”

“It’s not the place for me either, but I would bring you before the godswood in Winterfell, in the sight of gods and men. I would be your husband, if you would have me,” he said, taking her hand in his. “All I ask is all of you, forever.”

A smile crept over Aly’s face. “Done,” she whispered. He swept her into his arms and pressed his lips into hers.

There is some magic that burns in this world still, magic that lives because others have died, magic that allows us to carry on though we may be condemned to live. We make our choices, and we choose to live with them, he thought as the two of them rode together south to the Wall and the lands beyond.

[olaf-likeswarmhugs]

(Things That Boyfriends Do) || Backstory

Summary: Olaf is making a list of Things that Boyfriends Do in preparation for his first real date with Sindri. 

TW: bdrpsmut, but very soft and barely explicit 

The Snowshoe Moon pinks bright in the sky, hanging like a jewel at the peak of Snæfellsjökull. The Hollow flurries with movement: Kitchen-talents cooking away, steam puff-puffing from the chimneys; service-talents bustling as they set up tables through the Hollow’s Circle; Evergreen-talents beading together nut-and-holly-berry chains for the decorations. Full Moon weeks are always busy as a blizzard, especially for a Helper-talent. Olaf finds himself pinballing back and forth between groups. He is the extra set of hands. He is the eye that helps straighten the banner. He is the enthusiastic cheer that punctuates the end of the rehearsal of the performer-talents, as he tells them of course they’re ready, it’s going to be so great! 

Olaf loves Full Moon weeks for all these reasons. He  always looks forward to them, especially this strange, particularly warm spring season. The Full Moon Dance is exactly what the Hollow needs to relax a little, forget about the tough thaw this year, and celebrate all the hard work they’re doing despite it.

But this Snowshoe Moon, Olaf finds himself dreading... just a little. 

Because it’s his first Full Moon Dance with Sindri as more. 

As boyfriends.

His stomach flips when he thinks about it. Olaf shouldn’t be nervous; it’s just Sindri after all. They’ve technically been courting for a little over a week now, even though they’ve not gone on any real dates. Not because they don’t want to, but because being an apprentice means many hours of working and lessons,  and both Sindri and him are tired at the end of their days, so they just get hot cocoa and cake together at Star-Bucks like they always do. Only now, Sindri slides onto Olaf’s side of the bench, close enough that their thighs and shoulders touch. Olaf doesn’t mind this at all. He likes it. He likes Sindri close, he likes when Sindri rests his head on Olaf’s shoulder or plays with the cord tied around Olaf’s Helper-tunic. It’s maybe just a little weird, but only because Olaf knows Sindri is doing it because they are Boyfriends now. He does it like he always wanted to do it--like every time he sat across from Olaf before, he was thinking about sitting next to him instead, and for some reason he’d stopped himself.

Olaf is making a list of other different things that Boyfriends do:  

Share cake. Sindri cuts his in half and puts some on Olaf’s plate. (Only Olaf is pretty sure they shared cakes like this before so maybe not.)

Get hot cocoa for you. Sindri gives Olaf his chocolate wafer, too.  (Only Olaf has offered to do this before; they get each other food all the time.) 

Hold hands. Sindri takes his hand, intertwines their fingers, and walks Olaf all the way home. (But they held hands before too. Olaf loves holding hands. He loves Sindri’s hands. What if they were always boyfriends? Olaf is flummoxed.)

Kiss. Okay, this, this Olaf knows, this is something Boyfriends do. Sindri still gets shy before. His cheeks pink like the aurora and he presses his lips together like he’s getting them ready. Then Sindri surges forward in a single second of bravery and kisses him. Kissing Sindri is nice, something brand new, something that makes Olaf’s mouth feel like a different shape after. But the best part about kissing Sindri is when the kiss ends and Sindri smiles at Olaf, wider than he’s ever smiled, and hugs Olaf, tighter than they ever hugged before, that smile pressed against Olaf’s ear. 

So, that’s what courting Sindri is like--  more the same than different. But maybe that’s why the Full Moon Dance feels big, like Olaf is gearing up for a performance all his own. He hasn’t rehearsed enough. He hasn’t quite figured out all the rules of Boyfriends yet, and people are going to be looking at them, Olaf just knows it. Anna-mum’s already bad enough, always asking how Sindri is with this strange new lilt in her voice. 

“Ahhh, getting sparkly for Siiiiindri?” Anna-mum appears at the door of Olaf’s room, singing Sindri’s name with that lilt now. Olaf just got back from helping string all the berry chains around the Circle and has toed off his shoes. He hoped to wiggle into bed for the quickest fox-nap. He blushes at Anna-mum’s smile, the way she taps against the frame with her fingers and looks at him like-- like-- well, like he’s all grown-up. Which he is! 

(But why is he more grown-up now then he was a week ago?)

 “I think we were going to get shiny together,” utters Olaf. They always got ready for Full Moon Dances together. Why would it be different? 

Anna-mum raises her eyebrows. “Oh, really? Still? Don’t you want to surprise him?” She slinks forward, then puts an arm around Olaf’s shoulder and squeezes him.  “You should let me do your hair. I have tinsel. You think Sindri would like that?” 

“That sounds shiny.” Olaf nods. But he honestly doesn’t know what Sindri would like. He didn’t... think about how he should have...thought about that. 

(Things that Boyfriends do: dress up for each other. Olaf makes a note.)

“Oh, and I can paint your nails that beautiful blue Sindri likes,” adds Anna-mum. “How about that? This is so exciting! Your first real dance with Sindri, finally!” She kisses his cheek. “I’m so happy for you, snowflake.”

Olaf’s nerves crackle and jump like dangerous sparks and it smacks into him: he doesn’t want to go to the dance.

That doesn’t make any sense. Olaf loves dances.

So he just grins, like he’s supposed to. He grins and he nods and then grins even wider and tells Anna-mum, yes, let’s do his nails and his hair for Sindri, because Anna-mum is so excited like she’s been waiting for this day for so long. Has Sindri also been waiting for this day for so long? His nerves burn hotter-- it’s just all these expectations. It’s these expectations and Olaf doesn’t want to let people down.

(It’s okay. It’s okay, he like-likes Sindri, and Sindri picked him for a boyfriend for a reason. So it doesn’t matter if Olaf doesn’t know what that means yet. If he does what everyone says it means, then he’ll learn.)

When Sindri arrives, he sees Anna-mum finishing the last of the tinsel in his hair. Olaf immediately giggles loud enough to drown his crackling nerves. “Hi!” he blurts.“Sorry, we ah, started early! Anna-mum wanted to do my hair! It’s weird, huh!” 

A small smile moves over Sindri’s lips. “It looks very nice. You’re doing a good job, Anna.”

Anna beams, clasps Olaf’s shoulders and then leans down to kiss his cheek. “Isn’t he so handsome! My sweet boy. If you want I can add some tinsel to your hair too, Sindri.”

Sindri keeps blushing. He’s still looking at Olaf, and Olaf is pretending not to notice because it makes him squirmy. 

“Oh, I dunno--” Sindri starts. 

“You should!” Olaf blurts again. “Yeah! It’ll be fun, we’ll be shiny together. I can even help Anna-mum.”

“Okay.” Sindri chuckles for a second, then gently puts down the flower crown he was hiding behind his back onto Olaf’s desk.

Olaf is relieved to finally get up from the chair. It feels so much better to do something. He watches Anna-mum and learns how to thread the tinsel into Sindri’s locks, so it blends with the rest of his pretty, almost snow white hair. Soon Olaf is an expert. He’s humming a little while combing his fingers through the strands. He doesn’t even realize that Sindri has closed his eyes until Anna-mum leaves to start getting sparkly herself. 

“Are you falling asleep?” Olaf teases. Sindri’s mouth twitches in a smile.

Olaf thinks about kissing him. He likes Sindri like this: so relaxed and sleepy, not a single snowball-thought in his head. This is definitely a Boyfriend thought, and Olaf is proud of himself for having it. 

“It feels really nice,” Sindri just murmurs. His eyes open. “Are you almost done?”

Olaf inspects his work. “I think so.” 

“You really are beautiful,” breathes out Sindri suddenly.  

Olaf freezes. Heat gathers behind his ears. He doesn’t know why, but he laughs and touches the back of his own neck. He wants to make a joke or something, change the subject, excuse himself, he doesn’t know why. “Anna-mum was right about the tinsel then.” 

Sindri giggles too, face flushed. “Do you want your crown? He-here…” Sindri stands and goes to the desk, then brings the flower crown to Olaf. His eyes skirt around the floor, his head bowing slightly as he offers it out with two hands. 

Olaf notices the gleym-mer-ey flowers at once, among the holtasoleys and bilberries. They’re a pretty lilac-blue flower, with an eye of yellow in the middle. Here in the Hollow, gleym-mer-ey flowers are only ever used between lovers. Olaf saw the flowers in the Mums’ crowns. He saw them in Sven and Kristoff’s crowns for each other. He had once gone with Petur to pick the petals for Blenky. But he’s never used the flowers himself. Now, nestled between the other flowers, carefully arranged by Sindri’s expert, artist hands, Olaf reads the meaning quite plain. 

Sindri’s crown says that love has made him rich. 

It’s a beautiful crown. It’s an important crown. 

It’s-- too heavy, Olaf thinks. His nerves crackle again. Why does it feel that way? Nerves, just nerves. He’s scared. He’s thinking about his own crown for Sindri. He didn’t use this flower. He used all of Sindri’s favourite berries, bursts of purple and blue and red. It’s a crown of plenty, but also just a Sindri-crown, something only Sindri will really get, past the different meaning of the flowers. 

(Things that Boyfriends do: use gleym-mer-ey petals. So why didn’t he?) 

Olaf’s mouth feels dry. Sindri smiles that shy Sindri smile. Olaf chuckles again for no reason, or-- maybe, maybe the reason is that Sindri feels the air crackling too.  

“Is this weird?” Olaf finally says, like he can’t hold it in anymore.

Sindri’s smile instantly disappears. “What?”

Oh-- oh no. No, Olaf was mistaken, he was not supposed to say that. “I--I mean. I’m kind of nervous. Is that weird?” he clarifies. “Like I dunno, I think, it’s our first... date, for real, and I’m just nervous.” 

Sindri’s smile returns. “Oh, yeah, I’m really nervous.” 

“You are? Oh good!” Olaf blows out a breath. He laughs more, and then Sindri joins him and they just stand there chuckling at each other until Olaf reaches forward to fix a few of the tinsel strands in Sindri’s hair. “Thank you for this crown, Sindri, it’s so beautiful,” Olaf says. He puts it on. “There!”

Sindri reaches forward to fix the crown. He steps closer. His smile fades and his eyes remind Olaf of how the sky looks right before it snows. That peaceful, relaxed look again. He finishes adjusting the crown, but he doesn’t step away. 

“I’m so happy,” he whispers to Olaf. His eyes search Olaf’s own. “I’m…I’m so...so happy, Olaf. I think you’re just the best person in this whole Hollow. I think… you’re perfect.” Their foreheads touch and Sindri closes his eyes. His nose nudges Olaf’s. 

Olaf’s whole body is hot, his throat, thick. He doesn’t move. He can’t move and he can’t speak. He doesn’t know what to say to that. 

Then, their lips touch and Olaf doesn’t have to say anything. 

When Sindri kisses him this time, it’s not like the other kisses so far. He coaxes their lips together slowly. It makes Olaf’s entire body tingle in a good way. He closes his eyes. Just listen to your body, thinks Olaf. Sindri’s words fade into the quiet sound of their lips touching again and again. Sindri holds Olaf’s face. Olaf grasps one of his wrists. Kissing Sindri keeps the dance far away, lifts the weight from the crown so he isn’t thinking about it. He just thinks about how good this feels, to kiss. Sindri kisses very well. He pays attention to every part of Olaf’s mouth and doesn’t go too fast. 

Olaf doesn’t really know how it happens next. One moment they’re standing up and kissing and the next, they’re lying on their sides in Olaf’s bed, their bodies pressed together and their wings folded down. Their hands roam around each other’s bodies, not really undressing each other all the way, just moving the fabric around until Sindri’s hand sneaks down Olaf’s trousers. That’s when the kiss breaks and Sindri’s  hand freezes like it remembers itself. Sindri draws it back up to Olaf’s stomach, where his palm rests gently over Olaf’s exposed navel.

 Their eyes open and they look at each other, breathless and wide-eyed.

“Hoarfrost. Is this okay?” whispers Sindri. “Sorry, I should have asked…”

Olaf feels very hot all over. It’s that good warmth, a little hard to think through, and he’s a little hard in his trousers too. The idea of Sindri touching him isn’t bad though. He wants to be touched and he wants Sindri to feel good too, and they’ve always done everything together. And this feels easier to think about than the dance for some reason. He doesn’t want to think about the dance. 

But being with Sindri, touching Sindri-- Olaf has always known how to touch Sindri. There has never been a time when he overthought where he put his hands, or where he stood, or the hugs he gave like giving flowers. He wiggles a little closer and lets his hand run up Sindri’s back, between his wings. He watches as that makes Sindri blush bright red. Olaf grins at him. 

“What, what, what?” Sindri utters nervously.

“I’m just thinking you’re so cute.” Olaf chuckles. Sindri  pinches him. Olaf laughs even louder. “Hey!”

“You’re making me--”

“Snowball,” Olaf says. “Sorry. I was just...this is making me less nervous, I think.”

Sindri licks at his lips and says, still kind of breathless, “Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” It’s like we’re hanging out, with kissing. He doesn’t say this, just in case it isn’t the right thing to say. 

“I wanted to do this after,” confesses Sindri. 

“You did?” 

“Yeah. I mean. Not that I was... I didn’t expect, but I was hoping maybe after. I was. When I was picturing it, I mean, I wanted it to be special... Agh, snowballing,” Sindri mumbles and Olaf quickly leans in and presses a kiss onto Sindri’s lips. It works, Sindri breathing out some of the nerves. “Should we wait?” he says. “I don’t want you to think--” 

Olaf quickly shakes his head. “No, I think this. This is perfect, Sindri.” He smiles gentler. “For me, I think this is perfect.” 

“Is it special enough?”

Olaf shakes his head at once. “It doesn’t need to be special.” 

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.” Olaf hesitates for a moment. “Are you sure? Do you want to do it some other way? We can wait, if you want.” 

Sindri shakes his head too. It’s his turn to wiggle close. He ropes his arm back around Olaf and their noses bump again. This close, Olaf goes a little cross-eyed, trying to see his friend. (No. His boyfriend.) 

“I don’t want to wait,” mumbles Sindri and he breathes out shakily. “I love you, Olaf. I love you. Is that okay? Can I say that? I know we just started courting. But I love you.” 

Olaf strokes his friend’s cheek with his thumb. (No. His boyfriend.) He strokes Sindri’s cheek and imagines he’s smoothing all their strange, brand new nerves down that should never be there in the first place, not between the two of them. Instead, he imagines that they are like the two poles of the aurora and their lights are glowing the same colours. Green, and blue, and lupine purple. “I love you too,” he says, and he means it. He has always loved Sindri. It’s something that covers the whole sky. It’s there, every day. 

They kiss again. They kiss harder. Sindri fumbles the cord of the tunic. When its untied, Olaf lets the fabric fall down his shoulders, exposing his back to the air first, his wings fluttering softly. He sits up with Sindri and they keep kissing while Olaf draws Sindri’s tunic down off his shoulders too. Olaf holds Sindri’s round snowball cheeks and makes Sindri sigh and whine and touch Olaf’s arms, then his chest, then his hips, and then they aren’t wearing any clothes anymore and Olaf’s flower crown has fallen off, though the tinsel in their hair sparkles every time the clear white orbs of light catch in their strands. 

They are still nervous. Sindri asks Olaf if it’s okay with almost every breath. Olaf hums and teases and then makes up for his teases by sucking on Sindri’s sensitive earlobes. Sindri shudders and moans. That feels good? It’s Olaf’s turn to ask. What about this? He brushes his finger over Sindri’s nipple. What about this, he says and slides their bodies together. 

This, and this, and this--Olaf’s questions turn into gasps, and then back into questions-- will you touch me there? Can you touch me harder-- until finally there aren’t any more questions, only kissing, touching, giggling, panting. When Sindri comes, he whispers it to Olaf so Olaf can gather Sindri close and hold  him tightly to his chest. 

In the space after, Olaf floats a little and wonders why he was ever so nervous about anything. He blinks heavily. His eyes close, then open, the way that wings fold close, then open, when getting ready to fly. Sindri’s head lolls on his shoulder. He feels Sindri’s lips move against his skin, like they’re whispering something. But he’s pretty sure Sindri is just kissing him.

He gazes out the window and sees the tail of the pink sky. The music is starting. “The music is starting,” Olaf says this out loud. He twists his head to look at sleepy-eyed Sindri. “The dance. The music is starting, do you hear?” 

“D’you wanna go?” Sindri says as he lifts his chin onto Olaf’s shoulder. “I know you love the dances.”

Yes, he loves the dances. This is something Boyfriends know. (No. This is something Sindri knows.)

Olaf’s nerves have gotten much quieter, but when he starts to think about it, he isn’t sure, still. He hesitates. “Maybe we could just skip this one,” he says. “I think we should just. Hang out. Don’t you?” 

And when Sindri smiles, it’s much brighter than the lights and much prettier than the music. “Yeah, okay.” He kisses Olaf’s shoulder. “Okay.” He’s giggling for no reason, in between kisses. “Okay, okay.” 

Olaf snorts, but he sinks into the cot, then wraps Sindri up in his arm, tucking him closer to his side. Next Full Moon, thinks Olaf. Next Full Moon, he’ll be more prepared to be a Boyfriend. 

[crowsvalentine]

love love love your parent elriel headcannons!! what are your general thoughts on the inner circle babies? Liek names, personalities, and stuff?

Aww thank you!!

