#and then he hangs it from the ceiling to loom above everyone

[peligin-eyed]

Guy who knows nothing about saints trying to dedicate the church he doesn’t really want to manage:

“Behold, I have brought you a saint!”

[neeksparksg]

A Moonlit Memory

On 0001 Cemetery Lane stood the Addams mansion, looming in eerie grandeur against the dim light of a misty morning.

Y/n, stepped into the living room. "Ghoulheart, my love," she purred, wrapping her arms around Gomez, who was engrossed in his model trains. "are we letting the locomotives roam free today?"

Gomez chuckled, his mustache twitching with excitement. "Absolutely, Amore mio! All aboard the Addams Express!" He turned to face her, planting a kiss on her lips.

Just then, Morticia entered, her elegant gown flowing as gracefully as ever, her presence enough to capture everyone’s attention. "Beautiful as always, my beloved Nightshade," Y/n greeted her, giving a subtle but intimate kiss on Morticia's cheek.

Morticia’s lips curved into a smile. "And a lovely morning to you too, my love." She reached for Gomez, pulling him into their embrace.

Their moment was interrupted by Uncle Fester, bursting into the room. "Gomez! Y/n! Morticia! Guess what I've invented? A train track that changes its form automatically!" he declared, dragging in a desk covered with a blanket.

Gomez’s eyes lit up like a child’s on Halloween. "Fester, you’ve outdone yourself! Let’s give it a whirl!"

"Boys and their trains," Y/n whispered with a smile as she watched Gomez and Fester excitedly pull the blanket off the table to reveal an built-in train track.

As Fester and Gomez fiddled with the setup, Morticia turned to Y/n. "There will be a beautiful full moon tonight, my dear. Perfect for a moonlit stroll."

A smile crept across Y/n’s face at her wife’s suggestion. "Absolutely perfect, my love. Let's ask Lurch and the kids if they’d like to join." She pulled on the rope hanging from the ceiling, ringing the large bell that echoed through the house.

Lurch’s tall, looming figure appeared silently from the shadows. "You rang?"

Y/n looked at him with a grin. "Lurch, my dear, ominous friend, would you accompany us on a moonlit stroll tonight?" Lurch answer was just to give a solemnly nod.

Just then, Grandmama shuffled in from the kitchen. "A stroll, eh? Just remember to watch out for werewolves!"

"Don’t worry, Mamá," Y/n replied. "I’ll be sure to pack a snack for them."

The sound of scampering feet announced the arrival of Wednesday and Pugsley. "Morning, Mother, Mom," Wednesday greeted, looking up at Morticia and Y/n. "We've been working on a potion to turn vegetables into bats."

Pugsley added, "It’s not working yet, but it makes great slime!" He held up his hands, covered in a gooey mess.

Y/n chuckled. "Still that is Impressive work, you two."

As the morning melted into afternoon, the family went about their usual activities. Morticia tended her garden; Y/n rested in the living room, listening as Lurch played the piano; Gomez and Fester tried to outdo each other with in a explosives battle, and Wednesday and Pugsley enjoyed their break in the playroom after finishing Grandmama’s lessons.

As night fell, the family gathered in the garden, bathed in the soft glow of lanterns. Before setting off, Y/n turned to the kids. “Did you remember to leave food for Aristotle and Homer?”

“Yes, we fed them earlier,” Pugsley replied. Fester chimed in, “And I gave Kitty Kat some meat. You know how much that cat eats—wouldn’t want him sneaking out to hunt.”

“Good thinking,” Y/n nodded approvingly. “Poor thing wouldn’t last a second out there.” With everyone ready, they began their moonlit stroll, arms linked.

“It truly is a remarkable night,” Morticia murmured, resting her head on Y/n’s shoulder.

Gomez grinned. “Absolutely. A brilliant idea to come out tonight!”

The stars twinkled above, casting long, shifting shadows across the garden. Pugsley and Wednesday glanced up at their parents, curiosity lighting their faces.

“Mom, Dad… Mother,” Pugsley began, “how did you three meet?”

Morticia’s lips curled into a nostalgic smile. “Ah, well then, gather ’round, and we’ll share a tale from the days of our youth.”

Gomez leaned in, his eyes gleaming. “It was a night much like this, many moons ago. Your mother and I were young.”

Morticia continued, her voice soft and melodic. “We’d heard whispers of a peculiar circus in town, one promising oddities beyond imagination. Naturally, we thought it would make for an unforgettable date.”

Gomez chuckled, his enthusiasm infectious. “The circus was like no other—a strange blend of performances and macabre wonders. But amid it all, we spotted something special.”

Morticia gently brushed a stray lock of Wednesday’s hair. “A curious sign caught our attention: ‘Gaze into the Spirit Veil and Communicate with the Beyond.’ We were intrigued, drawn in by the mysteries it promised.”

Y/n’s eyes sparkled as Morticia spoke. “We entered a tent adorned with mystic symbols and deep velvet curtains. In the center, a figure cloaked in shadow awaited. She stepped into the light, revealing the most captivating girl I’d ever seen.”

Pugsley leaned forward, wide-eyed. “You were part of the circus?!”

Y/n chuckled softly. “Yes. I had a gift—connecting with spirits—and the circus… well, they exploited it. People would come to speak to the beyond through me.”

Wednesday’s curiosity deepened. “What happened next?”

Gomez’s gaze softened, a nostalgic smile spreading across his face. “As I looked into Y/n’s eyes, it felt like the world around us disappeared. We were drawn to each other like moths to a flame.”

Morticia’s voice held a touch of mystery. “It was love at first sight.”

Y/n’s smile was tender. “We spoke without words; it was as if our souls connected in that single moment.”

Gomez’s tone turned mischievous. “We knew we had to help Y/n escape the circus and its clutches.”

Morticia nodded, her eyes reflecting a boldness from her younger years. “With a plan as daring as it was risky, we orchestrated a grand escape. Beneath the watchful gaze of the moon, we whisked Y/n away into the warmth of our love.”

Pugsley’s eyes sparkled with excitement. “And then you got married?”

Gomez laughed, ruffling Pugsley’s hair. “Exactly, my boy!”

Y/n let out a soft laugh, watching her family fondly. “Well, it wasn’t quite that simple, but yes, that’s how it all started.”

[call-sign-shark]

The Gentle Art of Terror

summary: Jack and Eva Nelson have an unpleasant encounter during a posh party. Her name? Tina Cacciatore, Luca Changretta's right hand. || Based on the "ask about your OC and mine to receive a one-shot + small moodboard". Also exploring Eva being scared is super cool. (@evita-shelby)

Words: 1.5k

“What are we doing here?” Eva asked, her sly and perfectly manicured hands tightly wrapped around the American’s muscular arm as they navigated in the dim light of the damp wine cellar. Warm but feeble lamps were hanging from the concrete ceiling, softly swinging from left and right at each gust of wind, casting their yellowish hue on the walls. The sumptuous witch’s voice was underlined with a palpable annoyance for she didn’t understand why they should waste their time in this shit hole while one of the most expensive parties ever held in Boston was taking place two stories above them. Jack Nelson‘s only reply was a little “shhh” before he walled himself in silence again, his green eyes surveyed his hostile surroundings with great attention. Even though the letter stipulated that their encounter would be peaceful, only aimed at discussing the terms of territory limits, Jack didn’t trust the man for his life of his. While merciless as an enraged bull and sly as a fox, he knew far too well that Luca Changretta, the most efficient soldier of the Spinetta’s family and the one rapidly climbing the Mafia’s highest ranks, wouldn’t shy away at the idea of slicing his throat at the slightest moment of inattention and Jack couldn’t have that. Even less when his mesmerizing wife, as powerful as him but embodying his only weakness, was with him at this moment.

“Jack.” She called him, her tone firmer as to remind him she wasn’t some kind of docile trophy wife but a Queen who could have almost everyone eating from her cursed hand. The sole power of her voice made him oblige — Nelson pinched his scarred lips in a thin line before replying.

“Remember when I told you Changretta wanted to talk? Well, here we are,” His gaze, usually hard and unyielding, softened at the sight of his wife’s expression, which was a combination of surprise and discontent, “I told you to stay at the party.” 

“And I told you I’m not some meek girl. If you are in trouble so I am, and I won't hesitate to make the fucker atone for the sin of thinking about harming you.” She stated, unbreakable and with the fury of a harpy. To this, Jack couldn’t help but grin: if the situation wasn’t so dangerous he would probably have fucked her right here, right now. With every day passing by, Eva’s reactions comforted him in the decision of belonging to her and only her. 

“Let’s stay careful. I don’t know where Changretta is… Might be as well looming in the dark and waiting to attack—“

“Oh. He’s here.”  She cut him off, one brow raised, her face composed but her gift of Clairvoyance unpleasantly rattling against her bones at the unpleasant sight. In a profound, almost animal instinct, She dug her nails into Jack’s thick sleeve as she felt her husband’s entire body tense when his eyes met with what she saw.

Luca Changretta stood against the wall like he belonged there, a tall and slender figure made of shadows. The swinging lamps of the ceiling threw their warm light at his face, bringing out his sharp traits, accentuating the hard line of his jaw, the predatory gleam in his eye, and the charisma he effortlessly exuded. With an air of casual indifference, the Capo was leaning back, his arms loosely crossed — Surprisingly, his posture was rather relaxed, while still bearing something threatening, like a panther that could spring to action in a blink the moment it smelt blood. A toothpick rolled lazily between his teeth as he carefully watched a third man across him, a man tied to a chair, his form broken and pathetic for he had been reduced to little more than a shell of fear and trembling flesh. 

Eva froze, an imaginary alarm ringing relentlessly in her brain as her genius mind quickly put two and two together —no blood on his face or on his ridiculously pricey tailored suit, a rather long distance from the victim: There was someone else. And that someone was responsible for this twisted scene, probably under Luca’s commands, but if so where was that monster?  Jack should have had the same thought for he quickly checked his surroundings to make sure no one had trapped them but, hopefully, there was no one. However, the echoing footsteps of the powerful couple had drawn the mafioso’s attention for a fleeting second. His piercing green gaze, shining in the dim light, flicked to them and paused just long enough to make sure they understood that he saw them—really saw them. Then, a grin slowly spread across his face in a chilling, knowing smile that curled his lips and reached his eyes in a way that was anything but friendly.

“Good evening, Mr.Nelson. I didn’t expect you to come to our little meeting in such a good company.” He finally said, his smooth voice slightly resounding in the cellar as he nodded at Eva’s direction to acknowledge her presence. Enemy but still a gentleman. As unexpected as it was, Luca wasn’t particularly surprised considering how skillfully manipulative and equally dangerous the new Mrs.Nelson was. Another shiver ran down the Mexican beauty, who couldn’t help but shift their focus from Luca to the tied-up victim, sobbing in muffled and exhausted squeals through the cloth that gagged him. She felt it — this presence, this fourth person hidden somewhere with a stare so burning she almost nervously scratched herself to get rid of the sensation. 

“Luca Changretta.” Jack simply said, spitting the name with so much disgust and disdain it seemed he had just taken a bite of a rotten apple, “I didn’t know you would put on a show in a pathetic attempt to scare me.” Jack stated with a raised brow — if his enemy had the slightest idea about who he was, he would surely know that cruelty didn’t impress Jack Nelson for he himself used to inflect it for business purpose. Ironically, what he loved the most was the Italian way.

“If you think all of this is to impress you let me tell you that you’re wrong,” The mafioso waved off the cutting remark with a elegant movement of the hand, “This unfortunate soul betrayed me so I had to make an example out of him. Nothing to do with you.”

That was how the men started to talk and while Eva was aware of it, the rest of their conversation blurred into unintelligible background when she noticed the tied-up man’s sudden agitation. The latter jolted and his breath hitched, muffled behind the ragged and saliva-coated cloth gag stuffed in his mouth. The air suddenly became heavy with a primal, animal fear that suffocated Eva. As her clairvoyant senses urged her to flee, her dark eyes still followed the panicking victim’s gaze until they fell on the slim and rather short frame of a woman. 

“Amore,” Luca called, interrupting his conversation with Jack Nelson due to the annoying noise he heard in the background, “Silence him.” He just ordered in a Sicilian — as a polyglot, Eva understood it — with as many emotions as if he had asked her to close the door, before focusing on his business talk again.  Two words, one command, and the girl moved closer, her steps light, almost graceful, as she entered his line of vision. She was rather small, standing no taller than 5”5, and harmless at first glance with her slender frame and radiant, ever-present smile. But Eva knew more than to trust a smile, especially this one who was nothing but deceptive - a mask to hide the hideous. She had long dark hair that cascaded down her shoulders, framing a cute but bratty face with mismatched eyes — one as dark as night, the other a brilliant, unsettling golden sun — and blood splatters.

“What…” Eva breathed. 

The man’s breathing quickened as she approached, his chest rising and falling in sharp, panicked heaves. He pulled harder at his restraints in a desperate, useless struggle but it only seemed to amuse her. The broken doll-faced woman tilted her head, her smile widening and a look of near delight crossing her face as she took in his terror.  “That’s okay.” She simply said with a fake soothing tone before pulling a sharp knife out and slicing his throat before Eva had the time to bat her eyes. The strong metallic smell of blood came in a wave so strong that Eva took a few steps back with her expensive heels clicking, eyes wide open, and nausea hitting. Jack must have borne witness to the same thing judging by the instant and worried glance he gave to his wife.

“Hm?”  The killer girl said as if she suddenly remembered that other people were in the room. She finally raised her bicolor eyes towards the Mexican beauty and paused, quietly observing Eva’s face whose exquisite color had turned two shades paler with lips parted in shock. The grotesque scene in front of her didn’t make sense — even with blood on her own hands, she could never understand such unleashed cruelty. Such a bright glimmer of pleasure when inflicting pain.  Eva was frozen, but Tina’s reaction to her presence was instant: her bloodied face lit up with gleeful recognition and her wicked grin turned into an innocent smile. She lifted her hand; still dripping with blood, and waved cheerfully.

“Oh, hey!”  She exclaimed in a light and musical voice, as though she'd just bumped into an old friend on the street. There was no malice in her tone, no hint of the brutality she had just shown.

Eva’s heart missed a beat for the first time in a while at the dissonance between her casual, innocent demeanor and the horrors she had just witnessed. It was wrong. Wrong. So fucking wrong, even for her. After all, she wasn’t a good person but she wasn’t…That. 

And “that”  was a whole other level. “That” was the kind of monster who could not be bribed, not be stopped. An abomination that no money nor power could restraint. 

And “that”?

That was Tina. 

tag: @runnning-outof-time, @evita-shelby, @peakyswritings

[sparklingelectricblue]

X-Men: From the Ashes Infinity Comics #24

Hey! Guess who showed up in the latest issue of X-Men: From the Ashes Infinity Comics (jeez, that title is a mouthful).

Spoilers & screenshots under the cut...

So issue #22 shows Barnell, Angel, and their children at the airport trying to make a flight to Alaska. Barnell is entertaining the children with stories of the Agents of T.H.A.N.K.S. (self inserts of the family who are Tremendously Heroic Awesome Ninja Knights) and tells them that they are on a secret mission to deliver vegan turkey roll to the X-Men for Thanksgiving. Honestly, it's cute. Unfortunately, little Kara has Minor Symptom Foreshadowing, poor thing. On the plane, the family deals with a nasty Karen who doesn't want to sit next to a mutant. The Karen gets told that there are air travel protections for mutants which is nice, at least with the airline's company policy. Take that Karen! Kara and Barnell hug. End of issue.

Issue #23 picks up with Angel, Barnell, and the family at Merle, Alaska. Specifically at the front door of the X-Men's current HQ. There are warm greetings between the Angel/Barnell family and the X-men. It's declared to be a class reunion by Glob. Beak presents the vegan turkey roll. Scott, of course, does not pick up on the social cues at first and explains how he's sorry but they don't have time for a formal dinner. Turns out Barnell didn't call ahead which Angel gives him grief for (rightly so! That's just rude). Juggernaut give Scott a "be nice" nudge. This prompts Scott to say, "Y'know what...? of course we have time for Dinner!"