I was gonna add these into the headcanons about Elain giving birth but it didn’t fit right so here you go:

Elriel-

They name their daughter Lailah 

She has her mother’s eyes and her father’s everything else

Beautiful black curly hair that shines blue in the sun

No one can help but think about Azriel’s shadows whenever they see the way her hair flows around her while she plays

Her wings aren’t the strongest Az has ever seen

But boy can she fly

He’ll follow her around their land for hours and hours until she almost falls out of the sky from exhaustion 

But for someone who loves to fly

She really loves being down on the ground

On her knees in the mud gardening with her mom

She also likes to bake make messes in the kitchen

She loves when Nuala and Cerridwen come over to babysit

Because they tell her stories about her aunts and uncles

Stories that her parents never tell her

And they always give her cookies before bed

This girl is always smiling and laughing

Makes anyone around her do the same

Idk she’s just a little ball of light that you can’t help but love

Nessian-

Also a little girl

Cassian votes to name her Cassia

Which Nesta shoots down instantly 

They call her Aella, but when Cassian asks where she found the name Nesta just says she thinks she heard it in passing

(but really she read it in a book)

She’s the spitting image of her mother

Even gives Cassian the same look she does when she isn’t happy with something

She will fight literally anyone

Nesta tries giving her the etiquette lessons she was given but this girl will run

Or just refuse to move from a chair in the corner until her mom tells her she can go play

Nesta gets so scared when Cassian starts teaching her how to fly

Will stand below them ready to catch her if Cassian doesn’t get to her first 

(even though he will, no matter what)

She’s so protective over her baby

Her and Cassian ngl

Her first few months Cassian is terrified of anyone else holding her

As if she’d break the moment she left his arms

They also have another daughter who they name Kestral 

She rivals Amren for being the smallest

Like this girl is so small no one would think she came from this Illrian warror and this giant presence that is Nesta Archeron 

And they’re even more surprised when they see how big her wings have grown

So big that they should be throwing her off balance but they don’t

But even with her giant wings she still just lives in the library in the House of Wind

And any other library she can get access to

She practically explodes when she meets Helion because he knows so much

Isn’t really interested in flying but sometimes Cassian sees something move past his window and he’ll just stand there and watch her and her sister make loops around their home

She’s a stronger flyer than her sister but Cassian respects her when she tells him she doesn’t feel like flying that day

She can winnow

Definitely she can winnow

When she first does it she doesn’t even realize until she notices she’s way further from her work station than a second ago

She asks her Aunt Feyre to help her

Kes and her mom bond over books

Kes is also open to learning about human etiquette because her mom always looks so poised and perfect

Cassian and Nesta aren’t as protective of her as they are of Aella

But that’s because Kes makes it clear she can take care of herself

But god help anyone who tries to hurt Kes because not only will you get her parents but you’ll get the biggest word smack down of your life

okay but anyway they love their daughters

Feysand-

Their son’s name is Aster and he’s his father’s son

And his mother’s son

He’s a black haired, blue eyed, ball of energy that nothing can contain 

He inherits Feyre’s shapeshifting and Rhys is terrified for the day they lose him and don’t know how to describe him to people

He has so much fun with shapeshifting tho

Until one day when he was 5 he wanted to make his wings bigger but then they got too big and he couldn’t get off his back until his mom came and helped him up

He’ll darken a room completely if he has any sort of burst of emotion 

Especially if it’s a negative emotion 

So tiny feysand baby tantrums have to be taken to a secure location

He loves his parents so much

He doesn’t even go through a phase where he hates them

Like he should because his parents are annoying af but he’s annoying too so it’s okay

They’d also have a daughter a few years later

Because these two fuck every second they get lets be real they’ll have ten kids by the time the century is over

but rs they have a daughter and call her Cassandra

Because way back when they were just boys, Rhys made a bet with Cassian that he hoped his brother forgot all about

But he didn’t

And when he opened the door the day his daughter was born and found his brothers standing there with a banner that read “Baby Cassian” on it Rhys let out the longest sigh in the history of sighs

“At least make it feminine”

So that’s how they name their daughter

Because Rhys was a stupid ass teenager who bet Cassian and lost so he had to name his first daughter after him

Feyre is lowkey salty but she knows the importance of bets between them so she only puts up a tiny fight

Something else that Feyre is salty about: all her kids look like Rhys

And Rhys is so goddamn smug about it

At least this one is more her daughter than his

She likes to paint

She paints on everything

The walls

The furniture

Azriel’s wings when he fell asleep on their couch that one time

(he thanks her for it though and doesn’t wash it off until she falls asleep)

She’s also so protective over her older brother

Tries to fight the other boys when they play a bit too rough 

She’s there to kiss injuries better too

Like when Elain comes over with a small bandage on her finger and even if it was just a small rose thorn little Cassandra still treats her like a patient

Idk their family is so cute

[everlarkficexchange]

The Pack

Written by: @alliswell21

Rating: Currently General. Future Explicit. This fic will have at least one more chapter, that will most likely be continued over at AO3.

Prompt 28: The majority of the district are werewolves but it’s forbidden to speak out loud about it. Katniss and Peeta are mates. (Follow real wolves traits; packs, behaviors, mates, knotting, in heat) [submitted by @animekpopxx]

Warnings: Vague descriptions of injury. Werewolves. In Panem AU. No Games.

Summary: Everlark meets after a very bumpy night. 

Acknowledgements: @savvylark thank you for lending me your beta magic again… I love your comments! @everlarkingjoshifer, Your banner is just amazing! thank you so much for making it and all the other ones I didn’t use… you should post them :). @animekpopxx, you have an extraordinarily beautiful brain, churning up all this awesome prompts! hopefully you like this one too! @xerxia31, thanks for nudging me into the right direction, you have no idea how much it meant to me that you thought I could do the prompt justice! Also @xerxia31 and @javistg for organizing EFE, I’m having the time of my life reading the wonderful fics around.

>*+*<

Nobody knows how the epidemic started.

  There are theories, of course, that the Capitol released an infected mutt in the wilderness that somehow came in contact with a district dweller ages ago. The infection spread like wildfire before anyone could do a thing about it.

  No one speaks of it openly.

  It’s taboo to bring it up in conversation; but every lunar cycle, our bodies go through a painful shift, lending us a lupine form for the duration of the full moon.

  The cycle begins tonight.

  The pack follows the arch of the moon, crawling across the sky, full and bright. Our swift legs lead us up a well-known worn path until we reach the highest point of the hillside.

  My father, being one of the elders, howls a sonorous, almost musical call that rest of the pack responds with yips, yelps and woofs.

  Wolves come from all sides of the woods to merge in a circle, hopping, strutting and dancing under the moon that bathes everything as far as the eye can see in light. But the excitement only lasts a few minutes. We only have a handful of hours before sunrise and a whole district to feed.

  In a matter of minutes we divide in groups and disperse back into the wilderness to hunt. The voracious hunger pressing in our bellies spurs us to find prey we can only hunt tonight, while we have the strength and drive of the wolf on our side.

  This season we will comb and explore the eastern ridge of the hillside and the woods beyond, leaving the rest of the forest untouched. This is how we can guarantee the preservation and population size of our food sources.

  As my father always says, “No sense running amok like we’re only instinctive, mindless beasts consuming every living creature in the woods. That’ll just kill our livelihood, then where would we be? As long as you respect other creatures‘ right to live, Mother Nature will provide for you, Katniss.”

  This wisdom has helped us endure even the harshest times, when prey is scarce and food is down to slim pickings.

  My father howls again, but this time the call is just for me. My name is Katniss Everdeen, I’m 13 years old, and I’m hunting down a rabbit for supper; but I’m still learning the ropes. Tracking, foraging, chasing, flushing out my marks have been all easy, what the elders call “the makings of a good hunter,” but my father doesn’t want me to be just “good.” He wants me to be “heck darn exceptional.”

  So besides the basics of hunting, father wants me learn patience, respect and ‘foresight.’ I’m not completely sure what the last means, but I guess is important because he talks of it an awful lot when we hunt during the day… He’s also teaching me to hunt during daytime, with weapons and tools so we have fresh meat even when the moon isn’t full.

  Everyone in the district has two jobs, one we do for the Capitol while the sun shines: mining coal, tending crops or cattle, making fabrics, or tinkering with machines, anything the Capitol people need to live, we work for; then there’s our other job, the one that truly matters for our survival. We do it during the full moon when our bodies stop being people bodies, and we walk on four legs and furry paws.

  My job is to hunt, just like my father before me and his father before him. We all feel the same quickening of the blood, the euphoria that takes over our senses and all that matters is the chase and catch. The only word I can describe it as is exciting. But father wants me to keep my head when the animal takes over my body. He says that our minds are still ours whatever we look on the outside, so he’s teaching me and other youngsters to hunt in the right mindset.

  That’s his job I guess, to make sure we are still ourselves in our heads while we are physically different.

  My father grunts when I return. I’m anxiously pacing in front of him, because my bunny could be very well gone by now, but he commands me to sit for a moment, attempting to explain through snorts and growling yawns something about keeping my distance and sniff out the air for other predators, but I’m growing impatient.

  We are the top of the food chain during the full moon, maybe this lesson applies during daylight hunting, but right now my rabbit hops from under the brush and I take off without heeding my father’s calls.

  I’ve frighten the rabbit in my haste. I see it jump into a bush and makes a dash beyond what I assume to be its burrow, so I take a big leap after it.

  As a hunter, I’m built with long, strong hind legs that end in elongated paws with short, flexible toes sort of like human feet, except I have retractable claws for toenails. I’m slim and nimble, and I can easily clear the bush obstructing my way in one jump, but the terrain on the other side is basically a crumbling slope. I can’t stop myself from sliding to the bottom of the hill.

  When I’m sure footed on a grassy patch of earth, I shake myself of dust and twigs and other debris. I can hear my father at the top of the hill barking at me to get back up the hill. I scan the drop for a path up, and notice a bunch of openings on the side of the mountain on the far side. I’m not stupid. Father has told me to stay away from caves unless I’m with an adult, and a scout has given it a looksy first.

  I plan to give it a wide berth. I’ve filled my quota of recklessness for the day. I’ll be a good, obedient girl for the rest of the night.

  My father it’s getting impatient at the top of the hill. I think he’s started to look for a way down, and I see the heads of the rest of our hunting party pop one by one over the edge.

  This is humiliating!

  I start climbing up, but the dirt under my paws is loose and I slide back down. I try again with the same results, and then I fall on my bottom so hard that I have to sit and whimper for a moment.

  But my foolish noise called attention to myself.

  My party above began calling, howling and crying in order to warn me of the danger; as if I couldn’t smell the foul best myself! I’m just surprised at how fast everything happened.

  One second I’m on my ass whimpering, the next there’s a gigantic, angry bear charging me. I’m bigger that the average wolf, but I’m still a juvenile lycanthrope, I couldn’t fight a fully grown bear on my own, but I don’t have to! My first reaction is to cower by the rocky wall, close my eyes and wait to be mauled, but I hear the loud, heavy thud of a body landing in front of me.

  I’m not quite sure who it is. I don’t recognize his smell, but it is pleasant even for a werewolf: cinnamon and dill over fur. I think if this is the last thing I smell before dying, it’s okay.

  I crack one eye open, and see my savior fighting the bear. I’m completely shocked to see another juvenile, no larger than myself, but he’s vicious, strong and fast.

  They go at each other, full body slams, teeth and fangs sinking on thick fur, sharp claws looking to tear chunks of skin and flesh. My young kin gains the upper paw suddenly, jumping over a boulder and throwing his full weight on the back of the bear. He takes a bite of the brutes hide, and shakes his head violently, causing the bear to growl in pain. Then the bear swings an arm backwards, and catches the wolf’s leg and throws him off with little effort.

  The young wolf yelps in pain, smacking onto a jagged rock and the beast rushes to finish him off, but out of nowhere a second wolf jumps between them. This one I recognize immediately. It’s my father!

  He bares his big, sharp teeth accompanied by the low rumbling of his growl. The bear stops for a moment, studies this new challenger, and charges with renewed fury. My father dodges the attack easily, and draws the fight away from me and the other wolf, who is still trying to find his footing on the ground.

  I’m watching with horror frozen to my spot. My father is definitely larger than me and the other juvenile, but he’s a hunter, not a protector. His body is built for chasing and stalking, not for fighting off threats. The bear could still cause him major damage if he’s not careful, but father is smart and more agile than his agresor and soon he’s backed the beast a few feet away, back into the thick of the woods.

  I seek our chance.

  I approach my rescuer and nudge his side with my nose. He snaps a bite before realizing I’m friendly. He tries to follow me but after two steps he collapses heavily. He tries to stand up once more, but barks in pain and falls under his weight. His leg is badly hurt.

  I go back to him, wiggle my body under his front legs and try to help him up, but I was wrong about us being roughly the same size. He’s bigger and heavier than I am. I can’t see him very well from this angle, so I’m not sure if he belongs with the group of hunters or not.

  Every individual in the pack has a specialized job, and each of us belong to subgroup with a particular task. We have hunters, scouts, protectors, nannies and pups. Compared to common wolves, our ranks are very differently organized. We don’t have just one overall Alpha we have submit to, but a Council of Elders that decide together what’s best for the pack.

  Maybe my benefactor was just a trainee patrolling the hunting grounds, though that seems unlikely. Neither protectors nor scouts send juveniles out to patrol on their own.

  A more likely situation could be that he is a rover.

  Sometimes when young wolves comes from human parents they don’t immediately know where they belong, neither what are their strengths or abilities, so they rotate around each group to test themselves until they find where they fit. Could this be the case with this guy? I’m not sure, all I know is that he did something for me tonight I don’t know how I’ll ever be able to repay him for.

  My rescuer and I take one tentative step forward, but I realize pretty quickly that this arrangement won’t work. My fellow wolf is too heavy for me. I let him hop off me, and I run to the foot of the hill. I whine at the ones up top, and to my surprise I see adults pacing the edge. One of them produces an aggravated bark that sends all the youngsters backwards.

  A moment later, the same wolf descends down a narrow trail of rocks I hadn’t noticed before. He doesn’t acknowledge me, going straight to the hurt wolf. The bigger wolf head butts the younger one, until the latter stands, and then does something similar to what I did by getting under the other wolf’s chest, except he successfully lifts him up completely off the ground.

  The younger one protests, but he’s so weak that his eyes aren’t even open. The newcomer snorts with annoyance and glares at me. He grunts ordering me to follow.

  I try to lag behind. I haven’t seen or heard my father since pushing the fight deeper into the woods, but the wolf turns around and snaps at my tail, leaving me no choice but to pick up my pace.

  Because of his impatient demeanor, I assume this is none other than Haymitch Abernathy.

  Even as a man, Haymitch is a contrary one, but everyone puts up with his confrontational personality, because he’s really smart and practical.

  He snaps at me again, I think he’s just sour about having to haul such a heavy burden up a hill. My father is a few human years older than Haymitch, but he’s undoubtedly in better physical shape than the snarky man.

  I’m starting to get aggravated myself.

  We trudge all the way up, and meet a whole group of protectors, ready to leap down and search for my father. But suddenly, one of the young hunters howls, jumps and chases his tail.

  We all look below, and see my father trotting back with my stupid rabbit hanging from his mouth.

  The rest of the wolves copy the first one, celebrating my father’s return, with a prize to boot, regardless of how scrawny the prey.

  A scout crashes through the brush, and comes to a short stop just as Haymitch is setting the now unconscious young wolf on the ground. The scout seems agitated. He circles the youngster, and I discern similar scents from him. Looking closer at the scout, I can tell he’s only just a bit older than my rescuer. I reckon they must be siblings.

  My father reaches the summit, and stops in front of me, dropping his kill at my feet. I look at him, but his big round lupine eyes are full of reproach, so I drop on my belly and coward away a little when his warm breath reaches my face. He makes a nagging noise before giving me a punishing nip at my ears.

  Father steps away from me, and goes to the brothers.

  The scout is nuzzling his snout into his brother’s neck, whining and purring.

  The biggest wolf in the pack, a fellow named Thom, steps forward. They help position the unconscious wolf on his back, and in a blink of an eye, he’s gone, running towards the district. Father motions me to follow.

  I’m not stupid enough to question him this time. I do as he says and jog after the other wolf with my head down and my tail tucked between my legs.

  We are not supposed to be inside the district fence while in wolf form, but on the rare occasion there’s a medical emergency we sneak in, as stealthy as we can.

  We encounter one of the few unfortunate peacekeepers on watch during the full moon. They usually hate it, but they still have to patrol the district for the humans left behind. Luckily it’s been ages since any of them has been harmed by one of us. We’ve learn to control our mind over our animalistic urges. For the most part we are friendly to humans, but our appearance is still very unnerving to behold.

  Long pointy teeth, razor sharp claws, and some of us can be as big as buck. I’d be scared to death too if I encountered myself out roaming the street in the dark.

  “Who goes there?” The Peacekeeper calls, he certainly doesn’t sound as shaky as our usual fare. “There’s a curfew in place! Go back to your house!” He says again.

  The wolf carrying the sick one steps forward from under the cover of shadows we’ve been walking in. The adult growls lowly, showing cruel, long, slobber dripping fangs. I think he’s going for menacing.

  The peacekeeper lifts his visor off, and arches a reddish eyebrow above a green, unimpressed eye.

  I breathe easier. It’s just Darius.

  “Thom, I know it’s you, so cut it out with the dramatics and get on to wherever you’re going. Just stop trying to sneak up on me, would ya? These shotguns aren’t harmless props, you know.” Darius chastises my companion patting his gun.

  I can’t believe the blasted idiot starts wagging his tail at Darius all friendly like. I grunt at the older wolf, we’re supposed to be on a mission!

  After settling back, we take off in the direction of my house. In a few minutes, we are at my porch. I climb the steps and start scratching at the door.

  My mother comes forth with a heavy bottom frying pan held aloft. I stumble back startled, stepping on Thom’s foot, causing him to grunt in pain.

  “Katniss?” My Mother whispers in surprise. “Are you hurt?” She steps out of the house throwing caution to the winds.

  I deny it as best I can without spoken language, but she’s already noticed my companions. She steps aside and let’s us inside the house. She hurries to the small bed I share with my sister, and picks up the bundle I know to be a sleeping Prim she goes into her own room. She deposits my sister in her bed and draws the curtains closed.