Cut to a scene at the dinner table with everyone (except Magneto, Xorn, and Beast) as Kwannon cuts and serves the turkey with a sword. There's a lot of reminiscing. Scott tells a story of something heroic that Barnell did and that impresses Kara. Quentin toasts Barnell. Kwannon expresses her gratitude that after everything, Barnell and Angel still have each other. There's that foreboding cough from Kara again. 😬Barnell peels off to see Hank before Scott can tell him about what's happened to Hank. More cute kid stuff as they play fight with Juggernaut. Ominous panel of Barnell in the elevator. End of issue.

Now that we're caught up, we can discuss issue 24.

Issue #24 opens with the Angel and Barnell's kids as the Agents of T.H.A.N.K.S play fighting with Juggernaut and Magik. Playtime ends when Juggernaut rips a nasty "Uncontainable Tofu Fart!!!" - no, really. "Ew, Cain." Says Magik. This causes Kara to go into a coughing fit. Barnell is watching from above from a balcony. And Hank is watching Barnell from above while hanging from the ceiling. Hank apologizes for missing the holiday dinner. Hank thinks Barnell is coming to see Hank so that Hank can make "the best after-dinner cocktails."

But this comments frustrates Barnell.

Past Hank had agreed to do everything he could to cure her and Barnell is hoping that the cure is ready. Except, this isn't the same Hank. At first, Hank plays around before admitting that he doesn't know Barnell or anything that he's talking about.

Barnell is near tears asking if Hank lied to him when the shadow of a figure sitting in a hovering chair looms behind him.

The guy just can not NOT manspread.

Max explains what exactly is going on with Hank:

Maybe it was for the greater good, but that's little comfort to Barnell. He was depending on Hank to save his daughter.

Barnell is understandably devastated. He goes back downstairs to the happy scene of the kids playing with the X-Men. There's an adorable moment where Scott is showing one of the kids (I think Kara) how his visor works, "--Then I push this button here and ZAP!" Barnell goes to Angel sitting by Scott and maybe Kara and tells her that it's time. Angel interprets this to mean that it's time to give Kara the cure and expresses her relief.

But Burnell corrects her, "No. Time to go home." Angel starts to argue but Barnell simply cuts her off. "Angel. Please."

The next scene is the family leaving the X-Men HQ. Angel covers her face saying, "Oh. God." having figured out what it means to just leave. Behind them, the X-Men without Hank, Xorn, and Magneto are waving their goodbyes with smiles on their faces, oblivious to the conversation that just happened upstairs. And to the emotional turmoil that Burnell and Angel are going through.

...And I am destroyed! If this plot line is forgotten by the powers that be, I will never recover. NEVER RECOVER. Plus, it would reflect horribly on the X-Men. I feel for Angel and Barnell. Infinity Comics continues to be one of the better "From the Ashes" comics.

It is interesting that in two different Infinity Comic stories, written by two different writers, they touched on or subtly referenced what happened to Max's daughter, Anya. Does that mean this backstory is going to be important later on in the main story? And I have to say, the moments that Max is comforting other people is probably my favorite from the past year.

I'm curious to see where this is all going?

[all-eyes-lead-to-the-truth]

All Eyes Lead to the Truth | Je Souhaite (7x21)

Jenn’s boots clack along the basement office floor as she paces. She hadn’t been exaggerating earlier; her faith in humanity has eroded like time. Even while wielding a power so great that it can pluck billions of people from the earth within a single breath, it’s worthless when all she craves is freedom from its chains. 

The exhale from her deep sigh ruffles the bangs of her black bob. After hours of sneaking peeks within stacks of files labeled with an X and nosing through the back room littered with weird sciencey stuff, she can no longer tamp down her general disgruntlement for another second.

Jenn groans beside the desk of the most recent man to unroll her. “While I admit you making an ass of yourself in that bald guy’s office has been the highlight of my last few decades, I’m bored now.”

“Glad one of us was amused,” Agent Mulder huffs as he carefully types out his final wish. “I’d think snooping through the coolest office in the bureau beats being rolled up in a dusty old rug.”

Leaning against a filing cabinet, she blows a lungful of air across its metal surface, sending dust bunnies to the floor. “Think again. There’s no urge to needlessly concern myself with humanity’s stupidity if I’m not granting wishes.” 

“Because we’re chimpanzees with revolvers?”

“Maybe. But you…” Jenn takes a good look around the subterranean room and chuckles. Dozens of pencils stuck in the ceiling dangle above books on Bigfoot behavior and medical mysteries. Behind her, articles on crop circles hang beside a shitty drawing of a naked cave woman pinned to the wall. “How does your partner put up with you?”

He stops typing and gives her a goofy grin. “That’s one mystery that may never be solved.” 

Ah, she thinks, un mystère du coeur.

Jenn gives a disbelieving eyebrow arch. “She’s a tad too territorial to be a mystery to me.”

“Scully?” he scoffs. “She’s not territorial.”

Jenn rolls her eyes. “I don’t need to use power of perception to see she wants me gone. Look, until you make your final wish, you’re both stuck with my presence.”

“I’m working on it.” He spins back around, nodding at the screen riddled with complicated words. 

Jenn leans over his shoulder. “What, are you a lawyer?”

“Well, I have to be with you,” he accuses. “I'm going to get this last wish perfect. I'm not going to leave you any loopholes. Not going to let you interpret this as an edict to bring back the Third Reich or to make everyone's eyes grow on stalks.”

“Oh, geez. And I was so looking forward to that.”

Jenn’s sarcasm slides into amusement as Agent Scully enters the office, spine stiffening with irritation when she sees Jenn looming. But beneath the redhead’s bravado, there’s tenderness there. She tries to hide it, but it’s easy for Jenn to spot in someone else what she tries to hide in herself.

“Skinner called me, Mulder. Is everything all right?” 

Her concern is as genuine as her lack of surprise. Clearly him making a scene at work is a regular occurrence.

“You don't remember disappearing off the face of the earth for about an hour this morning?

She frowns. “No.”

“Well, I guess everything's okay.”

Jenn eavesdrops from the back room as Agent Scully moves closer to her partner. “Mul—”

She tosses Jenn an antagonistic glare. “Could you give us a minute, please?”

“Sure,” she says. It’s not like Jenn wants to stare at that enormous flying saucer poster anymore anyway.

“Like today?” Agent Scully snaps, but Jenn is already gone. 

Standing outside the office, Jenn thinks about how entertaining it’s been to watch the two of them. Usually, she’s barely able to stomach witnessing the human propensity for self-destruction. But the magic between the agents is as obvious to Jenn as the gem on her face. They can’t see the current connecting them, but it vibrates through the air so strongly it’s impossible not to feel. 

And Jenn has tried very hard not to feel anything anymore.

She’d told Agent Mulder what she would wish for, and aside from the shock of actually being asked, she was truthful. To a point. Listening to the two agents teasingly bicker behind the door begins to soften Jenn’s hardened heart. She’d be lying if she said she doesn’t long for a connection like theirs. Century after century, she suffers imprisonment alone, begging to live freely so badly the pain of it chomps at her every essence with its teeth. She’ll never admit that, though.

No wonder she’s bitchy.

The door swings open for the territorial redhead to walk through and Jenn instantly pops back into the office before she’s hip-checked down the hall. 

“You ready?” she asks Agent Mulder. 

He smiles and flicks off the computer. Before he speaks, a crime scene photo shoved under the keyboard catches Jenn’s eye. It’s of him and Agent Scully together, standing side by side in their FBI windbreakers, their faces inches apart. 

Jenn holds up a hand. 

“Before you start spouting legal jargon, may I suggest you wish for something a little less altruistic than peace on Earth? Since we know what a flop that was, maybe something to do with that pretty partner of yours you were so frantic without?”

“No, I’m not risking...”

“Her again?”

His emerald eyes shine with mirth. “I’m ready for my wish now. Are you?” 

Jenn smiles…

Later, while running her fingers across her gemless cheek in awe, she can no longer say that all of mankind is stupid and selfish.

The soft chatter and clang of cutlery inside the coffeehouse soothes her old soul, and Jenn intends on living the rest of her mortal life moment by moment, enjoying it for what it is, instead of worrying about what it isn't.

“Another cup?” the waitress asks.

“Yes, please,” Jenn says, smiling behind her mug and happily watching the world slip by.

Read the rest of All Eyes Lead to the Truth on Archive of Our Own!