  Sure, a curtain isn’t even a credible defense in case of an attack, but it’s easier to pull as a barrier, that climbing into the cellar with a sleeping child in her arms.

  I sit in front of the curtain, facing the room, protecting my little sister. One can’t be too careful around hurt, unconscious wolves. There’s no telling what they’ll be like once they wake up in pain and disoriented.

  “What’s wrong with him?” Mother asks when Thom places her newest patient on the kitchen table.

  Thom makes a series of noises, but my mother waves him off curtly.

  “Never mind. I’ll asses his injuries right now, and get the whole story in the morning.” She sighs. “If you’re needed back in the woods, I think we are all set here. Please let the elders know the patient is in my care, and Katniss will stay to help.”

  My head shots up. I groan. I hate healing duties! I can’t stand people’s pain, let alone seeing their blood, or worse yet, watching my mother cleaning and dressing them up.

  Mother gives me a pointed look that shuts me up right away. I’m a lycanthrope, but I still shiver at a stern glance from my human mommy.

  Nobody knows how the affliction works. The gene seems to get passed down arbitrarily, regardless of gender or generation. My mother came from unaffected parents, that yielded two children, one with “the lupine illness,” as some people call it, and the other one, herself, unaffected.

  To her parents chagrin, mother married father, a werewolf, and father gave her two children, me: a werewolf, and Primrose: a human.

  The Capitol pretends to be unaware of the condition, yet they officially forbid discussing, or even mentioning the “illness.” Looking for cures is out of the question, though it is easier to count the unaffected than it is to put a number on our kind’s population. A few brave souls still try to figure out how to combat the gene, because wouldn’t it be something if we could stop the morphing from happening? If we didn’t pass down the curse to our younglings?

  My mother sets to work just as Thom steals back into the darkness outside. I whine quietly, watching the door with longing, but my mother puts me to work right away. I have to fetch stuff for her all over the place, which isn’t that bad; at least I don’t have to see her poking the poor guy’s leg and mopping clean the gashes left by the bear’s claws on his thigh.

  It looks painful and raw, the tiny bit I accidentally saw.

  She sends me outside to get water from the well, and I’m grateful of the remarked differences between my kind and that of a regular wolf.

  We can walk erected, on hind legs, if necessary. Our hind paws work like human feet, elongated and flat. Our front paws are more akin to the animal’s paws, rounded and with very sharp claws, but we actually do have nubs that work similarly to opposing thumbs. We can’t grab things, but we can manipulate things easier.

  I bring the water quickly. The moon is already descending, soon the sun will start to crest, and the pack will return home carrying the bounty of the wilderness beyond the district fence. I huff. I wish I was there.

  I walk back into the house, and my mother thanks me for the water.

  After a few minutes I peek around her shoulder, and noticed a neat row of stitches, replacing the open wounds on the wolf’s leg and part of his side.

  Mother notices. “He’s got a few broken fingers in the right hand. But I’ll have to wait until he’s back to human form to set them.”

  I sneeze a disgusted snort.

  Mother just shakes her head. “Go to sleep, Katniss. You may as well rest before your father comes back to deal with whatever you did.”

  My eyes widen in surprise and I just stare at her.

  “What? You didn’t think I’d figure out your father sent you home as a punishment?” She says with a smug knowing tone, then she chuckles.

  “Sweetie, your father has been looking forward to teaching you everything he knows ever since your first turning. He wouldn’t have sent you home, unless you’ve done something very irresponsible or reckless.”

  Her light blue eyes soften, “Katniss,” she combs back the hair of my head, “Your father does what he does, because he loves you, and wants you to be—“

  “Heck darn exceptional…”

  Of course, instead of words, what came out of my snout when I attempted to finish the sentence was just a long string of canine sounds, incomprehensible to any ear except mine, but mother nods, seemingly understanding my meaning.

  “Off to rest. I’ll watch over the boy, until the rest of the pack returns.”

  I could’ve hop on my bed and go to sleep there, but being in bed without Prim just feels weird. So I strut back to the curtain hiding my parents sleeping corner, circle around an old threadbare rug that sits right under my parents bed and drop on it like one of those donuts the baker sells some times.

  Sleep must’ve taken me immediately, because I come to in my bed, fully human, to whispered voices. This really hasn’t happen to me in over a year. Children with the illness, turn to wolves around their tenth human birthday. They’re considered pups, and have to stay with nannies that watch them, feed them and calm them down if they come from non-wolf parents until they’re 12 and physically mature enough to venture into the woods with the pack.

  After that, every wolf has to find their vocation. That’s how everyone finds their place in the pack.

  Some people figure out what they are good at easier than others, our bodies adapt to our jobs, and develop accordingly, wherever our strengths and skills are needed.

  Scouts have to be swift and extra perceptive, they tend to be smaller and lankier, but they have the sharpest eyesight and can hear and sense things before anyone else does. Protectors are bulkier and heavyset, with claws as sharp and strong as iron blades, their paws are bigger than any wolves, and their teeth can pierce through wood if necessary. A protector’s skin is thickest of all of us. They’re though and big. Nannies are usually female, with the warmest coats and no-nonsense attitudes. Pups are just small versions of a normal wolf. They’re cuddly and playful. And I’ve already talked about myself as a hunter.

  My mother has always said that good manners set people apart from the animals… even if one turns into a wolf on occasion. So I debate staying in bed and pretend I’m asleep, or eavesdrop on the conversation, because I’m awake enough to know that my parents are talking about me.

  “She did what?” My mother raises her voice, and father shushes her, pulling her out into the porch.

  I only hear him say, “Calm down, I took care of it—“

  “That boy got hurt because of h—“

  The door clicks shut and my breathing picks up, while my heart rattles frantically in my chest.

  “It ain’t your fault, you know. At least, I don’t blame you.” The voice speaking is soft and quiet. It comes from the kitchen table.

  “You’re awake?” I ask stupidly.

  ‘Of course he’s awake! How else would he have told you he didn’t blame you?’ I yell at myself.

  “Well… yeah. I know you’re awake too and you heard your folks talking about the bear last night.

  “It wasn’t your fault.” He reiterates after a second of deep silence.

  I roll my eyes, because he’s being naively kind.

  “It too was my fault. I went after that stupid bunny and fell right into the bear’s territory. Some hunter I am.” I grouse.

  “Well… when you put it that way…” he chuckles. “Just give me a minute, and I’ll come up with something.”

  I crack a smile at the ceiling, laying on my back.

  I guess this boy ain’t half bad.

  Finally, I sit up on the bed, braiding my long, dark hair for the day.

  “So, how you feeling?” I grimace, shoving my feet into my boots. I’m wearing a tattered nightgown older than time itself, but who cares? It’s not like I’m about to meet the love of my life or anything.

  The boy answers with a yawn, “I’m a bit sore, but it’s nothing I haven’t felt before.”

  He sounds so nonchalant, it tickles me.

  “So you make a habit of fighting wild bears then?” I laugh at my own joke, but I’m taken aback when his answer comes quietly, like it’s a secret. Or a confession rather.

  “No… just my mother.”

  I swear, every hair in my body prickles.

  This whole time I’ve been facing the wall, while making myself presentable, but I turn to see the boy.

  He’s laid on his back on the table, his clasped hands rest on his stomach, his face is placidly calm as he stares at the ceiling as well. If it wasn’t for his bare feet twiddling nervously, I would say he was relaxed and untroubled. I notice his mop of curly, blonde hair is damp, a couple of sweat droplets form on his forehead.

  I may be wrong, but I think this boy belongs to the baker.

  So, he does come from non-wolf parents.

  “Mmm… I’m Katniss,” I say, meekly. Taking a tentative step towards him.

  “I know.” He says in that same, nonchalant tone, that I peg for fake.

  “Oh…” I don’t know what to say for a moment. “Mmm… and you?” I’m a foot away from the table now, I can see his chest heave and fall with every breath he takes.

  “I’m Peeta.” He says quietly. “Peeta Mellark.”

  He finally turns to face me, and when his incredibly blue eyes collide with mine, it’s like an explosion goes off.

  The whole world spins. Time stops and all the colors in the universe turn gray, except for the blue of his eyes.

  I vaguely remember how just a minute ago I was sure I wasn’t about to meet the love of my life. Well, joke’s on me! Though I have nothing to compare this feeling with, I’m pretty sure I just imprinted on Peeta Mellark.

  Which means: I just met my mate for life, and I’m wearing a ratty sleep dress, older than time itself.

To be continued…

>*+*<

[ripplestitchskein]

Light of All Lights - A Fairy Tale in Five Parts (2/5)

Notes: As always i want to first thank @caprelloidea​ for dealing with my tendency to be a needy mess, and offering truly amazing insight and suggestions. I love you a lot. Incredible banner by @thesschesthair

The response to this fic has blown me away and I love and appreciate every one of you for loving it as much as I do. This fandom truly is amazing. 

Summary: When his ship crashes onto a secluded island after a storm Killian “Deckhand Hook” Jones finds himself the unlikely companion to the dark “goddess” who inhabits it. A fairy tale in three parts.

Rating: Explicit for very obvious reasons. Some mild violence. Angst.

Word Count: 17K+

Part One Here

ON AO3

_____

 The hardest part of the day was the dawn. The sun cresting the edge of the water, a small glow growing brighter on the horizon, the colors of a new morning filling the sky. She watched every daybreak, her own private penance, the darkness hissing and clawing the entire time. It loathed this indulgence. It dealt in death and pain, not the hope of a new day dawning. It was a quiet rebellion watching the sun rise, the world coming to life.

 When she was younger, before the darkness, she had missed almost every one. Her family had teased her endlessly over her love of sleep, the difficulty that came from trying to wake her, her sneaking away for afternoon naps when she should be minding her lessons. When Aunt Aurora visited it was even worse, teasing jokes and spindles left by her breakfast plate. Her brother playing Prince Charming, tiny lips pressed to her forehead. Now she rarely slept, she didn't need to, going years without it, the accompanying nightmares making it a distasteful thing, if she had any fear left in her it was reserved for sleep.

 “Oh,” the whispered breath by her side startled her out of the memories. For such a clumsy man he was remarkably good at sneaking up on people. She supposed it was a consequence of trying to go unnoticed, a measure of protection. She had been alone for so long she’d forgotten to expect people, it was so rare to be sought for company alone, and even then she had never had anything to fear, not from anyone else at least. He had succeeded again in surprising her, but she was at least more prepared this time, her awareness of him stilling her arm before her mind caught up that he was there.

 “Don't you sleep?” She was a bit more harsh than she intended, gripping her arms to hug herself, keep herself contained. “I seem to remember people needing sleep.”

 “I did a bit,” he rubbed the back of his head, not at all put out by her tone. She imagined he had heard worse, and the sorry feeling returned, a faint twisting in her chest.

 “Habit I suppose,” he gestured out to the sunrise, looked out of the huge windows of the conservatory, the entire wall and roof nothing but clear glass filled with orange and pink light.

 “Oh! I can...go?” He seemed to realize he might be intruding, his feet already backing away before she could answer, his head bowing in apology, but slowly, measured, as if he hoped she’d call him back.

 “No.” This too came out harsh and forceful, lifetimes of coldness weren’t banished in a day after all, and he froze immediately. Emma sighed, willing herself to relax. “It’s fine. I've seen a hundred thousand.”

 He reeled a bit at that information, blinking away the truth of her long life, mouth gaping, doing the math. It made her uncomfortable, and she itched to know how he felt about the unyielding and cruel facts of her long lived and immortal life.

 “Good thing they’re all different then,” he said after a moment, smiling cheerfully. It dimmed a bit at her face, impassive and neutral, watching the pale pink light play over him. He continued on in a rush. “I mean, the colors are different every day. And sometimes there's birds.”

 “Sometimes there's birds,” Emma repeated slowly.

 He flushed, his eyes squeezing briefly closed in embarrassment. He rubbed at the back of head, the hair there sticking up in sharp little tufts, already matted by his pillow. He was endearingly sleep rumpled. If she wasn't there she was quite sure he would have smacked himself in the face. She gave him a small wry smile to let him know she was teasing. He only flushed deeper and turned to more fully face the glass. The smile grew.

 “May I-may I go down to the beach later? To see the wreckage..of my ship?” He seemed reluctant to ask her, nervous, as if she would refuse him. He didn't look at her as he asked, watching the sunrise. The smile dropped.

 “I said you could go where you wanted. Did you not believe me?” She was angrier than she would have liked, rubbed raw from memory, all these new or rather, old, emotions, her words coming out biting and hard. She didn't expect him to necessarily trust her, their time together had been so brief, a day and a night, though it felt like longer, and she had killed an acquaintance of his, but she also thought she was very clear, he was no prisoner, she couldn't do that to him. He had been a prisoner for too long already. The darkness licked its lips. Her eyes flashed, nails digging into her arms.

 “No I-,” he looked at her wide eyed and just as quickly turned away embarrassed. “I wondered if...you might, if you aren't busy, I don't know what you do during the day, I'm sure it's probably quite important, but if you wanted to-” he was babbling, his eyes widening like he knew that, but couldn't stop himself.

 “Killian,” Emma said firmly, bringing him up short. He nodded gratefully at the interruption, lashes fluttering, and took a deep breath.

 “I thought maybe you could accompany me?” It came out in a rush, and it was only a row of lush green plants, set in their wooden beds behind him that kept him from skittering away from his own question, as if he wanted to be physically as far from it as possible once it was out in the world. He reached back to keep from falling over, his hand sinking into black soil. Emma had to turn her head to keep from laughing, her ire gone in an instant as he shook the dirt away.

 The darkness laid back down, resentful.

 “Sure,” she said amused. “After breakfast we can go down, and I need to see to my... guests.”

 “Guests?” He looked up confused, then seemed to realize she meant the prisoners, his hopefully former ship mates. Killian looked a bit uneasy at their mention, whether because of the thought of the crew themselves or what she had in mind for them, Emma didn't know. She watched him struggle for a minute, “What are-” he cut himself off immediately, reading her face. She finished the question mentally, receiving her own answer in turn to what truly bothered him. Her chest filled with ice.

 “I'm going to feed them,” some of the elation she had felt at his awkward request to join him on the beach dimmed, replaced by sharp annoyance. “I'm not a total monster.” She was, but he didn't know that. Shouldn't know that. Would never know that.

 “No-I didn't-” he shook his head.

 Looking at him, unable to speak, from his own inherent nervousness or something else, she felt the darkness lift its head, smelling opportunity, slithering around her heart, settling into that cold and hollow space. It was too much, her memories, his sudden presence, his unyielding timid fear of her. He’d said he wasn’t scared of her, that he didn't fear her, yet here he was, practically trembling from a look.

 He thinks you’ll kill them, the darkness whispered, cruel but honest. Now, why would he want them alive? They hurt him, made him like this. Who could forgive such a thing?

 Emma closed her eyes, the sun too bright, Killian’s face too open and apologetic.

 What’s he playing at? What does he need them for? They always have a plan, dearie. You know that. You have to be ready for it.

 Her fist clenched at her side, nails digging into flesh, lifetimes of betrayal played across her mind. Hadn't she been weak before, hadn't she trusted before?

 The glass rattled in its panes and she heard Hook breathe in next to her, quick and distressed.

 She had vowed never again, but then this man had washed up on her beach, beautiful and broken, like a gift from the sea.

 The rows and rows of lush green plants behind them tremored and shook, leaves trembling as rage boiled up, the crackle and hiss of magic filling the air.

 The darkness laughed.

 He was supposed to be different, he seemed so new, but he could be exactly the same. Wasn't that the purest truth of all humanity? They were all, every one of them, exactly the same.

 A ceramic pot vibrated off a shelf, shattered and broke on the floor, the tinkling melody of destruction, the same as the song in her soul, and it snapped her eyes open.

 Hook looked as if he had been struck, wide eyed and fearful, still glowing orange and pink in the sunlight. The fright in his face, those wide blue eyes, only made the anger grow. Maybe he should know she was a monster. He swallowed, reaching out his hand.

 “Emma, I’m-”

 She didn't feel like waiting for his mouth to catch up, didn't know what she would do if she did, hated that he knew her name, so she just turned from the view of the sunrise, the sun now a golden orb over the water, and walked from the room.

 _____

 Less than a day and already he had offended her. It wasn't near a record though, he could sometimes manage the feat in a single sentence, but this one was worse. He truly hadn't meant to hurt her, or anger her, whichever he had done, they were inextricably linked, one and the same. He felt like he was walking in a room filled with precious breakable glass, unsure of where it was safe to step, crashing into entire shelves and toppling them whole.

 He trailed after her, not because it was necessarily the safest thing to do, her steps pounding and angry on the stone, but because he was at a loss as to what he should do. She didn't look at him as they entered the dining room, waving an arm to fill the table with the day’s fare with a short jerk. It amazed him, all this bounty with barely a thought, that she could move the very foundations of the earth while remaining perfectly still, that she had seen more sunrises than some lands had people. It was thrilling and terrifying, the scale and enormity of her, so much contained in one slight woman.

 Killian barely hesitated, his movements automatic, grabbing the tray and the plate before she could move towards them.

 “You don't have to serve me,” she snapped, moving to grab them.

 “Please,” he clutched the metal tray closer to him, awkward in his arms, as if he could possibly stop her if she truly wished to have them. His heart stuttered, he didn't mean it as defiance, quite the opposite, but this was still new, fragile and breakable, and she might not recognize the difference. His life would be so much easier if he could express himself in pure intent and desire rather than words and gestures.

 Thankfully, she did stop, her cool gaze running over his face. Killian had never met a member of royalty, but he imagined they looked a lot like this, straight backed and imposing, physically overwhelming despite her smaller stature.

 “You aren't my servant, I can take care of myself,” he couldn't help but flinch a little at her tone, imperious and regal, cold as ice, freezing in his veins, his grip automatically loosening to obey her.

 “I know, but this is-” he sighed, agitated, trying to find the right word. “This is familiar.”

 He didn't realize how true it was until he spoke it aloud. He wasn't used to any of this. He had awoken this morning alone, in a strange bed, sinking into luxury, with no purpose for the day, no Captain to serve, no duties assigned. He had spent every moment of every day of his bloody life it felt like accomplishing the tasks of others. He didn't have any of his own. Even their brief journeys ashore, what should be his leave, had him fetching drinks and finding the crew willing whores, dragging drunken men home on his back. Other than the rare moment he stole to read a pilfered book, buy a lonely bath instead of company, or look at the stars just because no one could stop him, he’d never had something of his own to do. Going down to the beach to comb the wreckage was the first thought he’d had, an attempt to see what of his old life was salvageable, a physical reminder that this was real, that things had changed.

 He wasn't sorry exactly, he didn't miss it certainly, the novelty of freedom was still burning brightly in his chest, potentially hanging somewhere in a nebulous future, but his fingers were itching, his brain a jumble. He was untethered and anchorless here. He needed something of a purpose, a course to chart as it were. Even if it was something as silly as serving a meal.

 Emma’s face softened fractionally, a blink and you missed it relaxation near her eyes. They still burned bright and cold into his, and he imagined she could probably see into his very soul. Was that a power she possessed? He feared what she would find there, possibly unworthy to the very core, worthless and dispensable to the basest parts of his being.

 She didn't speak, just nodded once, and went to her place at the table.

 Her nods this morning were more curt, her body rigid, as he moved over the fare. He wanted to apologize, to correct her misinterpretation. He didn't think her a monster, on the contrary she was the kind of woman who could keep the monsters at bay. She was strong and powerful, self assured and confident, an avenging angel, punishing the unworthy, freeing the downtrodden, giving a worthless wretch a chance.

 Hook could tell her none of this though, the words would come out wrong, he knew this. He had destroyed enough this morning, the sun barely in the sky before he laid waste to what they had built with his useless mouth. So he crafted his apology with the fruits he knew she liked, arranging them as prettily as he was able with poor balance and one hand, a flower plucked from a vase on the table laid next to the silver metal plate, an apology in pink petals.

 If Emma noticed the extra flair she didn't comment, just nodded her thanks and gave a pointed look at his own plate, making sure he knew he could eat as well. It still felt strange, not only dining with another instead of ducking the snatching hands of his crew, shoving food into his mouth in shadowy corners where it couldn't be stolen, but with a beautiful woman, an overwhelming variety and abundance within his reach. He took the plate and walked the length of the table, back and forth, eyeing her in his periphery, hoping she would hear his silent plea.

 “Eggs, some of the bacon, kippers, and…” Emma seemed to think a moment, looking down at her own plate. “Strawberries.”

 She wasn't smiling but he could almost hear it in her throaty voice if he listened hard enough. He had spent a fair bit of time arranging the strawberries. He bit down on his lip to keep the delighted grin from splitting his face, looking down so she wouldn't see. He wasn't some besotted schoolboy, he could at least attempt some manly dignity. Still, there was a boyish spring in his step as he piled her selections on his plate, heart a bit lighter. She had noticed.

 They ate in silence, slightly uncomfortable, the weight of his careless words hanging over every bite, every stolen glance, almost all of them his. Emma was staring at nothing, her face an unreadable mask. Some of his delight ebbed, the memory of shattered ceramic, soil spilling over the floor, it still wasn't right, he had still made a mess of things.

 “I could-,” his voice rang out in the dining room, much too loud,  and he winced, lowering it. “I could feed them.” It seemed like something he should do, a task he should fulfill. Slinging slop to a band of dirty pirates seemed beneath her, even if it would just be a blink or a wave of her hand.

 Emma did look at him then, guarded and suspicious. He wanted to crawl away, as he had suspected, he was only making this worse.

 “Why?”

 “It just seems like something I should do. As your...Companion?” He hated the hopeful lilt on the last word, hated how desperate he probably seemed to her.

 “Afraid I'll skin them alive? Rip the flesh from their bones? Eat their still beating hearts for dessert?” This was all delivered with a deadly false cheer, but even in that silken smoke he could hear the faint edge of hurt.

 “No!” His knee banged the table, his movements ungainly, unsure of what he was even trying to do. Get up, go to her, make her read the words on his face again. He didn't know. He settled back in the chair embarrassed and frustrated.

 “No.” He repeated, not nearly as firmly as he intended, more a whispered plea than anything. It was hard to be forceful when she was looking at him with those eyes.

 The silence stretched between them, and it made his heart thud against his ribs, his mouth opening and closing uselessly.

 “Fine.” She picked up her fork again. “You can handle them.”

 “Thank you,” it came out automatically, the one thing always uninhibited by his useless tongue. Her fork paused halfway to her mouth, and she relaxed a bit at the edge of his vision.

 When he cleared her plate later, the flower was gone.

 _____

 In theory feeding a dozen men seemed easy. He had done it many times, but that was in the small ship’s galley, the food readily at hand. Emma had provided him a cauldron of stew, hearty and hot, and more than they probably deserved. They had called her a whore after all, and worse.

 She had looked at him though, hesitating before she created it out of thin air, that back and forth battle in her eyes before she waved her hand. A cauldron of stew and dry stale bread, a King’s feast in comparison to some of the rancid slop he had gagged down in the brig. Definitely more than they deserved.

 He lugged the cauldron down the twisting flight of stairs, his muscles straining, then went back for the stack of wooden bowls and spoons, one for each. He could hear them spitting and grumbling even on the landing, a few sharp rings of metal as the determined continued to beat the bars.

 His heart didn't start up until the labor was done, standing at the threshold of the sand colored stone. These men hated him, would kill him if they had half a chance. He had abandoned them, left them with barely a glance backwards, had slept between silken sheets, been entertained by a beautiful woman, had washed her naked skin, the memory of her scent still filling his head. They would slit his throat for just the first.

 He knew these men though, had endured their taunts and abuse for years. They had taken more from him than any men rightfully should, and it was with this thought, emboldened by his change of fortune, that helped him step into the corridor. He felt their eyes on him as he dragged the cauldron, could feel their sneers as he went back for the bowls, hatred hot on his back.

 “If it isn't the traitorous swine,” snarled Evans. He came up to the bars, at least half a head taller than Hook, and twice as thick. He’d lost an eye in a bar fight years back, and unlike some, felt the twisted scar and curling empty socket was much more intimidating than the patch. Hook tended to agree.

 His hand was trembling as he arranged the bowls, ladling a healthy portion of stew into each one, ripping off equal hanks of bread. Slowly behind him, one by one, the men all came to the openings of their cells like wolves scenting blood, circling fresh prey. He heard the dull ping of wood on metal, someone's billy club, and the hissing rasp of swords drawn from leather sheaths. He had forgotten that they could do more than beat the bars with the weapons they still possessed. He gulped.

 “Is her quim all silvery too?” Jasper asked, practically licking the hinge of the door. He made a jerking motion with his hips, tiny monkey like face twisted in a sneer.

 “Bah, like ‘e got anywhere nears ‘er quim,” Starkey grunted a laugh.

 Hook clenched the ladle, steadying his breath, deep gulps of air, in and out. His hand was trembling, with terror, revulsion, the thin and weak thread of anger that came whenever they spoke, winding through it all making his chest tight.

 “You know what we do to traitors, Hook,” came an eerie voice, snake slick and grating, punctuated by the metal of a knife on iron bars. “What we’re going to do to you.”

 “Let us out,” came another, punctuated by a loud bang. Hook jumped at the noise, slopping liquid into the floor, dark against the cream colored stone. It looked like blood.

 “If ‘e knows what's good for ‘im,” Starkey stared him down with cold brown eyes, his teeth yellow and snarling under an unkempt beard. “Then let me at the bitch. I’ll slit ‘er throat from ear to ear.”

 “Don’t,” it was not nearly as threatening as Hook intended it, a shaking, trembling plea.

 “Don’t wha’?” Starkey challenged, pressing against the bars, shifting on his feet.

 “Don’t-” Hook took a breath. “-don’t talk about her.”

 That predictably set them off, a chorus of whoops and high pitched hollers echoing off the walls. Hook closed his eyes, jaw clenched, his chest heaving.

 “You ‘heard ‘im,” Starkey’s voice rose in pitch, “Don’t talk about ‘er!”

 “I think he’s in love,” Evans crowed. “Is all of her that cold Hook? Like ice on your cock I bet.”

 “Like he would even know what to do with his cock if she gave him the chance.”

 It didn't matter. None of this mattered. It was the same things they always said. It was no different. A bare chested woman shoved in his lap, apologies tumbling out against his will, men circling, taunting, grabbing his head to forcefully shove it between hot flesh until he couldn't breathe. Women sneering down at him asking him what was wrong with his cock, what was wrong with him, the scents of sweat and sex and foul unclean breath mixing into a fetid haze with the stench of alcohol and the unwashed.  

 It was different though, she wasn’t some disinterested prostitute in a run down whore house, she was practically a goddess, even if she denied it. She had given him his freedom, her skin was scented with roses and sweet smoke, she looked at him like she wanted him. Emma had given him more in one night than anyone had given him in his entire life: deliverance from heartlessly cruel men who took and took and took.

 He kicked a bowl of stew towards the bars of Evans’ cell, the tiny bit of bread tumbling into the dust. He almost didn't feel his leg move, happening so quick he couldn't pull it back. The twisted smile fell from the man’s face and Hook’s heart froze in his chest.

 “I will kill you,” Evans said, his voice deadly serious. Hook swallowed.

 “You can’t hide behind her skirts forever,” Jasper added with a giggle, jittering in place.

 “Please,” Hook said finally. He couldn't have calmed the tremor in his voice if he tried. His whole body was shaking, anger and frustration, fear and dread, a slavering cowardly mess of emotion, trembling before them. He hated himself for pleading.  “I'm just trying to feed you.”

 “So feed us,” Starkey said, all good humor now.

 “Your weapons,” Hook motioned with his hook, the light bouncing off it as it wavered. “Put them at the back of the cell.”

 Starkey tossed his club behind him, hands going up in supplication, his grin wide.

 “There see?” the man said. Hook nodded, murmured a quick thank you, and picked up a bowl, tentatively walking towards him.

 “No weapons gents,” Starkey said cheerfully to the crew. He was in charge now. There was the clatter and bang of several men following suit. Evans however continued to glare at him, knife glinting in the torch light, and Hook edged away.

 He reached out, offering the bowl, the bread balanced precariously on the top. Starkey smiled that yellow and black toothed grin.

 His hand snapped out cobra quick, grabbing the front of Hook’s shirt, and yanked him painfully into the bars. His hook banged against the metal, the bowl clattering to the ground spraying hot liquid as his hand went up to grasp the man’s own. But Starkey’s grip was iron, and Hook could barely dig his nails into the hard calloused flesh.

 “See, I don't need no weapon to kill you, Hook,” the man snarled in his face, spittle spraying across his cheeks, sneering the name. Starkey’s other hand came up, out of the bars towards Hook’s neck.

 Killian couldn't even cry out it happened so fast, pulling back as hard as he could, nothing more than a muted whimper coming out, but the man held fast. Killian raised his hook, intending to strike, to try, but Jasper reached out through the bars of the adjoining cell, grabbing the metal easy as you please, jerking his arm painfully to the side. Starkey yanked, iron pressing painfully into Hook’s chest as the man pulled him tighter against the door.

 “I'm going to kill you, and then when I get out of here I'll see that bitch on ‘er back, and then,” Starkey’s harsh whispered threat ghosted foul breath across Hook’s face, the man’s other hand snaking up to grab his neck. “-then I'll do the same to ‘er.”

 Starkey squeezed.

 “Will you?”

 The gnarled hands released him before he could blink, a golden light pulsing and strong illuminating his captor, edging him in frosted gold, throwing the huge man backwards. Starkey hit the stone wall with a sickening crack, bones no doubt shattering and snapping, and he fell to an unconscious heap on the floor of the cell. Jasper flung the hook away like it burned, and scrambled back into the shadows of his own cell in terror. Evans lowered his knife.

 Hook gasped, sucking in air, bracing himself on the bars. His legs were shaking, knees buckling, his hook vibrating against the iron as he collected himself. He snatched it away at the noise, hugging it his chest.

 “I'm sorry,” he panted out finally. “I thought I could.” Thought he could what exactly? He wasn't sure what he’d thought he could do. Face them? Confront them? Make himself of use to her? Regardless, he had failed utterly. He rubbed at his throat.

 He turned to look at her. Emma tilted her head at him curiously, her face that smooth placid calm, but her eyes were brilliant shining emerald. A storm of rage swirled in their depths, thin dark brows narrowed with deadly intent. With a wave of her hand the spilled stew, the bowls and wooden spoons disappeared. In their place was a single flagon made of dark gray metal.

 “These cells-” Emma addressed the men, all of them now uneasy and fearful, watching her carefully, no longer wolves but frightened dogs. It sent a tiny dark thrill through him to see them cower for once.

 She ran her nails down the door of Starkey’s cell, slowly circling the metal plate of the catch, “-have no locks. I'm sure an industrious crew of pirates like yourselves noticed they had nothing to pick, and thus, no way out.” Her smile was all teeth as she addressed them all.

 “But I have let you keep your weapons.” She frowned in mock, pouting, confusion.

 “I wonder why that would be?” she tapped one nail tipped in black against the crimson of her mouth. Hook licked his lips, following the movement, anticipation settling between his shoulders.

 Her hand rose up and she snapped her fingers, the crack impossibly loud in the still silence of the dungeon, all of them holding their breath. In one wisp of gray white smoke the walls dividing the cells disappeared, one huge communal chamber taking their place. Hook watched the men regard each other suspiciously, hands on swords, fingers gripping wooden clubs and small deadly daggers, unsure of the game unfolding.

 “I have water here for you,” Emma said with a cheerful singing coldness. She motioned to the small flagon dead center of the chamber on the corridor floor, within reach if one were clever.

 “Enough for one man for a day or so, maybe two... if you share.” She was practically purring now, her teeth unnaturally sharp in the flickering torchlight. “Promise me you’ll share?”

 And then she walked away, a brief look over her shoulder at Hook letting him know he should follow. He did, hurrying after her, and he did not look back.

_____

 The darkness was unsatisfied. It swirled and scratched against her mind, wrapping itself around her shoulders, settling heavy on her chest. Games were fun, but they were never enough, not nearly enough. It wanted marrow and blood, flesh and muscle. Retribution.

 In time, she told it. Soon, she soothed.

 She had no intention of letting them get away with this. Killian’s face pained and frightened, fingers around his neck, held down and helpless, flashed across her mind.

 Soon.

 “Pardon?” Hook asked from her side, his voice breaking through the churning shadowy fog. She had spoken aloud.

 “Are you alright?” she replied instead. She stopped walking. He looked okay, his neck reddened and scratched, his chest flushed. She wondered what he was thinking. The words on his face were all rapidly fading fear and stark relief, which helped a bit.

 “Oh,” he looked down at himself as if he wasn't sure. “Aye, I’m-,” Killian whispered the next, “-more embarrassed than anything truly.”

 Emma raised an eyebrow. He had nothing to be embarrassed about. It was her oversight. She had left those men with their weapons, she didn't have cause to fear them after all, they couldn't hurt her with them, it made them feel powerful and strong until they realized how useless they really were. But Killian was made of fragile flesh, soft and so very mortal. She had made a mistake, allowed her suspicions that he could be colluding with them to get the better of her, and as consequence he had glimpsed a small part of what she could do, what she was capable of. Emma stepped closer.

 Killian’s eyes went wide, his brows lifting in surprise as he backed into the wall, his hand and hook moving nervously at his side. She reached out, running the tips of her fingers along the cords of his neck, tracing the red marks with a whispered caress. His eyes slid closed and she felt him swallow against her. She kept moving, gliding them down like trickling water, smoothing across the pronounced bone of his collar, dipping briefly into the fascinating hollow there, to the bright crimson streaks on his chest, bare and exposed by his shirt. He was so warm, so alive, every breath rising against her hand, she imagined she could feel the pounding of his heart through her fingertips.

 “Does it hurt?” she whispered, tracing the angry lines where his skin had pressed against iron. It could bruise, and they would pay for every shade of purple, every tone of blue. She wondered if the tautness of his muscles, the fluttering in his jaw was fear, of her, of what she was, what she had shown him in the dungeon below, or just of her, a woman touching a man.

 “Not anymore,” his breath was ragged, his eyes tightly closed, the lashes pressed against his cheeks, so long, thick black against golden tan. Emma arched up, onto the toes of her boots, and feather light ghosted her lips across the firm flesh of his neck. He jerked beneath her, surprised, his eyes flying open, brilliant blue. She saw the answer in them, no fear there just plain and honest lust.

 Emma stepped back with a small secret smile.

 “Do you want to go down to the beach?” she asked breezily. He could only nod, mouth open in reverent awe, his hands brushing where her lips had touched.

 The darkness snarled and retreated.

_____

 She had changed into a long black dress, smooth silk, the sleeves open and short, her pale arms bare and white in the late morning sun. It fluttered in the breeze off the water, teasing glimpses of curves as it pulled against her skin, flaring out as the wind receded. He liked it very much.

 But all he could manage, all that unspoken poetry filling his head, and all that came out was a simple and ineffectual. “You look-.”

 She just smiled that small secret smile, reminding him of lips on skin, her feet bare in the sand, perfect little toes painted crimson to match her mouth. That mouth fascinated him. He wondered how the delicate arch of her feet would fit into the curve of his hand. He shook his head.

 The castle rose high and sprawling on rocky cliffs above them, the smooth white sand of the beach dotted by intruding bits of debris. Wood and sail, rope and half dried piles of clothing, empty crates and broken casks brought in by the tide. The refuse of their broken vessel littered the picturesque landscape like a pox, and he was suddenly very sorry. They were intruders here.

 There was a small tan shell in the sand next to the remains of a broken chair, whole and perfect, and he picked it up, tossing it lightly in his hand before slipping it into a pocket.