@monikafilefan

[training4theapocalypse]

Finders Keepers Ch 20. (Cormac McLaggen x fem!reader)

Rating: Explicit 18+ (no smut)

Word Count: 7.5k

Warnings: Minor character deaths, violence

Summary: The final battle of Hogwarts

A/N: The last chapter 😢 an epilogue is on the way. This has been a blast. Thank you for reading. ❤️

Masterlist

Chapter 20: Avada Kedavra

The courtyard is eerily quiet when you and McLaggen skid to an abrupt halt on the rubble. A long streak of blood is painted across the cobblestone. And even though the thought of what caused it turns your stomach, instantly your mind begins playing it out. A faceless Death Eater blasted across the cloister. Or maybe it was a student dragging themselves away from the fighting. Or perhaps it’s the evidence of someone being tenderly carried off to somewhere safer. Assuming there’s anywhere safe left.

“Where is everyone?” The question, more to yourself than McLaggen, hangs in the chilled night air, icy on your skin after the pitch's fiery chaos. He holds one of the now-dilapidated oak front doors open and crumbling mortar silently dusts your heads and shoulders as you pass through the threshold. From a distance, you spot a familiar figure, carrying someone over one shoulder as they walk across the Entrance Hall. 

“Wood?” calls McLaggen.

At least one of your group is still alive. 

Oliver Wood stops in his tracks and turns, his face solemn. The realisation that the body he carries is dead and not simply injured hits you with sickening force. A young boy, blonde and no older than sixteen, hangs limp in his grasp.

“Colin Creevey,” says Wood sadly, in answer to the unasked question on the tip of your tongue. “He must have snuck back in through the Hog’s Head passageway to fight. He was only a kid.”

“Here, let me help,” says McLaggen. 

“It’s alright, mate - he’s -” Wood swallows with difficulty, the sentiment choking in his throat. “He’s only a wee thing.”

“Where - where are the others?” You’re surprised when your voice too is hoarse, barely a whisper. “Did you all get back to the castle alright?”

“We did,” says Wood as you and McLaggen fall into step with him, walking back towards the Great Hall. “But once we got back it was pandemonium. We were split up. I think the girls are in the Great Hall but some of the lads and I have been busy out here - helping carry bodies back and hoping that we don’t see anyone we know.”

The lads. You breathe a sigh of relief because it means Carmichael, Davies and Krum are all right too.

“We’ll be fine,” says McLaggen determinedly. “We’re all good fighters. Not kids like Colin -”

Wood shakes his head. “It’s not just kids like Colin - members of the Order of the Phoenix are dead. You remember Professor Lupin? He’s dead. And Fred Weasley.”

“Fred Weasley?” McLaggen halts. “Back when we were in the D.A. he was one of the best.” He says it matter-of-factly like Wood must be mistaken. 

“Gone,” says Wood with a sniff. “There were at least twenty bodies when I last left the Great Hall. And we keep finding more.” 

A heavy silence accompanies you into the Great Hall, where the reality of war is laid bare. The sky above the enchanted ceiling is pitch black. There’s not a single star in the sky visible. Dark clouds loom so claustrophobically close it’s a wonder there’s any air in the hall at all. Dozens of the fallen are lined up along the centre of the room. Some with crying families at their side, and some, you realise with a sinking feeling, are completely alone. 

Your eyes scour the room searching for your own loved ones. At this side of the row of bodies nearest you, there’s a crowd that can only be Fred Weasley’s family. Relief washes over you as you spot Angelina, at the edge of the group, sobbing on Alicia’s shoulder.

Another two who are still alive.

But your relief is short-lived when you see only Leanne and Katie at the far end of the hall, crowded around someone on the floor. 

Panic makes the hair on your arm rise. 

You break into a run, heart pounding, as you pass by too many bodies to count, each step fuelled by a mix of hope and dread. Leanne and Katie look up at your arrival, still holding each other, tears streaking down their faces. 

Cho is kneeling on the floor, holding the lifeless hand of a girl. She has the same long, wavy, auburn hair as Marietta. But it can’t be Marietta. Eddie isn’t here. And besides, she’s covered in dust, with pieces of rubble strewn in her hair. Marietta was always fussy about her appearance. She wouldn’t be caught dead looking like this.

McLaggen catches up with you and stops dead, momentarily stunned by the scene before him. “Fuck… Marietta.” His whisper hits you like a slowing charm.

“That’s not - it’s not -” Your legs feel like lead as you take a step closer. “I don’t think it’s Marietta - I mean, her face is…” That’s not Marietta’s face. Where are her scars? You sink to your knees across from Cho to get a closer look at the girl’s face. If you look hard enough, maybe it won’t be true. You’ll find some difference. A freckle or a piercing that proves this isn’t Marietta. 

“The curse must have died with her,” Cho murmurs, her voice quiet with grief as a tear drips onto Marietta’s serene, unblemished face. 

“She’s so beautiful,” sobs Leanne. “I mean - not that she wasn’t before -“

Fuck.

The truth hits hard. Undeniable. Raw.

It is her. 

“She was beautiful,” you agree, your voice breaking as a surge of memories overwhelms you, letting the tears flow unguarded. “Before the curse, when she had the curse and - and after.”

After. You never thought there would be a time after Marietta. Ever since your first day at Hogwarts, Marietta Edgecombe was there. After the sorting ceremony, you found yourself sitting across from her at the Ravenclaw table. You still remember the way she covered her mouth with the back of her hand and whispered something that made Cho giggle when Professor Dumbledore stood up to give his beginning-of-term speech. And it was at that point she had first seemed so different to you then. She loved gossip and fashion and makeup and boys - the two of you never really saw eye to eye. Mostly because you insisted you ‘weren’t like other girls’. 

But Marietta eventually showed you that you weren’t so different to other girls after all. And that other girls had their own interests just like you. It took longer than you’d like to admit to figure out that liking flying instead of Transfiguration didn’t make you superior. And so, Marietta transfigured your dress for Slughorn’s party. And you taught her how to fly a broom well enough to go on a dangerous mission to Azkaban. 

You suppose, if you let yourself think about the sad truth of it, her scars were probably the reason why she was so good at Transfiguration. She had spent a long time when you were still at Hogwarts, in the dormitory mirror with her wand pointed at her face, trying to rid herself of the scars that spelt ‘SNEAK’ across her cheeks and nose.

“How did she…?” The question dies in your throat as you look at Cho, not sure if you're ready to hear the answer. But she shakes her head. She doesn’t know. “I mean, where did you find her? And where’s Carmichael? Wasn’t he with her?” Eddie would know what had happened. “Does he even know she’s…?”

“We don’t have any answers,” says Katie not unkindly but it’s clear that your incessant questioning isn’t helping when they’re just as lost as you.

“Wood said that the guys were helping with the bodies,” McLaggen reminds you. “Maybe they’ll know more. They’ll be back in a… oh, fuck.”

McLaggen’s voice trails off and you look up to see why. 

Krum and Davies walk along the length of the hall, carrying a body. Krum holding under the arms and Davies carrying the legs. As they move, Krum clenches his jaw and Davies stares straight ahead solemnly.

“Nonononono…” you whimper, getting to your feet to get out of the way so that they can set the body down next to Marietta. Your hands reach for McLaggen’s and his find you, neither of you daring to take your eyes off of the body being carried towards you as you grasp at each other’s forearms for something - anything - to cling onto. 

Krum and Davies set the lifeless figure down and step out of the way. Nobody says anything for a long time as you stare down at them.

The echo of a mischievous smile is still etched on Eddie Carmichael’s face, even in death. You half expect his eyes to fly open. “Only winding you up, mucker,” he’d say, sitting upright and dusting himself off. And you’d roll your eyes and slap his arm for worrying you so. For letting the practical joke play out too long.

It’s not a joke. No matter how much you want it to be.

Carmichael. 

Your last shred of hope turns to dust. Even in Azkaban, Carmichael was a vial of Awakening Potion - the jolt of energy you needed to turn the tide in the depths of your despair. He almost made Azkaban feel like a game. Reminded you that being locked up was just a temporary situation - something that would pass. But this? This is permanent. 

“Where - where did you find him?” asks McLaggen. His voice is thick, barely recognisable.

Davies clears his throat. “Near the staircase behind the tapestry on the sixth floor. Longbottom said it was where he found Marietta.”

They were together.

McLaggen winces at Davies’ words and shuts his eyes momentarily, unable to bring himself to look at the lifeless figures of Marietta Edgecombe and Eddie Carmichael. You, on the other hand, can’t look away. 