 As they came around the bend, he saw the ship, half of her gone, the rest laying dead and discarded in pieces all along the beach. He felt his heart clench. He had no love for her occupants, his time aboard her had been the worst of his life, but the ship had always been a thing of beauty, now open and bleeding wreckage onto the sand. When he had first seen her, trailing awkwardly after Blackbeard to his new home, she had seemed to hold a world of possibilities. Surely a ship so bright, sunshine yellow and royal blue, held nothing but good in her depths? How very wrong he had been.

 There was another shell in the sand just before the battered prow, a scotch bonnet, white tipped in swirling blue, pink and pearl perfect on the inside. He scooped it up to join the other.

 “Do you want to search the ship?” Emma asked. She was watching his face, white tendrils of hair brushing her cheeks in the breeze.

 It didn't look safe to do so, the wood creaking as the waves lapped, the vessel rocking precariously on the sand bar, but reading his mind she held her hand out. The ship moved with loud scrapes against the sand further up the bank, groaning with every inch, water receding in a rush, a huge open wound in her side revealing the contents within.

 They approached the ship together.

 The Jolly’s insides were pitch black, haunting even in the daylight, a ghost ship now, all skeletal remains. Next to him Emma made a soft blue orb in her palm, gentle light filling the rooms. He smiled at her gratefully.

 “This is where you slept?” Emma toed a bit of coiled rope on the tilted floor of the crew quarters. It had fallen from its peg.

 He pointed to the corner.

 “That one, I shared with Carlsdale, I don't think he made it,” he couldn't remember seeing the tiny angry man among the crew in the dungeon. He would have been on deck when the ship struck, he was on the night watch. Carlsdale had once dumped a bucket of rotting fish guts onto the deck under Hook’s face as he’d scrubbed away the grime, kicking the stiff bristle brush in his hand, sending it spinning, so it landed in the slop.

 “You missed a spot,” were the last words Hook could remember him saying. He wouldn't miss him much.

 “Is there anything left-” Emma wrinkled her nose in distaste at a pile of mouldy clothes. It was so at odds with her normally cold expression it made him grin. “- of yours? What?” She stopped her question.

 “Nothing,” he ducked his head, still smiling, and went out into the hall, bracing himself against the wall to keep himself upright. She followed after, taking it all in.

 “It’s very small,” she commented.

 “It's worse when everyone’s on board,” he agreed, testing the hatch that led to the brig below.

 “What are you doing?” She peered at him curiously, holding her glowing orb higher so he could see.

 “I think it's still here,” he let himself drop down the hatch into the hold, his boots hitting with a dull thud. It smelled of rot and sewer, familiar smells, thick green slime covering most of the surfaces. He looked up at her sharply, peering at him over the lip of the hatch.

 “Don’t-,” he blew out a breath. “Don’t come down here.” She narrowed her eyes, face cast blue by the light.

 “Why?”

 Because I don't want you to be tainted by this filth. He wanted to say. Because I don't want you to picture me here. Because this place is so far beneath you I can't imagine you in it. Because I cried on that rotting mattress and threw up spoilt food in that corner, pissed and shit in that bloody bucket for weeks on end, for dropping a plate, or burning the meat, or some other inconsequential crime. He swallowed the thoughts down.

 “It’s dirty,” he said finally. Emma huffed annoyed, but she just leaned in further to give him more light, and stayed above.

 “What are you doing down there?” she asked. Hook felt along the boards, till he found the one he needed, and with a sharp pound of his fist the wood sprang free.

 “I hid my things here,” he answered. The small metal foot locker was thankfully still there. He slid it out of its hiding space carefully, tucking it under his arm.

 “In the brig?” She peered over the hatch again, leaning in a bit further.

 “Aye,” he grunted as he grabbed the wooden rungs, hauling himself up, the pitch of the ship making it more difficult. It was a bit easier to breathe with each one, the room fading away as he climbed. Emma backed away, reaching down to help him with her free hand. She pulled him back up to the slanted hall as if he weighed nothing, looking at the box curiously.

 “Is that it?” she asked. He rattled it cheerfully.

 “All I want,” he motioned towards the light pouring in from the hole in the side. “We can go, if you like.”

 Emma scanned his face for a moment, brows furrowed, and nodded, leading the way out, back into the day.

 “I could fix her,” Emma said, almost reluctantly, the orb disappearing, her hand bunching the fabric at the front of her dress. “If you wanted. She’d be yours if you want to…” she didn't say “go” but he knew what came next.

 He looked at the sad remains of the beautiful vessel, outwardly lovely, one of the prettiest ships in all the realms, but inside she was ugly with memory. He shook his head.

 “No, leave it to rot,” by his foot he spied a tiny cockle, the edges chipped and sharp, and holding his box, all he had in the world, under his arm, he reached down to pick it up, shoving it into his pocket.

 “What are you doing?” Emma asked. She was studying him again. “Why do you keep picking those up?”

 He blushed.

 “For you, for your,” he waved his hook. “Circle things.”  He didn't know what they were for, but he’d seen the piles of shells and feathers on the table in her workroom, bits of them adorning the ones hanging from the rafters.

 Emma froze, the wind whipping her hair around her face, pale porcelain skin shining in the sun, statue still. She looked every bit the ethereal goddess he believed her to be. She just stared at him, until his skin prickled uncomfortably, the silence stretching. And then she moved, her feet sinking into the beach.

 The metal box fell forgotten into the sand as her hands cupped his face, warm despite the cold appearance of her skin, and she pressed her lips to his. His eyes widened in surprise, his arms waved a moment unsure of what to do before settling by his side. He was afraid to touch her. Emma moved perfect lips against his own, hot and soft, and his eyes slid closed.

 He had been kissed before, the young daughter of a dockworker, a cool dry mouth pressed against him behind a stack of shipping crates, startlingly fast before her father yanked her away, cuffing him about his dazed head. Bolder prostitutes believing they could kiss his shyness away, tongues too wet, lips chapped and cold, reminding him of fish and musky city air.

 This kiss was more of a first kiss than any of those, true and sweet and firm. She slanted her lips across his own, electric warmth curling down his spine, her tongue tracing the seams. He gasped in unchecked pleasure, and she took the opening, deepening the kiss, her fingers digging pleasantly into his cheeks. His knees were watery, threatening to buckle beneath him as a surge of pure unadulterated sensation filled him to the brim. He wasn't even sure if he was kissing her back, his mind blank with sudden lust and warmth, every stroke of her tongue sending frissons of unrecognizable energy into his limbs. A soft moan vibrated against him, rocked him back on his heels, his hand clutching suddenly at her thin waist to ground him.

 The world could burn around him, set ablaze by the Gods, and he would have absolutely no idea. Emma’s mouth hot and moving across his own, the press of her breasts against his chest, her skin warm through her thin dress on his hand, that was the only reality he knew. The world tasted of strawberries.

 Her teeth tugged briefly on his bottom lip as she pulled away, hands sliding down his neck, another jolt of sensation going straight to where he was hard and straining. Cold sea air washed over him as she hummed in low satisfaction, her eyes opening slowly with lazy desire.

 He wanted to grab for her, pull her back, the loss of her lips a truly terrible thing, as if some part of him had been stripped away, exposed and bare, revealed to the open air and sea. His arms lifted weakly, his body swaying towards her, but cowardice rocked him back.

 “That was-” he shook his head to clear it, brilliant buzzing white noise where thoughts should be.

 Emma smiled that small secret smile in the sunlight, motioning at his feet.

 “Don't forget your box,” and then she was making her way along the beach, back towards the looming castle above.

 Hook scrambled, his nerves on fire. It took him two tries to scoop the box back under his arm, his boots slipping along the sand, threatening to topple him, as he followed her awkwardly up.

 _____

 She had meant to wait to kiss him. He was still too skittish, too fearful, overwhelmed by the changes in his life so far, dazed and wide eyed, taking it all in. He clutched his box of treasures like a lifeline, trailing after her in fogged confusion. He looked as if she had ravished him on the beach instead of just putting her mouth to his own.

 She should have waited, but he looked so hopeful in the sunlight, those shells clinking in his pockets, the desire to please her on his face. Her skin buzzed with heat thinking of his breath gasping into her mouth, the slick warmth of his tongue. She licked her lips, pretending she could still taste him.

 He kissed like a flustered youth, like a stolen moment in an orchard under bright summer sun, unsure yet of how they fit together, where his hands should go. He was ungainly and awkward to be sure, but she knew that future ruin lay in those lips, destruction in that tongue. He could one day lay waste to her. He had no idea of his potential, the word heavy with new meaning, and that thrilled her more than any skilled mouth ever had or ever could.

 Just take him the darkness whispered impatiently.

 Killian flushed as he caught her dark gaze, darting a glance to her lips before forcing himself to look forward. She pushed the voice away, its metered hiss replaced by warm lips and a hand on her waist holding on for dear life.

 She could feel every part of her keenly. Her thighs squeezing tight, rubbing together as she led him through the castle, her nipples rasping against silk. She ran her tongue along her lips and tried to breathe. So much sensation from such a simple act, awkward and new, desire heating her from within. She could only imagine what he could do with time.

 She needed to get away, find some measure of release, or she would lose hold of her fragile patience, all her grand plans of a slow and methodical seduction. She would frighten him with her intensity, send him scurrying from the flames.

 “I'll find you later, find something to occupy yourself,” he stopped walking immediately, her tone rushed and snappish. She risked a glance at him again. That same lost look, drowning in possibility, and her stomach clenched in sympathy.

 Impatient, the darkness growled.

 “Go read a book, or tend the garden, I don't care which,” the voice that came out was barely her own, too lyrical, too fast and full of barely restrained giddy glee. Hook relaxed a bit in relief, but he titled his head to the side peering at her.

 “Are you-” he paused, unconsciously licking his lips. “-alright?”

 Her skin felt too small, her scalp prickling, she needed something to siphon off the excess of energy, dull the edge. One type of lust was much the same as any other, blood or body it made no difference. She was decidedly not alright. She nodded.

 “Fine, fine, off you go!” More lilting sing song nonsense, the voice her own but not the words, the cadence, the tone. Hook furrowed a brow, concerned, worry replacing heady lust, but he nodded.

 “If you need me,” he said softly, uncertainly. “I'll be here.”

 Emma couldn't look at him any longer, she would change her mind, her skin crawling, the darkness grinding its teeth in anticipation. She spun and made off for the dungeon without looking back, the urge to turn around, to go to him, rubbing her raw.

 _____

 Hook carefully picked shattered shards of ceramic out of dark soil, careful not to disturb the twisting bed of roots. He had briefly considered finding a book, losing himself in the words, but his mind was too busy, his limbs needing action, his nerves needing an open view of the sea.

 He wasn't entirely sure what had happened.

 He cradled the tiny plant in his hand, scooping it up with the back of his hook into his palm. He could probably still save it he reasoned, the green leaves were still bright and healthy, the roots intact. He didn't know much about plants, their care and keeping, but he liked them. He carried it to an empty space in one of the raised rows, his hook acting as a spade as he made it a new home amongst the rest.

 It was an easy solution: pick it up, dig a hole, set it to rights. Simple. Understandable. The rest of it he couldn't make sense of.

 Emma had not reacted as she should. Instead of angry confusion, that all too familiar look of disappointment, of betrayal, as if his mouth had made a promise he hadn't fulfilled, she had looked almost pleased. She looked as if she still wanted him, inexperience and all, unlike the rest. Her eyes were bright and shining with what he’d thought was lust, but she’d also left, just as fast as the others, the taste of her barely gone before she was. He wasn't surprised, but he was very confused.

 He patted the soil around the tiny thing down, and frowned going over what he could remember. Her lips, soft and warm, fingers on his face, her body flush against his own. He licked his lips, reddened at the memory, but he was at a loss.

 He couldn't make her dinner, the kitchen was empty of food, unnecessary here with her magic and pointless anyway since he could barely cook. His room was as clean as when he’d entered, the bed made, pillows rearranged, no trace of either of them there. The little plant was the only thing out of sorts here, besides himself.

 He gave it some water from a tiny flask on the shelves and wondered what to do.

 _____

 She found him in the sitting room, in the same chair as that first night, the high back imposing, making him seem smaller. He’d lit every candle and then some, the room as bright as day, yellow and flickering, a worn book in his hand, the spine cracked, the leather cover ripped. He was startlingly handsome, it had only been a few hours but the candle light playing over the cut of his jaw, the slope of his ears made her feel like she’d forgotten, like she’d never known at all.

 It made her feel dirty, her hands cleaned of blood, her ears free of pained and tormented screams, but she she could still feel it, bright brilliant red running down her wrist, could still hear the pleading cries and begging moans ringing in the air. She shook her head.

 He didn't hear her for a moment, brows furrowed in concentration as he read, his hook tapping against his leg, quick and rhythmic, his leg jumping beneath it from nervous energy. She watched him for a moment, the jerking turn of the pages, his mouth moving ever so slightly as he sounded out the words. He was upset. Emma frowned and stepped into the room.

 The book fell from his hands with a clatter to the floor, and he leapt up at the sight of her, a half bow before he corrected the action, sheepishly rising. He rubbed his ear, smile small.

 “Hello,” he bent to get the book, his place lost, and awkwardly shoved it back into the metal box on the table next to him.

 “What are you reading?” She couldn't glimpse the cover, the lid of his footlocker obscuring the view. She desperately wanted to know. It wasn't one of her books, all their covers pristine, perfect and unmarred. This one was roughly used, the pages had been worn, water scarred, the binding barely containing them.

 He glanced at it for a moment.

 “A poem, it’s Greek,” he lifted it from the box in one jerking movement, shoving it into her hands.

 Emma stroked the scarred leather, ran her fingers along the spine, the title once embossed in gold faded, the remaining letters unfamiliar.

 “You read Greek?” She looked up in surprise. He shrugged.

 “Not very well, I'm afraid,” he gave that quick smile, barely a pulling of lips, the flash of perfect white teeth. “I'm only marginally better in English.”

 “Why Greek?” she asked softly, carefully putting the book back, curious eyes taking in the rest of the box’s contents: a few smooth stones, a black feather, a red piece of cloth. There was nothing valuable, not in the traditional sense, no gold or jewels, just moments of his life held in seemingly inconsequential objects.

 She collapsed into the chair across from him, her legs over the arm, dress sliding down towards her hips. She watched him, waiting for him to answer as he travelled the length of them with his eyes, teeth on his bottom lip, before he looked away, remembering himself, clearing his throat. Emma smiled.

 “I liked the letters,” he carefully sat in his own chair across from her. Emma raised an eyebrow as he went predictably red.

 “What did you like about them?” There was no teasing in her tone, just overwhelming interest, every detail of him fascinating, every tiny triviality revealing more and more.

 “Ah,” he hesitated, taking a deep breath, thinking. “Well some of them are strong, familiar, bold strokes,” he unconsciously moved his hook by his leg, imitating them. The simple gesture made her warm.

 “And some are-” he paused considering. “Beautiful, with these curves-” his gaze flickered back to her legs, his hand moving now, turning inward to imitate them. “-and uh, circles like a, like a picture.” He fisted his hand in his lap.

 “Did someone teach you?”

 “A little. We had a passenger, man by the name of Nuru on Captain Silver’s ship. A merchant. He taught me a bit,” he shrugged. “He was very...” Killian thought a moment. “Patient.”

 “A good man then?” Emma asked softly.

 “Oh aye, he gave us sweets, lokum he called it, never had the like,” a small smile ghosted over his face at the memory. Emma mirrored it on her own, then rose a bit to attention, hearing his words.

 “Us?”

 “Ah,” he tugged at his ear. “My brother and I. Liam.”

 “Liam,” she tested the name on her tongue, and across from her Hook jerked as though in pain. She frowned, but didn't press. He would reveal it on his own.

 “Show me what's in the box,” she said instead, part command, part request. He relaxed a bit, nodding. He reached over, pulling it on his lap. It was old and dented in places, rust teasing at the corners and the hinges creaked as he lifted the lid higher.

 “It’s not much,” he warned.

 “Your pirate treasure?” she teased, the tips of his ears flaming red, that brief flash of nervous smile, more satisfying than almost anything.

 He lifted a few of the small stones, different colors, some shiny and smooth, others rough and jagged. He weighed them in his hand, letting them fall through his fingers like sand to ping back in the box, one after the other.

 “The places I've been,” he explained. “When I could sneak away to get one.”

 “You’ve been a lot of places,” she murmured, most of the bottom was covered in various stones.

 “I've traveled a long time,” he admitted. “But I haven't seen much truly. Most ports are the same wherever you go. Sometimes, I wasn’t allowed off the ship, or there’d be more.”

 “Did you-” Emma hesitated, her chest clenching with anxiety. “Did you like it? Traveling so much?”

 “Aye,” he nodded, the feeling in her chest twisting like a knife. “Most of the time, I didn't mind it at any rate. Didn't have much say in where we went.” He chuckled to himself, small and self deprecating.

 “What else is in there?”  her voice had that hard edge, and he looked up in surprise, eyebrows knitting together.

 “Not much,” he held up the red cloth. “A scarf, my father's, he left it behind.”

 Anger replaced the sharp piercing anxiousness, it was so much easier to deal with anger. She focused on it. A coward, disappearing into the night, leaving his son, sons, nothing but decades of debt and a single scrap of cloth. Some of her rage on his behalf must have shown on her face because he shoved it away hastily, burying it beneath the stones.

 “The book, Nuru gave me that.”

 “What’s the feather for?” She leaned closer, forcing the anger away, her voice softer. The black feather shone inky blue and purple in the candle light. He picked it up, twirling it between his fingers. He didn't speak for a long moment, just stared at it, shining and changing colors as it spun.

 “A-” he cleared his throat as his voice broke a bit.

 Emma wanted to leap up, press her palm against his mouth, stop him from speaking. Whatever had made his eyes look like that, made his face twist in heart wrenching anguish, she didn't want to know, she didn't want him to even think of it, but he was already continuing.

 “A raven landed on the deck, the day my brother-” he swallowed. “-the day he passed. Landed right in front of me and just...stared. Right into my eyes. The crew thought it was a bad omen, a raven on the day of a death. Swore I was next.  Men of the sea are a superstitious lot,” he chuckled darkly.  “I thought it was him, saying goodbye.” He gave a pained smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners, a hint of teeth. “Childish nonsense.”

 Emma did stand then, smoothing her dress, crossing the distance between them. The feather fell forgotten into the box on his lap.

 She pressed a hand to his cheek, his eyes sliding closed, pressing back against her.

 “How did he die?” Her voice was whisper soft, just pressing against him, afraid to do more, sorry she had even asked. She had intended to peel the layers away, find the man beneath, learn the truth of him, but in doing so, by indulging her selfish curiosity, she’d left him raw and exposed, paying the price for her unwarranted suspicions. She pressed against him harder.

 “He got sick, an ailment of the chest,” he kept his eyes closed, moving into her hand. He said it so matter of factly, as if it had happened to someone he didn't know, but she could feel him trembling against her. She didn't move, holding him up.

 “Captain Silver wouldn't send for a doctor, and I didn't have the coin to send for one myself.” He sighed into her palm, her fingers stroking the soft hair of his cheek. “I found a hedgewitch at the next port, gave her all I had for a brew she said would help him. I was bloody terrified, the stories they told,” he shook his head. “But Liam was so sick, could barely breathe from coughing.”

 “Did it?” Emma stroked his ear, over the elven tip, running her fingers along the hair curling at the bottom. “Help him?” He curled into her, shook his head against her hand, eyes still squeezed tight.

 “One of the crew said I got bilked, 'twas nothing but dried bits of herbs.” His voice was thin. “He said, I should have tossed it into the night's stew for flavoring, it would have done more.”

 Her hand tensed in his hair, icy rage filling her chest.

 A name the darkness whispered. Give us a name.

 Killian looked up, his eyes red rimmed but clear, his cheek fitting perfectly into her palm, the scruff of his jaw scraping gently across her hand. He jerked away.

 “We could add it to your collection,” he said quickly, too loud in the silence of the room. He pulled back, snatching the box.

 “Killian no-” the darkness forgotten, the name forgotten, Emma went to grab him. He set the box aside, placed the feather on his lap, and reached into his pocket to pull out the shells from earlier.

 “No, no, I want you to, it's just sitting in this box, and you can actually make something with it,” he moved desperately, shaking jerks as he gathered it up with the shells, pressing the lot into her open palm, closing her fingers around them, squeezing them tightly. His hand tremored, squeezing so the hard the bony surfaces of the shells dug into her flesh. She didn't mind.

 “Killian. I can't accept this,” she whispered, jagged bits of forgotten sea pressing into her skin.

 “‘Course you can,” he smiled up at her, fake but steady, eyes soft in yellow light, a light sea foam green. She didn't want to, but she would.

 “Okay,” Emma said. She clutched them to her chest. “Okay.”

 ______

 The broken pot was gone when she came for the sun in the morning. The soil had been swept away, the jagged pieces discarded. She saw its occupant in freshly tilled soil, a new place in the row of lush green. She bent over it, whispering terse good mornings, feeling distinctly silly, but she’d read once that talking to them helped them grow, thrive, a human voice threading through the darkness. People were much the same, but plants were much easier than people. The green life in their orderly rows, the only things that had heard her voice for decades, until a storm raged and brought men to her shore. One in particular.

 This plant had obviously meant something to him, this tiny little thing. He had rescued it, taken the time to carefully find it a place of its own, made it warm and given it life. She wanted it to do well, grow big and tall. As stupid as that was, it felt important.

 She had a similar plan in mind for Killian, a new strategy taking shape in the night. Her hand on his cheek, tangible physical comfort accepted when he was distracted, jerking away when he came back to himself, made her realize what she needed to do.

 She waited as the sun crested the horizon, heard his footsteps light in the hall as blue and gold broke the edge of the sea, felt his presence in the room as red purple light filled the sky.

 He smiled at her as she turned, his hair sticking on end, hand rubbing idly under his jaw. He was slightly out of breath, his chest rising and falling beneath the vee of his shirt, as if he had run the distance. She felt out of breath herself.

 She crossed the room, watching as he tensed, posture going rigid, and could only imagine the intent in her eyes, the expression on her face, a tigress stalking its prey. She stopped in front of him.

 He looked down at her, his lips slightly parted, a pink hint of tongue just above the ridge of his teeth. He opened his mouth to speak, but she reached up, tracing a slow path from his brow, down the slope of his cheek, the hard edge of his jaw, the space where his ear joined, and down.

 “What- what are you doing?” He swallowed against her fingertips and she pressed lightly against the skin of his neck, at the hollow of his throat, felt his pulse there quick and fluttering.

 “Touching you,” she murmured. She shifted closer, chaste strokes, down the curve of his neck, the slope of his shoulder, scratching across the fabric of his shirt. He was barely breathing, eyes locked on her own, violet in the dawning light.

 “Why?” He whispered, his breath hitching as she smoothed down crisp dark hair, her palm flat, fingers splayed across his heart. It thumped rapidly against her hand, his breaths quick and short. She could feel them, every gasp of air, every unsteady exhale.

 “Because you need to learn,” she murmured, her hand dipping lower, the opening of his shirt granting her easy access to the shifting muscles of his chest, his ribs, following the trail of hair to a hard torso. He shuffled, drawing closer but pulling his stomach in.

 “Learn what-” his voice was ragged, strained, moving into her while trying to maintain distance. He panted out one long steadying breath. “-exactly?”

 “How to be touched,” she murmured, her hands finding waistband, fingers teasing at the edge. She could make out the ridge of him beneath his pants, and she longed to run her fingers down his length. All in due time.

 “I don't think you know how,” she said reasonably.

 “And you’re going to-” he swallowed thickly, his voice tight. “-teach me?”

 Emma nodded, tracking back up, his narrow waist, the grooves along his back, taut perfect muscle shifting beneath her hand, the raised ridges of scars, each knot of his spine, rising under her fingertips. He shuddered against her, leaning closer.

 “I don't-” he started, but she was pressing two fingers of her other hand against his lips, drifting across soft warm flesh, pressing lightly where the pair came together. She rose up on tiptoes, and feather light, pressed her lips to the spot.

 “Shh,” she whispered against his skin, the purple of the room turning tawny yellow as the sun climbed higher. He closed his eyes, turning his head to the side as if to chase her, but she was already moving, the scruff of his beard deliciously rough against her mouth. She bit his jaw, his gasp quick at the feel of her teeth, hips jerking.

 She stepped back, bringing her hand back across, around the rippling planes of his back, the broad slope of shoulder, down his biceps and the sinews of his forearm, to his hand, linking the fingers, feeling hard rings pressing against her own.

 He opened his eyes slowly, black in the yellow morning sun. She smiled up at him.

 “So, breakfast?”

 _____

 Killian was quite sure that she was trying to kill him. He was positive he would let her. When he'd imagined death before, his insides freezing, hollowed out in fear at the thought, that vast yawning sense of nothing that came from such musings, it was always for the same reasons: hunger, violence, the cold dark waters of the sea, racking coughs filling his lungs with blood, alone and forgotten. Never had he dreamed it would come from warm lips pressed to his skin, soft hands tracing his body, his heart shattering against his ribs, struggling for air.

 She traced the veins of his wrist at breakfast, mapping the lines of him with her fingertips.

 She ran her nails through his hair, scratching against his scalp as she said good bye, gentle orders mouthed against his jaw, sending shockwaves down his spine.

 She would disappear for hours, leaving him to his own devices, to read or tend the plants, and appear from the thin air to press her body against him, wind her arms around his neck, drag her teeth across his ear, her breath echoing in the shallows of his skin.

 He spent the day in gleeful anticipation, a new sort of game for them to play. Empty rooms where he read alone suddenly filled with grasping hands and ghosting lips, a soothing murmur as he tensed and trembled.

 She didn't kiss his mouth, but her lips found the ridge along his collar, the tips of his fingers, the place where his heart tried to break free of the confines of his chest.

 Her footsteps were the prelude to warm breath against his neck, a signal flare of oncoming sensation, weak knees and grunted gasps, raw voiced greetings his only reply to searing caresses and her heated mouth.

 She was an efficient teacher, her lessons lips and tongue and touch. Pressing him into the dark shadows of the hall as he walked to the study, surprising him as he made his way to the dining room, hoping to find her there and getting so much more than he expected.

 He was hard and raw most of the day, barely catching his breath, straining against the confines of his own skin. She was merciless and beautifully cruel in her ministrations, leaving him aching with want, the scent of her skin and his own increasingly desperate need left behind in her wake as she went about the secret business of her day.

 Sweeter still were those small smiles as she watched his face, that intense curiosity as if she wanted to see all of him, huffing breaths of delighted laughter pressed against his chest as he stumbled or stuttered, comforting words whispered against him when he apologized or flinched. Patient tenderness laced with heady desire.

 He could barely remember his own name by the time night fell, waiting with rapt attention for her in the sitting room, looking at the pages of a book but not registering the words. When she appeared before him, in that black silk robe from the first day, her legs long and perfect, eyes narrowed in concentrated lust, he knew that if the goal here was his destruction, that he would not weep for being destroyed.

 _____

 There were two men dead in her dungeon, blood and struggle weaving the tale of their demises on the stone floor, and Emma gave a gleeful laugh at the looks on the remaining faces. She rewarded them with buckets of crystal clear water, ice cold and perfect, and they gulped and slavered wretched thank you's at her feet.

 But that was not the focus of the day, that would be victory, seeing revolting men brought to their knees, terrified and desperate, the joy of vengeance on her tongue. Her victory lay in reverent awed gasps and crumbling restraint. Her victory lay in a clutching hand at the small of her back, pink lips murmuring her name, in storm blue eyes begging her for release.

Her victory sat in yellow candlelight, a book on his lap, his fingers idle on the pages, surprised and happy delight on his face when she came into the room.

 The darkness had spit and raged and moaned all day, and each time she had sought out Killian, silenced it with her lips, her teeth, her hands. Shoved it down and quieted it with fleeting touch and ragged panting breaths in her ear. Her sunrise rebellion was nothing compared to Killian’s lashes fluttering against his cheek, his teeth biting down on firm lips. The darkness was seething, frothing silence and Killian was warm, firm, flesh and pounding heart.

 He traced a path down her legs with his eyes, not able to help himself, sitting straighter in the chair, the book sliding down forgotten on his thigh. She crossed the room with measured determined steps, giving him a moment of warning, some time to collect himself. His lips tugged up in a smile, brief and quick, before opening again, taking in her expression.

 She tossed the book away, pages fluttering before it thumped somewhere in the room. He looked up at her, apprehensive but curious, his teeth tugging at his lip in nervous anticipation. She smiled, slotting one knee, then the other on the outside of his thighs. He leaned back with a gasp as she rose above him, hovering above his lap.

 “What-” he started to speak, but she pressed a cool finger to his lips, feeling lost words moving against her before he quieted.

 She leaned in, keeping her gaze steady on his. She could feel his breath against her face as she came closer, and pressed her lips against his own. Killian melted beneath her, that sweet dip and drop of submission, opening his mouth to hers. She guided him with mouth and tongue, slick and hot, gliding across his lips, licking into his mouth, teaching him how to receive and how to give. He moaned beneath her, the sound catching in her mouth, vibrating against her tongue and Emma sank down with steady deliberation.

 He was hard between her legs, the ridge of him pressing against where she was already wet and hot and bare. She had spent the day tasting him, touching him, and she burned. She ground down, feeling that sharp burst of pleasure against her core as he groaned against her mouth, arching upwards against her. She rose up again, aching, wanting more, but she knew the rules. He shuddered beneath her, his mouth turning desperate, repeating her lessons back verbatim with the stroke of his tongue against her own. She draped her arms around his neck, tilted her head to kiss him deeper, buried her fingers in thick dark hair, and lowered herself again.

 Killian lifted his hips, chasing her heat, a desperate hum against her mouth as he bucked into her. She let him, grinding down, shifting forward to glide against the entire length of him. She bit his lip, tugging it, his breath gasping against her as she rocked back and then forward again and again.

 “I-” he strained against her, fingers digging into her back, the flat of his hook against her thigh. “I can't-” she captured his mouth again, rocked forward and back, sharp spikes of pleasure with each movement, a quiet buzz under her skin. She stroked his tongue with her own and ground down one more time.

 He jerked away with a gasp, his hips rocking up, and he cried out, pressing his face against her shoulder, tensing and straining with his release.

 “I'm sorry, I’m-” his breath sobbed out desperately against her chest, warm through the fabric of her robe, his head shaking back and forth in denial. “I didn't-”

“Shhh,” Emma stroked his hair, feeling him relax beneath her.

 “I'm sorry,” he panted out a quiet, miserable, apology against her skin.

 Emma leaned back. He was flushed a pale pink, the barest sheen of sweat along his brow, regret written all over his face. He closed his eyes in embarrassment. Emma took his face in her hands, pressed her lips to his forehead.

 “Why are you sorry?” she demanded in a whisper.

 “Because I didn't want-” he couldn’t seem to find the words again, shaking his head once more.

 “Killian.” Emma commanded. His eyes snapped open. “What did you do wrong?”

 “I couldn't-” he sucked in a breath, his chest still heaving. “I didn't want to-”.

 “What did you think we were doing?” Emma smiled down at him, a wicked thing. “You did exactly what I wanted.”

 He froze, looking up at her in disbelief, eyes wide.

 “But I-” he shook his head again. Her grip on his face became firmer, holding him in place, forcing his gaze to hers.

 “I told you this morning, you have to learn to be touched.” She pressed a kiss to his lips, his face deliciously dazed.

 “Now come along,” she held out a hand. His fingers were warm in hers, clutching at her, anchoring himself. Emma smiled at him again, echoing words from another day. “We desperately need a bath.”

 _____

 Emma stripped him bare again, and prepared this time, it was easier for him to let her. His limbs were too lax and boneless for him to protest much, the pleasant hum of a recent release made him pliable, the delicious peace and calm that came after such a moment soothed his nerves, his mind quieted by pleasure soaked haze.

 Emma was quick purposeful movement, shifting in front of him from foot to foot, his shirt pulled over his head with scraping swiftness, her fingers flying over laces. She rubbed him down with hot friction, her palms smoothing over his exposed chest, nails scraping his shoulders. She crackled in the steamy air like recently struck lightning, pale cheeks flushed, eyes bright.

 He covered himself as best he could, still too nervous to stand bold while bared, his thighs sticky and cool in the air. Emma scraped her teeth over red lips and stepped back, toying with the silk belt of her robe, those legs and tiny perfect feet shifting beneath it.

 “Your turn,” her eyes were hard, unyielding. Killian blinked in confusion looking down at himself, already naked, his clothes discarded in a pile at his feet. She lifted the belt of the robe meaningfully.

 “Oh,” he blinked. “You meant...together? We need a bath.” The only thing that kept him from scratching the sudden itch behind his neck was the need to keep himself covered.

 “Yes,” she seemed almost unsure, checking his face, making sure it was okay. She stepped towards him. “Killian.”

 The command was in his name alone and he only hesitated a moment before taking the thin rope of silk in his hand. It was loosely knotted, fell apart easily under clever sailor’s fingers, no fumbling here, the robe parting. It covered full breasts, just the barest hint of curves peeked out from the slit of dark fabric, the smooth expanse of her stomach, firm and taut, pure white against the contrasting black, the soft hair in the furrow between her legs yellow cream.

 She shifted closer, urged him with her body to continue, more silent commands. He reached up, sliding the robe off her shoulders with hand and hook to pool on the floor, cupping the rounded curve, stroking momentarily with dancing fingers  on the exposed skin, tracing the freckles that had fascinated him before.

 She reached up, fingering the straps of leather that crisscrossed his shoulder, leading down to the thick cuff that held his hook, covering the blunted end of his arm. Killian froze, cold fear trickling down his back to replace the warmth, and he made to step back.

 “Do you want to take it off?” She asked, her fingers tracing the lines, the skin slightly red where it rubbed him raw, the skin thicker and calloused in parts from years of wear. He shook his head quickly.

 “It can get wet,” he shifted his shoulder slightly, her fingers dancing against air as he moved away.

 His mind screamed at him to get away, to pull his shirt on and run. She hadn't seemed to notice it before, had avoided touching him there, allowing him the illusion that it was joined with him, no different than any other part of the whole. Her focus on it now unnerved him, his skin too small, the hook heavy on his wrist, pulling him down.

 “How did it happen?” She asked, all innocent curiosity, her hand hovering over the metal. He shook his head in snapping jerks. He didn't want to think about that. He didn't want to talk about it. Not now, not ever.

 “Please,” he whispered. He didn't want to ruin this, he didn't want to feel this now, he was still warm and sated, her lips still burned into his memory, her heat on the most intimate part of him, riding him to release, and he clung to it, not wanting to sully it, damage it with pain, override it with things better left in the past. He just wanted to hold onto this bliss for a few more moments, live in this new present.

 She looked up at him, eyes scanning his face, touching each strained and anxious feature. She simply took his hook in her hand, and led him to the tub, hot water and rose scented bubbles awaiting them. He could breathe again, taking in the scent that reminded him of her, of here.

 The tub was plenty big enough for two but he felt like his legs were touching every part of hers as they settled, and he shifted in the water, pressing against warm stone to give her room. She chased him with her limbs, rubbed her feet and calves on the outside of his thighs, their game was not nearly over, his hook forgotten as he felt her body intermingled with his own.

 He went to grab the sponge, to begin his work, distract himself with mindless activity perhaps, but it disappeared under his hand.

 He looked at Emma surprised, and she had that laughing look again, the sponge now in her palm. He watched as she shifted onto her knees, rising from bath, liquid and soap tracing paths down her chest, the slope of her breasts, beading on rosey pink tips. Too beautiful and perfect to be here with him surely, the feeling that this was all a dream inescapable as he watched her. She trapped his legs between her own, settling herself on his thighs, smooth skin sliding across the hair there. He could feel the clefts and joins where she came together.

 “A job well done should be rewarded,” she said echoing their first night again. She ran the sponge down his arm.