The dust coating their faces makes them look almost blue-tinged. The remnants of an explosion, perhaps? The broken bits of rubble are still stuck in Marietta’s hair. Trembling slightly, you crouch down to try to disentangle them with your fingers, careful not to pull at her scalp. 

It’s no good. 

While you’ve never had an eye for Transfiguration like Marietta, you extract McLaggen’s dad’s wand from your pocket and press it gently at the pieces of rubble and one by one, transfigure them into tiny, blue forget-me-nots. 

To an onlooker, she might seem merely asleep, her hair adorned with forget-me-nots as if chosen by her own hand on a sunny day at Seafarer's Beacon. This small touch of beauty, reminiscent of the way her paper snowflakes once danced around the lighthouse stairwell or the summer wreath she hung on the front door just yesterday, captures the essence of Marietta's spirit. 

She always had an eye for making this world a little more beautiful.

Cho waves her wand in a complicated figure of eight and a wreath of the same forget-me-nots flourishes into existence. She places it silently at Eddie’s head before the two of you stand up and join the rest in quiet mourning. 

“You okay?” you whisper to McLaggen, noticing his ashen face. His brow furrows as if silently debating something internally. 

“How long have we got before the fighting starts again?” he asks the group, breaking the silence, his words piercing the heavy air.

“Not long I reckon,” says Davies.

McLaggen’s demeanour shifts, a firm look of determination on his face. “Potter needs to hand himself in… Where is he?” He looks around the room with an intense, measured sort of calm that you’ve only witnessed once before. When he stood up in the Black Dragon and asked Marcus Flint to step outside. “I’ll hand him over myself if I have to.” 

“Vot is this?” asks Krum as McLaggen makes to leave.

“Not gonna happen,” Davies tells McLaggen firmly, stepping in front of him.

“If he’d just handed himself over right at the start then Ed and Marietta would still be alive.” McLaggen tries to push past but Davies moves again.

“Handing over Potter isn’t going to bring them back -” says Davies.

For the first time, McLaggen raises his voice, drawing the attention of mourners in the hall. “How many more of us are going to have to die for him?!”

“Cormac -” you start and reach for his hand. “Marietta and Carmichael wouldn’t have wanted us to turn him in.”

“We don’t know what they’d have wanted,” he says bitterly and your own face screws up in anguish, fighting tears and unable to find the words to argue with him. 

But before anyone else can argue with him an amplified voice causes the noise in the Great Hall to halt into momentary silence.

“Harry Potter is dead!” 

The last word bounces around the stone walls. Dead. Dead. Dead.

There’s murmuring and hushing as You-Know-Who’s disembodied voice calls every survivor to attention. Everyone looks skywards as if it’ll make the words clearer. Make them make sense.

“He was killed as he ran away, trying to save himself while you lay down your lives for him,” the voice continues. 

You’d be the first to admit you’re not Potter’s biggest fan but from everything you’ve heard about it, you know he has the same selfless, noble streak that McLaggen and the rest of your Gryffindor friends have - and you can’t imagine any of them running away to save themselves. You furrow your eyebrows together and look at Katie - she knows Potter best. As expected, she mirrors your thoughts with a firm shake of her head.

“He wouldn’t -” Katie starts, but the voice cuts her off.

“We bring you his body as proof that your hero is gone. The battle is won. You have lost half of your fighters. My Death Eaters outnumber you and The Boy Who Lived is finished. There must be no more war. Anyone who continues to resist, man, woman or child, will be slaughtered. As will every member of their family.” 

The seven of you gather close as you hold your breath waiting to hear what will happen to you.

“Come out of the castle now. Kneel before me and you shall be spared. Your parents and children, your brother and sisters will live and be forgiven and you will join me in the new world we shall build together.”

McLaggen shakes his head. “It - it can’t all have been for nothing. Breaking them all out of Azkaban - it - it’s just can’t.”

“He’s lying. Harry’s not - he’s not dead,” says Cho with an air of trying to convince herself that it’s the truth. 

You look over to where Fred Weasley’s body lies and see that Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger are looking around frantically for the missing member of their trio. The pair stumble into a run, leaving the Great Hall and the rest of the survivors begin following them. 

If Harry Potter isn’t dead then why are his two best friends panicking?

You stay rooted to the spot. “Look, we can’t go out there. No matter what You-Know-Who said about sparing us - Cerys told me that Muggleborns and traitors will be killed.”

“Well, we’re not going out there to surrender,” says McLaggen. “We’re going out there to fight.”

Everyone breaks into squabbling.

“They’re going to kill us,” you insist, feeling helpless as you point out the impending death sentence.

“We can’t just stay in here,” says Katie.

“Angelina and Alicia are going,” points out Leanne.

You feel like you’re going mad. Desperation grips you as you beg them to understand. “A Death Eater told me herself that they’re going to execute the Muggleborns and force purebloods into Death Eater families.”

Davies finally chimes in, siding with caution. “I agree with Keeps. They’ll slaughter us all.”

“Not if I kill him first,” says McLaggen, straightening up but his change in demeanour makes your blood run cold.

“Kill who?” asks Cho. “You’re not talking about killing You-Know-Who, are you?”

McLaggen pauses, his gaze fixed on the distant double doors. When he speaks, his voice is clear, and full of resolve. “Not You-Know-Who. Voldemort.” 

The use of the taboo name is heavy in the air for a split second as a silent shock ripples through the group. McLaggen begins to march forward, his steps deliberate, pulling the rest of you from your stupor as you scramble to keep pace, murmurs of disbelief echoing behind him.

Wait - what?

He follows the direction of the crowd leaving the Great Hall.

“Cormac - wait - no,” you panic, pulling on his arm but he keeps walking as you practically jog to keep up with his long strides. “Cormac?” 

“McLaggen, what are you playing at, mate?” Davies too tries to get Cormac’s attention while you march.

McLaggen’s eyes darken, a flash of the recent pain  “No, we end this. I kill Voldemort. If I finish him off, Marietta and Eddie won’t have died for nothing…” 

“No, Cormac -” 

“I think ve need a plan,” Krum says looking slightly wary.

“There’s no time for a plan. All I need is one shot. One clear shot,” he says, staring ahead defiantly as you join the back of the moving crowd. 

“Cormac McLaggen, will you listen to me?!” Your voice is unusually shrill, half-choked with fear and desperation, as you plant yourself firmly in his path, forcing him to confront you. “You can’t just ‘take a shot’ at him. There’ll be protective enchantments. And even if by some miracle you breach those, it’ll be as good as suicide.”

Cormac halts and looks down into your eyes sadly. “You said it yourself - we’re all dead anyway. To them, we’re nothing but a bunch of traitors and Muggleborns.”

“I should be the one to do it, then,” you plead. “You’re from a pureblood family. You might still have a chance.” He shakes his head, dismissing the idea and you flare up. “And why not? I’m just as capable as you.”

“You are capable,” he insists. “But I should be the one to do it.”

“Why?” demands Cho, her voice sharp.

“I’m done for when they find out I killed the Minister for Magic’s daughter.” 

“And they’ll let the rest of us walk free?” asks Cho rhetorically. “Umbridge has been looking for us since all this started. If she’s anything to do with the new regime - she’ll make sure that we’re first to go. She’ll probably - she’ll probably frame us for Marietta’s death.” The idea leaves a bitter scowl on her face. Of course, Umbridge would. What a sympathetic story it’d make too. Marietta Edgecombe - Umbridge’s secretary. Kidnapped by the D.A. and killed in battle. 

“As much as I don’t like the idea of going out there without a plan, we’re running out of time and there’s nowhere else left to go,” says Davies resignedly as the seven of you look beyond the double doors at the courtyard. “So if any of us get the chance we should take it.”

“Exactly,” says Krum. “Ve train together, ve fight together.”

“I say if anyone gets close enough to You-Know - I mean - Voldemort, we do it. The Killing Curse,” says Katie.

Leanne nods. “I agree.”

You and McLaggen exchange a determined look. One last mission. Together.

“Alright,” McLaggen says, addressing everyone with a confidence reminiscent of the sort you usually have when rousing your Quidditch team. “Alright. Let’s do this. Let’s kill Voldemort.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~`

The remnants of Dumbledore’s Army huddle together in the devastated courtyard. 

Harry Potter is dead.

The grim truth of it is laid bare for everyone to see in the slowly lightening darkness that precedes the dawn as you gaze at his body lying limp in Hagrid’s arms as he sobs.

The lump in your throat isn’t so much for Potter as for what he represented, what his death means for you and your friends. Marietta is dead. Carmichael is dead. You and the rest of the D.A. will probably join them soon. If McLaggen isn’t executed he’ll be married off to some other Death Eater. You hold onto McLaggen’s hand tight, barely listening to Voldemort addressing the crowd as you instead silently count each second your hand is in his before you’re inevitably separated. 

You watch as Hagrid is instructed to place Potter on the ground at his feet.

Voldemort paces in front of the crowd, his giant snake wrapped around his shoulders as he points to Potter’s dead body. “He was nothing - ever - but a boy who relied on others to sacrifice themselves for him.”

“He beat you!” yells Ron Wealsey, a few places down to your left. You try to shrink back, away from the attention he’s bringing to your group but McLaggen holds fast - the same look of defiance painted on his face as is on Weasley’s. 

To your horror, McLaggen shouts, “Your Death Eaters were losing!” Members of the D.A. and several others in the crowd cry out in dissent too. 

“Cormac,” you plead. The idea of any of you breaking through the void between the survivors and Death Eaters to aim a Killing Curse at Voldemort seems like a childish fantasy now that you’re out here, facing him. You just want to slip away. The last thing you want is for any of the D.A. to be made a humiliating example of. You look at the army facing you. They outnumber you by at least five to one. You’re starting to realise that the best you can hope for is a quick death. “Please don’t draw attention to yourself.”

There’s a bang and a flash of light and you flinch when Voldemort silences the crowd.

“He was killed while trying to sneak out of the castle grounds. Killed while trying to save himself -”

But Voldemort’s voice breaks off when you’re jostled to the side as Neville Longbottom breaks through the clutch of D.A. members and charges at him. Clearly, your group weren’t the only ones who planned to take a shot at Voldemort to end this once and for all. There are more bangs and flashes when Neville is disarmed and knocked to the ground and another silencing charm is cast over the crowd.

“And who is this? Who has volunteered to demonstrate what happens to those who continue to fight when the battle is lost?”

Just as you were afraid of. The first dissenter to be made an example of. You clutch onto McLaggen as Bellatrix Lestrange catches Neville’s wand and taunts him. Neville eventually gets to his feet, unarmed and unprotected, standing in the no-man's-land between the Hogwarts survivors and the Death Eaters. 

“Neville Longbottom… But you are a pureblood aren’t you, my brave boy?”

“So what if I am?” he spits back.

“You show spirit and bravery. And you come of noble stock. You will make a valuable Death Eater. We need your kind, Neville Longbottom.”

“I’ll join you when hell freezes over!” shouts Neville before turning and raising his fist in the direction of the survivors. “Dumbledore’s Army!”

The silencing charm breaks and your friends jeer at Voldemort in response. 

Your own voice is lost in your throat.

“Very well. Are there any more purebloods who, like Neville, will refuse to join my Death Eaters?”

“You’re damn right!” calls McLaggen. “Like hell, we’ll join you!”

You want to clap your hand over his big fat mouth but before you can other survivors join in the yelling.

“Yeah!” echoes Ron Weasley. “We’d rather die!”

“Ah, but you misunderstand me,” replies You-Know-Who in his snakelike whisper. “Too much magical blood has been spilt already and you are valuable. Pureblood families are dying out. Extinguished by those who choose to mate with Mudbloods and muggles.”

McLaggen lets go of your hand and slips his hand into his pocket, finding his wand.

“Don’t!” You hiss through your teeth, pulling at his arm.

McLaggen ignores you and stares straight ahead, looking at Voldemort defiantly. “And so what if we are? Being pureblooded doesn’t mean anything!”

“Another like Neville Longbottom who refuses to join my Death Eaters?” asks Voldemort, looking directly at McLaggen amongst the collection of D.A. members and the remaining Gryffindor students. “Come forward, unless you are afraid that your Mudblood sympathies have made you weak.”

McLaggen moves his arm so that his wand is hidden behind his back and takes a step forward.

“No! No, stop! Cormac!” You don’t bother hushing your voice this time as you realise he’s actually about to stand beside Neville. You cling onto him frantically with all your might, begging him not to step forward. But you’re not the only one shrieking. 

“Ron!” You look over to see Granger, attempting to pull Ron Weasley back too.

“Come now! Come!” laughs Voldemort. “Don’t be shy. Come forward and I’ll show you just how useful those from noble bloodlines will be in the new world.”

“Cormac!” you sob, pulling his arm so tightly that you think you might rip his arm from his socket. He takes another two steps and your feet slide on the uneven rubble underfoot. With a solemn look, he places his hand over yours and eases them off his arm. You look desperately over at Granger and she too has had her grip wrenched free from Weasley. For just a second, the two of you lock eyes in helpless, shared understanding.

You let go of Cormac and almost fall to your knees when he and Weasley join Longbottom but before you collapse, Cho and Krum catch under your arms, stopping you from crumbling as you try to remember how to breathe again.

Voldemort's voice cuts through the tense air. "Those of you who stand before me refuse to acknowledge the way things are now," he declares, his gaze sweeping over the brave three standing in defiance. “You may not become Death Eaters… but your children will.”

A murmur ripples through the crowd, a mix of fear and outrage simmering among the gathered survivors. Voldemort turns to face his supporters. “Now, where is the Minister for Magic? Thicknesse?” Pius Thicknesse steps forward, his long, dark hair danker than you remember it from when you first met him last summer. "Have your daughter bring forth the girls," he commands, his voice echoing ominously across the courtyard. "Let these ancient and noble pureblood families be joined as one."

Thicknesse’s bloodshot eyes dart around edgily. “My Lord - I - I cannot find her.”

“You won’t,” says McLaggen and you exhale a weak groan. The last shred of hope you had that McLaggen might make it through this act of defiance disapparates in an instant. “She’s dead. I made sure of it.”

Thicknesse, fueled by a mix of grief and rage, attempts to barrel through Voldemort’s supporters, his eyes set on McLaggen with a vengeance. But before Thicknesse can reach him, Voldemort, with a flick of his wand, halts Thicknesse's charge.

Voldemort's gaze lands on McLaggen, his curiosity piqued. "And who is this?" he inquires, his voice cold yet amused, as he looks from the distraught Thicknesse to the defiant McLaggen.

"That's the boy she wanted. The one she - my Cerys - asked to be promised to, my lord," Thicknesse says, raising a quivering finger at McLaggen.

Voldemort laughs. A high-pitched, chilling laugh. "I can see why - he's a handsome one," he remarks as he steps towards McLaggen who remains steadfast. Unflinching. "No matter," Voldemort continues, turning away from McLaggen and dismissing the matter with a wave of his hand as if Cerys’s death were nothing more than a trivial inconvenience. "There are plenty of suitable matches from other families willing to produce heirs -"

"I'll kill the next one too,” says McLaggen and Neville and Weasley look at him in agreement. “We all will. If you force any of us into pure-blood marriages against our will, we'll make sure that the bloodlines end with us."

Voldemort pauses and turns around slowly as if hardly daring to believe that McLaggen has spoken out so openly. “Too much magical blood has been wasted already tonight... although perhaps I can make an exception," he muses, his gaze still fixed on McLaggen. "Your bloodline, at least, will end with you."

"And so will yours," says McLaggen. And even though you can’t see his face, you can tell he’s wearing that confident, intense look that so often precedes him doing the impossible. 

And just for a second, you think it’s happening. Against the odds, McLaggen, who has saved your skin countless times now, is about to save everyone for good. McLaggen. The Keeper. About to make the save that defines the wizarding world as you know it.

But before McLaggen can even extend his wand, Voldemort, with a flicker of dark amusement in his eyes, utters, "Avada Kedavra!" 

McLaggen’s body falls to the ground, lifeless, just as quickly and easily as the falling Quidditch stands on the pitch.

Your stomach lurches. You open your mouth not sure whether you’re about to scream or vomit. The sound that escapes your lips is torn from the depths of your soul, as you witness the love of your life crumple in a heap on the rubble. 

Your heart shatters beyond repair. 