 He allowed his eyes to flutter closed, her hand tracing the path of the sponge, a pleasurable game of follow the leader, each scrape and rasp followed by a light caress. He gave himself over to sensation, letting her work, knowing it was pointless to protest, even if he’d truly wanted to, and leaned his head back against the tub.

 The rough caresses, the buzzing liquid warmth of recent surrender made him bolder, the question leaving his mouth before he could think on it overmuch. Perhaps a tiny retribution for exposing him so thoroughly.

 “Is it a curse?” He asked, his eyes still closed. Emma froze on his lap, her thighs squeezing his legs between them, the sponge stopping its progress across his chest.

 “What?” Her voice was cold.

 “What keeps you here,” he continued to press. She knew so much about him, had revealed him utterly, laid him bare, but he knew nothing about her. He could read some of her in her eyes, in the tense set of her face, in the slight changes in her smoky voice, but he had no details to fill in those impressions. “Did someone curse you?”

 He had heard of curses before, dark magic, a lifetime of sailor’s gossip and superstition. He had never given it much attention, his own cursed life making magic seem unnecessary to incite suffering, fairy stories to give whimsical meaning to pain. Still, he had proof of magic now, had seen her weave miracles with her hands, something dark and cold hanging over her like a specter.

 Emma shifted back, sliding off his legs, water filling in the empty spaces, and went to her side of the tub to regard him. She thankfully, didn't look angry, but her face was that stony calm, perfect features etched in white marble.

 “Why did you ask me that?” Her tone was stiff.

 “I just want to-” the stammer was back, the words always just out of reach. “-know you.”

 “Nothing keeps me here but me,” she said finally, shortly. She didn't appear to want him to ask anything else, but curiosity overrode the feeling that he shouldn't, she had issued no command that would prevent him, and he was burning with the need to know about her as she seemed to want to know about him.

 “So why do you stay?” He tried to keep her gaze, her eyes burning into him. He wanted to look away, his stomach twisting with anxiety, but he had fallen apart in this woman's arms, and that made it somehow easier to face her. He gave her a small nod, a tiny shaky smile of encouragement.

 She didn't answer him for several moments, water lapping at the side of the tub.

 “What is a Dark One?” He tried again, a different question, but this one was worse than the first. She tensed completely, going taut, even her eyes were unreadable now. He pulled the smile into his mouth with his teeth and banished it away.

 “I'm sorry,” he said softly, ducking his head.

 “Killian,” Emma shifted again, laying back, relaxing into the water. “I want you to touch me.”

 It was so at odds with the current conversation he could only blink at her a moment in confusion.

 “Pardon?”

 “A new lesson,” she said, raising her arms to welcome him. “Touch me.” The command was unmistakeable, hard voice belying the welcoming softness of her body.

 He promised himself he could try again, would ask again, another time perhaps. He may be a fool, but he would not be so easily deterred. He wanted to know everything she was, the sum of her parts, solve the mysteries that swirled around her like smoke. But he also wanted desperately to touch her, to please her, a different sort of retribution to be had if he could make her fall apart as she had him.

 The problem was he had no idea how to do that.

 “You want to know me, so know me,” she challenged, her voice was cold but her eyes were hot, beckoning him closer. He obeyed.

 He shifted awkwardly, trying not to crush her as he moved towards her in the tub. It felt like it had grown smaller in the few seconds of eternity that had passed. He kneeled between her open legs, and she moved, one leg slipping between his knees. He lifted himself, bracing his hook on the side of the bath, holding his weight on his forearm not wanting to crush her as he looked down, hovering over her.

 He had never been in such a position, a gorgeous woman, open and wanting beneath him. His head spun as she unceremoniously took his hand, tracing it down the curve of her breast without hesitation, his knees digging into hard ceramic.

 “How-?” He let the question hang in the air. “I don't know what to do.”

 “I'll help you,” she guided his hand across her chest, the tiny beaded tip of her nipple dragging across his palm. “But if you really want to know me just listen,” her breath hitching. “Watch my face.” She circled the tip again, her eyes fluttering closed. “Pay attention to my movements.” She let his hand go, leaning back, allowing him to explore and test to his heart’s content. Small touches, light caresses, his brows narrowing in determination.

 He trailed heavy down around the slope, testing the weight in his hand. She was still beneath him, but when he moved higher, repeating her actions, brushing the tip with his palm she tightened almost imperceptibly, he repeated the motion, slightly firmer this time. Emma nodded little encouragements, her eyes closed as he lightly traced blue veins, circled rosey skin, thumbed against the darkened tip. He catalogued her responses, every catch of breath, every subtle shift, her back arching to chase his hand and questing fingers. He studied her face with burning intensity, her lips slightly parted, lashes moving against her cheek as he caressed and soothed. He suddenly wanted very much to taste her.

 “Can I-” he swallowed, forcing the question out through sudden overwhelming shyness. “-use my mouth?” He had seen it done before, the brothels not exactly known for privacy and discretion, and he knew logically he could, but he wanted to check, make sure it was okay, that she wanted him to try.

 “Oh yes,” Emma breathed out, her hand clenching against her leg in anticipation. He licked his lips and ducked his head.

 Her skin was cool in his mouth, the pebbled tip rough against his tongue. Her hand came up, clutched at his hair, held him in place. He could read that reaction well enough. He loomed over her, feeling her skin on his stomach as he leaned in, testing her with lips and gentle brushes of teeth. He listened to her breath, quick and light, the barest hitch as he did something she liked, held captive in her lungs when he did something she loved.

 He went slowly at first, tasting, sucking her between his lips, laving across her with his tongue. She squirmed beneath him, nails hard on his scalp. His eyes cast up to watch her face as he moved, trying different things, switching back and forth, braced against his arm. Her crimson lips were parted, head thrown back, the muscles of her throat swallowing reflexively. His stomach fluttered and twisted with uncertainty, not completely convinced he was handling this well, the entire situation out of his depth and surreal, but she’d told him to get to know her, and the only way was to try. He felt almost like a spectator, disassociated from his own body as he marked the ridges of her flesh with his tongue, filing away her responses.

 He stirred beneath the water, coming to life once more with fresh lust, but he was too preoccupied with committing her gasps to memory, reconciling the movement of her hands against his scalp with the actions of his mouth to worry about his own reactions.

 He was immersed in scholarly pursuit, testing the bounds of this new experience, so dedicated to learning the craft, reading her face, he almost missed when she took his hand in her own, dragging it down her skin to the space between her barely parted legs. He gasped against her breast, air blowing across the wet peak, and she moaned then, a small vibration of noise against him.

 He had heard it was mostly instinct, bawdy talk in darkened rooms that made him blush before sleep, straining to hear  as the men boasted about their conquests in explicit detail, studying illicit images burned into wood or sketched on yellow paper, traded around the crew with wolf whistles and obscene comments, flushing and trying not to stare too long before they were snatched from his hands. But instinct had been beat from him long ago, with fists and hands and careless cruel words and he had no bloody idea what to do. He froze against her, his hand trapped in hot, wet heat.

 “Emma,” he panted out, moving to draw away, back up to kneeling, water sloshing around them. She held his wrist firmly, staring him down, her chest flushed pink in the light. She looked slightly crazed, her eyes shining and wide, black rimmed with only the barest hint of green iris.

 “I could show you myself,” her voice was ragged, her other hand tracing a line between her breasts, down her stomach, the image of her hands on her body, pleasuring herself while he watched and learned, had his pulse jumping, his length twitching.

 “But I'd rather you try,” it wasn't a request necessarily, more a thinly veiled command, pushing his limits, testing his boundaries. His hand twitched against her.

 He sucked in a steadying breath, closing his eyes for a moment.

 “Could you...do what you did before, a-” he tried to grasp the word, his brain even more useless now. “-demonstration?”

 Emma nodded, her eyes glittering with promise, excited anticipation, as she traveled down his wrist to his fingers. She curled them how she wanted, manipulating the digits, took his fist in her hand and drew it back to her flesh.

 He couldn't see through the water, the bubbles had melted away to smooth foam, just the white shimmering shadows of her skin under the surface, and the angle was slightly unnatural, but he could feel her, guiding his fingers through soft folds, pressing him against her. Emma shuddered and let out a broken gasp as he finally touched her, moving him where she needed, with the pressure she wanted, feather light touches swirling against raised flesh.

 Killian concentrated, brows pinching together as he committed the movements to memory, the varying crescendos of hard and light, firm and soft, slow and rapid circles. He didn't notice when she released his hand, letting him take over, moving unconsciously with the rhythm she’d set, no longer guiding him, taken over by sensation as she clutched at the side of the tub. He almost pulled away again, but her head thrown back, harsh breaths panted into the air, arching against him, told him he was doing fine. He watched her breath, her face, her teeth white against red as she bit her lip, and he tested.

 She was writhing in the water, small ripples against the sides, her face open and so intense it took his breath away. Her hand came back down to his wrist after what seemed like hours but had been mere minutes, and he stopped again, sure he had done something wrong.

 “Need to-” she gasped out. “-do something.” Her voice was broken and husky, the tone sending pleasurable shivers down his back. She manipulated his fingers again, twisting his wrist in the other direction so his palm was up, and pulled him down again, deeper into the water until he was spread out against her, his face near her chest.

 He blushed furiously as he realized her intent, as she desperately pressed his fingers into her, her core wrapped deliciously around them, drawing him in deep. She moaned again, moving his hand, drawing him out with a slow drag against her, pressing him back in.

 “Li-like that,” she stuttered out, repeating the motion. He was burning up, lust and embarrassment taking equal weight. She moved his fingers again, so his thumb rasped against the ridge of her with each motion.

 “Gods, exactly right,”  she arched up, a small desperate keen caught in her throat as she established a rhythm, his thumb brushing her on each pass, using her other arm to help her find leverage to bear down against him with each stroke.

 He licked his lips determinedly, applying the same principles as before, listening for the subtle changes in her breath, the gasps and delicious tiny noises she couldn't seem to help, the twist and writhe of her limbs as he moved. She let him go again, let him maintain the rhythm, the pressure, and speed, all his own decisions to make.

 Hook had spent a fair bit of his life in service to others, providing the tools of their pleasure and comfort through the service of hot meals, a clean deck, a willing wench. He had never so directly been the reason however, his actions never affecting another so immediately and powerfully. He was overwhelmed with it, the need to make her feel good, to be the instrument of her pleasure. He pressed in closer, deeper, her face an open window into her needs, clawing and clutching as she rose higher and higher, his hand the catalyst for such remarkable change.

 “Please, please,” quiet whispered pleas barely audible over the churn of the water, the sound of her breath in his ear. He kept going, moving faster, consumed by her reactions, adjusting to her cues. He leaned over her further, slid upwards a bit, careful not to disturb the careful established cadence of his fingers. Small affirmations fell from her lips, encouragements with every stroke. He dipped his head again, pressed his tongue against her peak, sucking her into his mouth once more.

 Emma cried out loud and it echoed in the empty room, filled his head with only the sounds of her. She reached up to thread her fingers through his hair as he synchronized the disparate movements of his mouth and hand. It was an ungainly and awkward position, nervous uncertainty following his every motion, but it was also perfect and raw, Emma letting him know without explicit words that he was doing everything right for once, exactly what he should. He sucked again, hollowing out his cheeks, drew back and tested swirling flicks with his tongue, increasing pressure with his thumb, small experiments, working towards a theory.

 She broke hard against him, shattering around his fingers, her hand snapping down to hold him firmly in place as she arched and jerked with pleasure, a cry rent from her throat. She surged up and back with the force of it, rolled her hips against it, sounding almost pained. It was beautiful release and tormenting uncertainty in equal measure as she gasped and panted, sinking back down into the water.

 Killian slowly and hesitantly withdrew, leaning back on his heels. She was still trembling, little earthquakes under her skin, her eyes still closed. He watched her anxiously, waiting for something, what he didn't know, the feeling sinking into his chest. He shuffled backwards in the water, pressed his back against the tub, rubbed at his wet hair, and waited.

 Emma opened her eyes across from him, her smile slow and lazy. She traveled his face, all anxious anticipation and miserable uncertainty and she blinked at him for a moment, confused. He could barely breathe waiting for her to speak, to cast down a verdict that confirmed what he had always feared, what he had always been told. Not nearly enough.

 Instead she rose up again, the water warm as it moved against him. She pressed her lips to his own, sweet and sure, and looked directly into his eyes, catching him before he could look away. Her words were honest and true, filling in the hollow in his chest.

 “Thank you, Killian.”

_____

 Emma watched him as long as she could, before she felt voyeuristic and strange, her fingers toying with the ends of his hair, brushing it back from his forehead as he slept. He truly was a beautiful man, his face relaxed and slack from sleep, free of constant anxious worry, the lines of barely suppressed fear that dogged his every movement. For someone so bright, his smiles so easy, eyes always wide and open with endless gratitude, the contrast was startling. Only after watching him drift and fall to sleep did she truly realize how tense and taut he was during daylight, how nervous and constantly unsure.

 She had hoped, in truth, to continue her lessons in the soft warmth of a lush bed, coax more than easy smiles from his lips, desperate to hear the unrestrained moans and pleasured whines of his release once more. Visions of him beneath her, clutching and desperate, hips rising up and rolling into her own had her filled her head, made her dizzy with need as they made their way back to his bedroom, her bedroom. But he was weary and emotionally wrought, his face pale and drained as he’d dressed in fresh new clothes, so she let the images drift away and drew a blanket over him instead. He had asked her to stay, his fingers drifting over her own, his expression hopeful, so she had, stretching out beside him on the large bed, cheek propped on her hand as she stroked his hair and lulled him to sleep.

 He slept in the hook as well. She had waited and watched to see if he’d remove it, curiosity overwhelming her, the need to see, to know, twisting in her gut, the question on her tongue, but he’d merely shrugged into a new shirt, the straps black against his skin. It glinted silver in soft moonlight, taunting her with mystery, turned away from him with decades of habit. A learned behavior, one born of many nights with it tucked into his side. She traced the delicate lines of the metal, the gentle curve, pressed her fingertip to the sharp point until blood welled and her skin closed up to heal the tiny wound before another could bead.

 He had spoken easily of his bitter life, of torture and fear, of harsh words and violence. They were unavoidable truths, the nature of the world as he knew it. He had spoken of his father’s abandonment and betrayal with barely a thought, casually washing his hair as he detailed a crime that no father should ever commit against his children, with no knowledge of how terrible it truly was. Speaking of his brother had been harder for him, a source of light in a dark life that was snuffed out far too soon, but he still breathed the tale out against her palm, given her the gift of his memory in a single black feather.

 But his hook was a different story altogether, an untold tale she needed to know. Ignorance prickled at her skin, his terrified reluctance only made the desire to know worse. After such a life how could this be any worse than the thousand other horrors he had endured?

 You can find out you know, the darkness beckoned. He doesn't have to tell you.

 Emma looked down at him, remembered his face, the jerking of his head as he begged with his body not to speak of it. Even if she could coax the story from him there would be a cost, he would be hurt, be in pain from the telling of it, and that pain would not be because of torture or cruelty at the hands of others. It would be because of her, her need to know, to understand, born of selfish curiosity and possession, her obsessive desire to learn him body and soul, find out what made him who he was, all the parts that comprised him.

 She rose from the bed, one final brush of hair from forehead, a finger stroked down his stubbled cheek, the tiny scar that marked it. She had other ways, ones that wouldn't force him to relive the tale, ones where he wouldn't even have to know, wouldn't have to dredge up the memory from the dark. She pressed a kiss to his brow, and he turned towards her, even in sleep seeking her out, drawn in by her warmth.

 She left him without another glance, the darkness pushing her along, away from the warm room, his beautiful sleeping form, out into the torchlit corridors of the castle.

 Her workroom was cold and empty and dim, the dreamcatchers rattling ominously from their places in the rafters as she opened the door, clinking and swaying against each other, a warning. She ignored it. She had a hundred memories locked inside those intricate weaving threads, she only needed one more.

 Emma set down his gifts, three perfect shells collected with a sheepish grin on a sunny beach, and a black feather handed to her in sorrow by flickering candlelight, and she set to work.

Onto Part 3

[lastsonlost]

Because staying a victim and hiding behind the block button is way more important than actually TRYING TO UPLIFT YOURSELF. i’M GOING TO THIS AGAIN.

@elfyourmother

Read the shit out of this. And then read it again. He goes a lot deeper than hair.

sourcedumal

I love this article. He truly goes in. And if course white folks are telling him “make your own then” like he has fucking access to all that shit that major companies have…

How about gaming companies actually start programs in black and Latino communities so we can get more of us in?

But that would be too much like right…

@elfyourmother

the truly hysterical thing is that he actually gets into the whole “make your own” argument in the actual essay. they just don’t want to hear him.

bunabi

mmmhm they really honestly dont wanna hear him

@elfyourmother

#ppl that say that also overlook the fact that white developers want to hire their friends aka people that look and think like them#networking is huge with breaking into the industry and they dont wanna sit with someone ‘militant’ or ‘difficult’ or ‘controversial’#its not even a secret#white developers hold the power and maintain the status quo and defend it readily#yet the handful of non-white staff is supposed to change their minds#lmao

bunabi

I’m sayin tho.

Non-white artists/developers/programmers/designers have a hard enough time getting hired but can also risk their jobs by making waves and being confrontational.

This aint some cute fantasy land where your coworkers suddenly learn a life lesson after bringing you on. They hire you because you’re a good fit and hit it off with them. Talent factors in, but they do care if you’re a team player. And if you’re not, it can get around and will absolutely affect future opportunities, if not completely sever some valuable connections and resources.

It’s not a damn game out here ! honestly !