Each cracked piece is a kiss, a memory, a dream for your future, now lost forever.

“No!” come the shocked cries of Katie and Leanne. 

“Cormac…” sobs Cho, still holding you up, though her tight grip falters in shock.

“I’ll kill him myself,” says Krum, letting you go and attempting to push past to get to Voldemort.

But it’s Neville who is closest. The jinx holding him breaks and he charges forward unarmed and wandless toward Voldemort who reacts quicker once more and halts him with a body-bind curse.

As one, the Death Eaters raise their wands, holding the fighters of Hogwarts at bay.

“Gryffindor arrogance!” screams Voldemort. “But no more.” Voldemort points his wand to the sky and everyone except you looks up. Your eyes are still fixed on McLaggen’s body on the stone floor as Voldemort’s snake slithers between McLaggen and Potter menacingly. “There will be no more sorting at Hogwarts school. There will be no more houses. The emblem, shield and colours of my noble ancestor, Salazar Slytherin, will suffice for everyone. Won’t they, Neville Longbottom?”

McLaggen is only metres away but your heart thuds in your chest watching the snake slither along the courtyard. Feeling faint again, you remember how you huddled around the kitchen table in the lighthouse listening to reports on Potterwatch about how the snake carries out Voldemort’s bidding. The rumours that Voldemort feeds people he’s killed to the snake. 

The thought is so horrifying, so all-consuming, that you barely notice Voldemort catching the Sorting Hat from mid-air and forcing it onto Neville’s head. 

It’s only when Neville’s scream splits the dawn that you look up and watch in horror as Neville rooted in place, writhes on the spot wearing the burning hat on his head.

And then, so many things happen simultaneously that you feel your head spinning.

There’s uproar from the distant boundary of the school as what sounds like hundreds of people swarm over the out-of-sight walls, yelling at the top of their lungs as they charge towards the courtyard. Residents of Hogsmeade. Parents of students. Joining the fray.

Then come hooves and the twangs of bows. And arrows suddenly land amongst the Death Eaters on Voldemort’s side who break rank and scramble, shouting in surprise as the centaurs continue to attack.

Cormac McLaggen’s death has given everyone a second wind. The fact that it’s what he’d have wanted is of no comfort to you.

In one swift, fluid motion Neville breaks free of the body-bind curse upon him, the hat falls off of him and he draws from its depths something long and silver with a glittering rubied hand. The slash of the silver blade is silent amongst the pandemonium of the crowd and stampeding centaurs yet it draws every eye, including your own. 

With a single stroke, Neville slices off the head of the great snake’s head which spins high into the air. And Voldemort’s mouth is open in a scream of fury that nobody can hear. The snake’s body thuds to the ground.

You panic, as fighting resumes and people run in all directions. You can’t let them trample McLaggen’s. Or Potter’s if you can help it.

“Harry? Where’s Harry?!” bellows Hagrid, above the almighty chaotic racket.

A jet of light whizzes over your heads and you duck. You keep low as you sprint over to McLaggen’s body, determined to move his body away from the fighting. 

McLaggen lies alone. Potter is gone.

You panic some more. This time panicking that Potter’s body has been taken by the Death Eaters to be paraded like some kind of trophy. You won’t let that happen to McLaggen. 

You scramble over to him and hook your arms under his, pulling his dead weight towards a corner of the courtyard. Even though a wand is in your pocket, you don’t even think about pulling it out and joining the fight. You don’t even think about casting a shied charm. All you think about is getting McLaggen’s body out of the way. 

But you needn’t worry. Perhaps everyone is too busy fighting to pay attention to the girl with the burned clothes and the tear-streaked face heaving a corpse into a corner. From your peripheral senses, you can tell even as you drag him away, that the fighting in the courtyard is thinning out as the fighters run into the caste. 

Your resolve hardens. You’ll rejoin them soon, now Cormac’s body is shielded behind what’s left of this wall. You just need a second. 

A second to say goodbye.

You collapse in a pile beside him in the empty courtyard and press the heels of your palms into your eyes, stemming the tears. You can’t bring yourself to look at his face, knowing that the green eyes under his closed lids will never see yours again.

“What a stupid plan,” you choke, wondering aloud as you wipe your eyes. “Thinking we could take on Voldemort. And then you actually tried it…”

You try to steady your breathing, feeling your hot breath stick to your grimy palms as you cover your face. The humidity of your own air makes your stomach twist. It brings back memories of laughing under the duvet cover in Seafarer’s Beacon, face to face with McLaggen, intensely close as your eyes roamed over that trademark arrogant smirk on his face,

“You bloody arrogant git,” you sniff, the words a mix of endearment and despair, a tribute to the man who dared to challenge the darkness with his unyielding self-assurance.

Then, the faintest movement - a murmur so soft it might be mistaken for the wind.

“I’m dead and you’re still calling me a git?” 

Your eyes snap open, heart caught between hope and disbelief. The world tilts, reality warping at the edges as you stare at McLaggen. Solid, unmistakably alive, his presence defies every certainty that death had claimed him. "McLaggen?" Your voice is a tremble, a prayer whispered against the tide of despair that had nearly consumed you.

“So it’s McLaggen again, is it?” he asks blearily, slowly opening his eyes and looking up at you. “I must have done something to annoy you again.”

He’s alive?

Or… maybe you died too? You pinch yourself to see if you can feel pain. Hard. 

You can.

You blink dumbfounded at the cautiously expectant look on McLaggen’s face. He can’t be alive. He just can’t be. You’d never be that lucky. Out of instinct, you pinch him too to check if he’s real.

“Ow!” he winces.

He is alive.

You blink in disbelief as the tiniest smirk crosses his face. “I - how?” 

“Lucky charm,” says Cormac as with difficulty he brings his hand up to the chest pocket of his t-shirt and tries to extract something.

“What the-” You're breathless, caught in the sway between joy and the lingering shadow of sorrow.

“Just - look.” 

Once you’ve helped him take the Polaroid out of his shirt pocket you recognise it immediately. A selfie of you and Cormac in the Quidditch stands at Hogwarts. The one you used to use as a bookmark. A snapshot from what seems like a lifetime ago. Except there’s a burned scar on it now. Right through the middle.

“I think that this -" he touches the photo in your hand, "- took the brunt of the Killing Curse. And somehow, it spared me.”

“Cormac,” you say gently, given that he’s just woken up after being an inch away from death. “That’s not how the Killing Curse works. You can’t be saved by - by love.” 

But even as you say the word love, something prickles on the back of your neck. And to give him credit, he has a point.

“I’m here, aren’t I?” asks McLaggen. His stern look, so assuringly familiar, grounds you, reminding you of the countless times his stubbornness had been a beacon in darker days.

“Maybe it was the picture,” you concede softly, brushing his curly hair, feeling something warm and wet. Blood. “Your head is bleeding -”

Yells of shock and cheers erupt from the Great Hall, interrupting your reasoning.

“Harry?”

“He’s alive!”

The mix of distant exclamations makes you both freeze. 

“It sounds like Potter wasn’t killed by Voldemort’s Killing Curse either…” you say, looking in the direction of the castle doors. When you turn back to face McLaggen he’s frowning. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s fine,” he says, touching the back of his head.

“Cormac, are you annoyed because you’re not the only one who survived the Killing Curse tonight?”

“Let’s go back - the others might need our help,” says McLaggen, ignoring the question. You get to your feet and offer him a hand to get up which he accepts, straining with effort as he does.

“It’s alright if you are,” you offer, helping him onto his feet. "Annoyed, I mean."

“Well, nobody’s going to remember I survived it if Potter is alive too.” McLaggen puts an arm around your shoulder and you brace yourself to support him but he doesn’t need it. He just pulls you close as you walk through the courtyard - if it wasn’t for the devastation it would feel exactly like how the two of you used to walk around Hogwarts. McLaggen with his arm around you, your body slotting into the crux of his arm like you were always meant to be there.

“I don’t want anyone else to try to help,” Harry’s voice rings loudly from the hall as you slowly ascend the castle steps. “It’s got to be like this. It’s got to be me.”

Of course, it’s got to be Potter. 

“Cormac, when they write the history books nobody’s gonna remember anything we did. It’s Potter’s story. We’re just the background characters,” you say.