@elfyourmother

real talk. and like, a lot of industries are like that. it’s not necessarily just a video game thing. ain’t a poc working in corporate america who hasn’t had to navigate this shit on some level or another

it’s just that much more pronounced in creative fields in general. major content producers whether the medium is video games, comics, movies, whatever generally don’t want to take risks, they want to go with what’s safe, they don’t want to rock the boat too much. and being a team player means keeping your head down and doing what you’re told and not challenging shit too hard. you don’t want to be labelled a “troublemaker” or “difficult”. look at that fuckery that went down on Project Greenlight with even the mildest most common sense pushback.

bagged-a-bazooka Deactivated

>Kotaku

Also, did this guy seem to ignore the games that do feature black leads and black stories? Shadowman, Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas (Arguably one of the best black American narratives in video games imo), Minerva’s Den, two characters from The Walking Dead, etc etc etc

And yeah, the “Make your own” is fiesable; considering we’ve had a large surge of indie games made by small teams (Even one person) such as Hotline Miami, Undertale, Shovel Knight, Binding of Isaac. There’s literally no excuse and the argument of “Oh, I CAN’T make my own character because the MAN is keeping me down!” is such fucking baloney

There is literally nothing stopping you from making your own game except yourself

eidolous Deactivated

This essay is excerpted from The State of Play, an upcoming collection of writing on video game culture that comes out on October 20.]

< MY BLACK ASS

god give me strength!!!

What part of being black is suppose to be easy? Oh WE can talk about about how great “WE ARE” until WE gotta put in some work. Then you give up with out even trying and call it a mic drop?   I don’t want to win the argument that my dreams are impossible because I’m black.

Every other comment is we can’t do it, we can never do, it will never done.

I’ve never in my life seen my beautiful brilliant young black kids with so much energy to speak their minds at the same time sound so defeated. Where did the attitude go? Yea I know everyone’s gonna find that attitude in order to drag and call me out but not to put your muscle in your hustle.

IF you don’t want just a job all your life you have to hustle and BECAUSE WE ARE BLACK WE HAVE TO HUSTLE HARDER!!  When has waiting for shit to go our way ever work out for us? Do you see people waiting for change or marching in the street for it.

@bagged-a- a-bazooka has a point. fuck the big guys. Indie projects can still look and play big even on a budget. build a team and make it your own.  look up black crowdfunding* build your portfolio * do small jobs * hunt for grants and inventors  

Fuck this just screaming for representation. Stop being afraid to represent yourselves. DON’T YOU BELIEVE YOU MATTER? Do you think I’m just say this shit for me?

Personally I don’t believe there’s anyone fit to tell my story but me.  But seeing everyone so quick to say we can makes me so mad at myself for taking too long with my own work. I will not prove them right when that say it can’t do done. My entire life was I can’t do it, stop dreaming, be realistic.  I even found my self dating my biggest hatter. NO MORE OF THAT

I’m too far into my young life to turn back and give up. I know we have an uphill battle. I know the uphill is as tall as a sky crapper.  but I would sooner fall from the struggle then rot in a dead end life because I was too much of a pussy to stand up for my dream.

bluez-cluuz

Black crowdfund with black twitter to make your black game everyone!

lastsonlost

Hay it’s worth a try if you want it bad enough. Just saying.

the good @reasonandempathy

the truly hysterical thing is that he actually gets into the whole “make your own” argument in the actual essay. they just don’t want to hear him.

No.  He didn’t.  He really, really didn’t.

He referenced the argument.  Then he said “Louis C.K. destroyed this by reminding everyone slavery wasn’t that long ago.” followed by “institutional racism is a thing”.

Nevermind the fact that the most beloved new IPs come from indie developers working on their first (few) games.  

Stardew Valley, Enter the Gungeon, Darkest Dungeon, Oxenfree, Aragami, Pony Island, Seasons After Fall, Diluvion, Deadbolt, Necropolis all came out in 2016 alone.  Nevermind how many huge IPs were created by Indie developers the past few years (CD Projekt Red as an example).

Shovel Knight, Banner Saga, Minecraft…the list of massive indie hits over the past few years is extensive.  Even Zoe Quinn has made an indie game alone.

This is the period of time in which “make your own” is more valid than at any point in history.  The video game market is going to reach $110b next year.  Mobile gaming is going to hit $29b, which is dominated by indie games (and reskins of indie games).

Make your own things.  It’s easier to do now than ever before and you can get rich doing it, too. Sounds like a win-win-win.

Unless you’re just not really interested.

lastsonlost 

  That’s all I was trying say. JUST GET OUT THERE AND TRY. You can legitimately get ahold of game developing tools on the cheap.

I can understand it scared to take a chance but regretting the chance you didn’t take it’s worse.

but it must be easier to hide behind the block button.

[sanctus-rp-blog]

Cho Chang | 23 | Dumbledore’s Army

Bloodstatus: Halfblood

Wand: Acacia, Dragon Heartstring, 7 5/8″

Career: Healer

Patronus: Swan

Boggart: Cedric’s Corpse

Previous House: Ravenclaw

Aesthetic–

winged eyeliner, whiskey and ice, black lingerie, antiseptic, bronze, open windows with sheer white curtains, sunlight streaming through a skylight, iced coffee with milk, puffy white clouds, stilettos, deep red lipstick, nude lace, old books, rain against windows, bare feet on sidewalks, street food at midnight, tousled hair, thigh high stockings, sneaking out in the early morning

Biography–

From the very moment that she was born, Cho Chang was under intense scrutiny from all sides.

First and foremost, there was her father. Jeong Chang was a halfblood wizard and former Slytherin, one whose family came from generation after generation of solemn faces. It’s often said that a daughter will soften the heart of her father, but there was no softening for Jeong Chang. If he had a heart at all, his sweet little baby girl had no bearing on its softness (or lack thereof). He couldn’t be bothered with the stinking, crying, fussing thing, rarely spending more than a few moments with his daughter even as she grew into a child and then a young woman. His job kept him incredibly busy, being a Cursebreaker at Gringott’s Bank, and he had no time and no patience for the whimsy of a child.

On the other side was her mother, Nancy Chang. Adopted by a white couple as an infant, Nancy was raised with very little of her Korean heritage explained to her. It was part of what drew her to Jeong, a stoic Korean boy from a traditional family. Nancy always resented the fact that she didn’t have any connections to her heritage, and Jeong provided that for her. It wasn’t something that her parents liked to talk about, and she was frequently told to sit and be quiet when she started asking questions. Nancy grew to be a quiet, serious woman, one who also could hardly be bothered with a baby. It was her duty as a wife to bear children, but between her job at the Ministry and keeping her husband happy, Nancy’s plate was full.

A nanny was hired for baby Cho, someone to keep her quiet and out of the way and dressed properly at all times. Cho spent the first few years of her life having only fleeting glances of her parents with only her nanny to talk to. She learned from a young age to be demure and quiet, to speak in hushed tones and to bow her head and to read quietly instead of playing with loud toys or making a mess or running about like other children did.

When Cho was four, the tutoring began. It was important to Jeong and Nancy that their daughter be well-rounded and versed in both Muggle and magical subjects. There was a parade of tutors week in and week out, teaching Cho everything from mathematics to magical history to cello to foreign languages. Her free time was filled with reading textbooks and practicing her instrument, always adorned in perfectly pressed dresses and Mary Janes and white stockings, her hair tied up in a neat ponytail.

Despite her lack of freedom, Cho Chang never actually wanted for anything. Her family was fairly wealthy and she was provided all the comforts of life, blissfully unaware of the childhood that she was missing out on. Being an only child and having no friends her own age outside the home meant that she didn’t have other childhoods to compare hers to, and so she knew little of toys and dolls and games, of how it felt to run outdoors until her skin freckled and her legs burned from the effort. She was perfectly content with her life, all the way up until her Hogwarts letter came.

Cho was sent off to school with a pristinely packed trunk, everything folded and packed meticulously, not a hair on her head out of place. She sat quietly in her train compartment, not even bothering to talk with the other children, drowning out their endless chattering as she re-read one of her textbooks, trying to absorb as much information as possible before classes began. Her father had already informed her that to be anything less than the top of her class was unacceptable, and the last thing that she wanted was to disappoint her father. Her mother, a former Ravenclaw, hadn’t said a word about it. It was implied—it was expected. Even if Cho wasn’t sorted into Ravenclaw, she would be expected to behave like one. To behave like her mother, really.

When Cho climbed onto the stool and the old hat was lowered onto her head, it didn’t shout out Ravenclaw like she’d expected. Instead it had hemmed and hawed, walking the line between Slytherin and Ravenclaw, proving to Cho that she was a perfect balance of her two parents. Ultimately, though, the hat decided to place her in the house of the wise, and off Cho scurried to sit under the banners of blue and bronze.

Cho Chang had never seen anything more beautiful than the Ravenclaw common room.

Even her father’s study and library couldn’t compare to the high ceilings, stacked all the way up with neatly organized bookshelves, sunlight pouring in the windows. They’d had to answer a riddle to enter the room, something that had made her smile—it hadn’t taken her long at all to come up with the answer, although she’d kept her mouth shut. It didn’t do to be boastful, as her mother would say. The satisfaction wasn’t in telling everyone the answer, it was in figuring it out yourself. There was no need to announce it out loud.

It was in the Ravenclaw dormitory that night that Cho met Marietta Edgecombe. She’d never had much contact with other children, but Marietta and her fiery hair fascinated Cho right away, and the two of them became fast friends. She’d never had a friend before, and it was then that Cho began to realize all that she’d been missing out on. As she became friendly with more and more of her classmates, it became clearer and clearer to her that she’d been deprived of quite a bit. She was self-conscious about the fact that everyone else’s trunks were packed with sentimental items, that their parents sent them care packages with sweets and letters. The only thing that Cho ever got was a subscription to the Daily Prophet so that she could keep up with current events. It was then that Cho began to envy.

Luckily for Cho, school came very easily to her. Extremely intelligent and highly motivated, she quickly soared to the top of her class despite never raising her hand in lessons. While she still spent a good portion of her free time with her nose buried in her textbooks, with the help of her friends, she started loosening up and socializing more, too. Suddenly, she knew what it was like to spend time with other children her age, to have people who wanted to hang out with her and wanted to pull her out of her shy and quiet shell. That shell had been eleven years in the making, but little by little, her friends began to chip it away.

If her parents were proud of her, they never said a word about it. That was how Cho knew that they were approving of her—if they disapproved, they’d be vocal about it. And so, for the first four years of Cho Chang’s life, she was the quiet, demure, smart girl and the perfect daughter.

One thing that Cho began to notice at quite a young age was the attention that she got from boys. She quickly learned that she was a very pretty girl and that she could use it to her advantage when she needed to, her choice of boys lined up and waiting for her to give them some attention. It wasn’t hard for her to get a date or help with something if she needed it, and she quickly became rather adept at flirting and batting her eyelashes.

Much to her father’s delight, Cho made the Quidditch team as Seeker when she was in her third year. Quick on a broom and more ferocious in the sky than on the ground, she turned out to be quite a good player. She was the only girl on the team and, despite the way she’d learned to act with boys, she refused to allow her teammates to treat her like she was anything other than one of the guys. Cho soon found that she thrived on the pitch, years of pent-up energy seeming to fuel her fire for the game.

It was fifth year when everything changed.

The announcement of the Triwizard Tournament and the influx of foreign witches and wizards had the entire castle buzzing with excitement, and Cho wasn’t immune to it. She was equally as excited as anyone else. Fifth year was also the year that she met Cedric Diggory, the handsome Hufflepuff boy who would go on to be chosen as one of the two Hogwarts champions. He was different from any of the other boys that had always been falling at her feet; he was sweet and caring, everything that the fairy tales always told her a knight in shining armor would be. Everything was beautiful and magical and perfect with Cedric. He was a perfect gentleman and Cho fell in love with him much more quickly than she’d expected. She’d been planning everything with him—marriage, children, the whole bit. Their future was laid out in front of them, and all they had to do was face it hand in hand.

That all changed when Harry Potter brought Cedric’s corpse back from inside the maze. It was, by far, the most horrifying moment of Cho’s life, and it was a major turning point for her. Once Cedric was dead, nothing else seemed to matter. She spent less time studying and more time with boys, trying desperately to fill the gaping hole in her heart that Cedric had left behind him. Her grades were still good, thankfully, due to her intelligence, but she just didn’t have the passion for learning that she’d once had. Cho’s sixth year was probably her worst year at Hogwarts, despite and because of Cedric’s death the year before. She felt like she was just drifting through life with no sense of purpose or direction, every waking moment consumed by thoughts of her boyfriend’s corpse in the grass. She started to have nightmares, terrifying dreams where she woke in a cold sweat, screaming for Cedric or for help. The summer was awful, but it was nothing compared to going back to Hogwarts. Suddenly prone to spells of uncontrollable sobbing and almost always melancholy, Cho’s friends began to drift from her one by one. Nobody wanted to be around someone who was so emotional all the time, and her emotions were a complete rollercoaster that she had no control of. One minute she’d be sobbing and the next she’d be in a rage and there was no predicting or stopping it. She cried herself to sleep at night, ducked out of classes early so that no one would see the tears tracking down her face, and began to isolate herself as much as she could. The only person that Cho continually attempted to reach out to was Harry. He was the only one who would understand what she was going through–after all, he’d actually watched Cedric die. She was desperate to talk to him about her deceased boyfriend, to get some kind of closure or even just a little bit of sympathy, but Harry never seemed interested in talking about Cedric. The only friend who truly stuck by her side was Marietta, and Cho returned the favor when Marietta herself betrayed Dumbledore’s Army. If it wasn’t for her roommate, Cho didn’t know what she would have done. Cedric’s death was what made Cho want to join Dumbledore’s Army. If he’d been better prepared, then maybe he’d still be alive, and this was the best possible way to honor his memory. Besides, it was also a chance to spend more time with Harry, whom she’d grown increasingly fond of (although the romantic feelings turned out to be more confused than anything).

In her sixth year, Cho very briefly dated Harry Potter, something that she’s still slightly infamous for. It was a fleeting relationship, if it could even be called that. Cho is still fond of Harry in a purely friendly sort of way, but any kind of romantic relationship with him was never a good idea. She’s thrilled that he ended up marrying Ginny and thinks they’re a fantastic couple. Cho always did her best to keep her dating life secret from her parents, knowing that they’d likely not approve, even if she had been dating the Boy Who Lived. As more and more began to happen in the world around her, Cho found herself feeling further and further away from her parents, but she still did her best to live her life according to their wishes.

After she left Hogwarts, Cho found herself feeling quite lost. Each of her parents was rooting for her to follow in their footsteps, but neither profession called to her in a way that made her want to pursue them. Instead, she spent her first few months out of school just drifting, going out to clubs at night to meet men and staying out of her parents’ way during the day, much like when she was young and spent her days locked up in her own room, only now she wasn’t studying. Cho could feel herself spiraling out of control, and so when her Dumbledore’s Army coin started to call to her, she decided that enough was enough. No matter what her parents thought, she was going back to Hogwarts.

Cho left home in the dead of the night, making her way to Hogsmeade and meeting up with her old classmates, eager to help however she could. Despite no longer being a student, she was able to come and go from the Room of Requirement with the use of the tunnel into the Hog’s Head, and she began to work behind the scenes with Dumbledore’s Army.

The Battle of Hogwarts came and went, and Cho was right there fighting along with her classmates. When the dust settled, though, she’d really been expecting herself to go back to normal. She was expecting for the pain to be gone, for Cedric’s death to feel meaningful, but none of that happened. There was still the same empty, aching hole in her chest after the war as there had been before. Nothing was better now.

When she went home after the battle, Cho learned the consequences of showing independence and making her own decisions. Her mother refused to see her, staying shut up in a separate part of the house. Her father was equally disappointed, but was much more vocal about it. Instead of refusing to speak to his daughter, he spent his time berating her and her decisions. It took only a few days of this for Cho to decide that maybe it was time for her to move out on her own.

And so, after some coercing, Cho convinced her father to give her enough money to support herself for a few months while she found a flat and a job and was able to get herself on her feet. She moved to London and got herself a nice flat, open and airy, and she furnished it nicely. With her slight infamy from having been Cedric’s girlfriend and then having dated Harry Potter coupled with her involvement with the war, employment proved to be less difficult to find than she’d anticipated. After some serious thought, Cho decided that she would become a healer. If she couldn’t fix herself, maybe she could focus on fixing other people. And so, she began her training at St. Mungo’s.

Now, Cho is a healer in her own right, and she thinks it’s probably the best decision she’s ever made in her life. She’s still living in the same flat in Wizarding London, still working at St. Mungo’s, and still trying to figure out how to move on from everything that happened during her childhood.

Personality–

On the outside, Cho Chang is no longer the sweet, bubbly girl of her youth. She’s harder, sharper, and just as broken as ever, all quick wit and icy tones. Her tongue is sharp and her words aren’t always nice, jaded from the walls that she’s built up around herself. Even people that she once considered friends, while not usually the target of her ire, can get caught in the crossfire and end up taking the brunt of her emotions.

Cho’s emotions are a rollercoaster, a constant up and down that even she can’t learn to ride. Exceedingly happy one moment and at rock bottom the next, she can never predict when she’s going to be laughing or crying. Anger washes over her out of nowhere and she can be irritable at times, the smallest things setting off her short fuse. Most of the time she’s able to keep things calm and collected, even if she’s falling apart or raging on the inside, and she tries to keep most of her outbursts quiet until she’s alone in her flat and can let loose. Cho is tired of people seeing her cry and tries her hardest to hide her emotions from everyone but her very closest friends.

Now that she’s an adult, Cho’s sexual appetite has not waned. Out from under her parents’ roof, she spends almost every night off she has at some bar or some club, trying to pick up a man to take her home that she’ll likely never call again. She’s not looking for love–in fact, she’s not even sure whether she believes in love, anymore. She’s just looking for a good time.

Work is the only place that Cho lets her guard down even a little bit. Once she was a trained healer, she requested that she be placed in the pediatric department of St. Mungo’s, and now she spends her days working with kids of all ages with all different types of injuries and maladies. It’s the kids that keep her smiling, that remind her of her purpose, and in every face she sees Cedric Diggory and his bravery and courage.

Underneath it all, Cho is just trying her hardest to hold things together and learn how to live her life.

Connections–

Harry Potter - old flame Roger Davies - old flame, crush Marietta Edgecomb - old friend Lisa Turpin - friend

CHO CHANG IS TAKEN AND PORTRAYED BY ARDEN CHO.