“Well, I can think of a few people who’ll remember,” says McLaggen, nodding to the rest of the D.A. just visible through the doors of the Great Hall as the crowd of onlookers watch Potter and Voldemort circling each other.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You and your friends sit at what used to be the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall. Neville Longbottom is talking to Michael Corner and Terry Boot while Terry admires the great, ruby-handled sword lying across the middle of the table.

Harry Potter is moving among the groups of survivors, his presence a quiet pillar of strength as he shakes hands and listens to their stories. The hero of the day.

Harry won. You and McLaggen made it back into the Great Hall just to see the final killing blow. You watched Voldemort hit the floor with your own two eyes. And now, you’re at a loose end. Elation feels distant, almost inappropriate, as the absence of Marietta and Eddie haunts the space around you, their unoccupied places at the table a gaping wound. The cost of victory.

“Explain it again,” says McLaggen, pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation. “Slower this time.”

“Cormac, keep still,” you chide, wrapping a bandage around his head.

“Harry sacrificed himself which meant he gave everyone in the castle sacrificial protection,” says Cho, with the appropriate air of speaking to someone with a head injury. “So none of the curses that Voldemort or the Death Eaters cast after that stuck properly. Which is why the Killing Curse didn’t kill you.”

“So how come Harry didn’t die?”

Cho pauses and purses her lips. “I don’t actually know.”

“And how do we know it wasn’t my sacrifice that was protecting everyone in the castle?” says McLaggen who then winces as you tie the bandage.

“Because, darling, you didn’t sacrifice yourself. You just tried to attack Voldemort and got knocked out trying,” you say soothingly.

“That makes it sound much less cool than it was,” grumbles McLaggen, half-joking, half-serious. “And I didn’t even get a sword,” he adds, glancing at Terry who is now miming Neville cutting the head off of a snake with the sword of Gryffindor.

A silence falls as you sit down beside McLaggen, resting your head on his shoulder, seeking comfort in the familiar warmth of his presence, your stomach jolts every time you think about Voldemort cutting him down so casually.

“I noticed none of you were at my deathbed when I came round, by the way,” he says, as if he can’t help himself from breaking the silence.

“Ve vere busy covering the two of you with a shield charm,” says Krum. “Then the Death Eaters turned their attention to us and ve had to retreat.”

“It’s a shame Potter didn’t sacrifice himself just a little bit earlier,” you say, sadly, thinking about Marietta and Carmichael.

“You’re always so harsh on him,” says Katie, looking over your shoulder. “Harry’s actually not bad once you get to know him.”

As you turn to respond, Potter approaches the Gryffindor table and greets the D.A. McLaggen stands to meet him.

“Good work out there, Potter,” he says bracingly. “You make putting your life on the line look easy, mate.”

“Er, thanks,” says Potter uncertainly. He looks even more tired than you feel. There are dark circles under his eyes and even though he’s not covered in as much soot, blood and debris as you and McLaggen, he looks pale and drawn. “You too, McLaggen. I saw what you did. It was really decent of you, standing up for Muggleborns like that when you could have kept quiet.”

“Well,” says McLaggen casually, taking your hand and bringing you to your feet. “There was a lot at stake.” You slip your arm around his waist and give him a little squeeze.

“And you - you were the one causing the Ministry so much grief back in October, right? You broke the Muggleborns out of Azkaban?”

You nod and gesture to the area of the table where Cho, Krum, Katie, Leanne, Davies, Wood, Angelina and Alicia are all engrossed in conversation. “We all did. Everyone who was half-decent on a broom.” You pull a tight-lipped smile thinking about what Katie said about you being harsh on Potter. “Except you, of course. Could have used your skills if you weren’t the Ministry’s most wanted.”

Potter smiles weakly. “Thanks, I appreciate that coming from you… Captain.”

McLaggen brings you tighter into a one-armed hug around your shoulders as Potter walks away.

“Do you think he called me ‘Captain’ because he can’t remember my name?” you ask as you both watch Potter continuing the rounds..

“Oh, one hundred per cent,” says McLaggen.

“Unbelievable. I’ve only played Quidditch against him every single year since he started school.”

“Maybe you need a better name.”

“Oh, really?” You roll your eyes and turn to face him, waiting for the punchline. “Go on, then. You got a nickname for me or something?”

McLaggen smirks and his self-satisfied smile meets his green eyes. “I meant a new surname.”

Oh.

“McLaggen, I -“

“You might have to start calling me Cormac all the time now, though. It’s gonna get pretty confusing otherwise.”

You take a deep breath and McLaggen falters slightly when you reach up and hold the sides of his face with both hands. His prickly stubble tickles your palms.

“McLaggen, I really think we need to find Madam Pomfrey.”

“What?” 

“Have you or have you not sustained a head injury?”

McLaggen looks at you intently, his green eyes focusing on yours. “I’m serious.”

“I am too,” you say. “You sure you haven’t been confunded again?”

“I’m pretty confident that’s not the case,” he says. 

“Ask me again once you’ve had your head checked out,” you murmur before pressing your lips against his. Even under the smoke and sweat, you can still smell the heady amber and jasmine scent of him that so reminds you of your first Potions lesson together.

“Alright, I will,” says Cormac McLaggen when you eventually break apart. “If it’d make you happy.”

Like moonstone being dropped into a cauldron, the idea of it - the sheer hope - glints and sparkles amidst the worst sorrow you've ever experienced.

"It would," you say.

It would make you deliriously happy.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tag list: @countlambula, @ratsys, @aweidlich, @navs-bhat, @stainedpomegranatelips, @chiaraanatra, @xxvelvetxxxx, @ohnoitsrosie, @dracosisteer, @daisydark, @intense-sneezing, @lipstickandloveletters, @ichorai, @marmie-noir, @lolitstiana, @evabellasworld, @ivebeentrashsince2001, @xyzstar (let me know if you want removed at any point btw!)

[donteattheappleshook]

Not Broken At All Chapter 17/?

Summary:

A season 1 Neverland AU. Emma is still trying to adjust to her new life as Sheriff of Storybrooke and mom to Henry, who still believes everyone in town is a fairytale creature. When she finds a badly beaten, one handed man while patrolling, she’s convinced he’s crazy. He is, after all, rambling about fairies and shadows and crocodiles. But when Henry is suddenly taken out the window of a house everyone believes is haunted, the madman in the hospital might be her only hope of getting her son back. Whether he likes it or not.

Rated E

Catch up on Ao3 (where my italics work) or on Tumblr 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16

Thank you thank you thank you @the-darkdragonfly for helping me so much with this chapter I literally wrote at your kitchen table lol.

This one is a bit shorter because I had to move the last scene to the next chapter or it would have been like 10k long…. but hopefully that means chapter 18 is coming soon!

(at least you didn't have to wait a year for chapter 17?)

*******

Part 17

Emma follows Killian’s eyes as they dart towards the ceiling, the deck above their heads. It’s dark out, but not the dark of night, the dark of an oncoming storm, that ominous, looming chill of electricity in the air, the waves lapping against the sides of the ship that rocks unsteadily against the threatening sea. A shiver runs down her spine. Whether Pan’s here or not - he’s fucking furious. 

There’s a knock on the door, Wendy not waiting for permission before pushing it open. “Is he here?” Killian asks, voice low. 

She shakes her head, holding a small, empty vial. “Not yet. But Ianeira sent a warning - he’s on his way and he’s not happy.” She looks out at the first heavy drops that land against the window like bullets. “Obviously.” 

“Get the boys below deck,” he orders, still not raising his voice above the rumble of the storm outside. “Scarlet,” he adds, the younger pirate leaning against the doorframe, “go wake the crew. Tell them to be ready for a fight.” 

“What are you going to do?” Wendy frowns like she already knows the answer. 

“Handle Pan.” 

“Absolutely not.” Emma answers at the same time as Wendy’s “like hell” rings through the air. “This was my idea. I’ll go deal with the consequences,” she insists, but her words are ignored as the two captains continue to argue. Will shoots her a sympathetic shrug from his place in the doorway. 

“We don’t have time to argue,” Killian finally snaps at his second, standing and grabbing Emma’s pants from where she hung them last night before tossing them to her. “Pan and his Lost Boys will be here any minute and we need to make sure the boys are hidden and the crew is ready to defend the Jolly.” 

“Is that an order, Captain?” Wendy asks, arms crossing over her chest and Killian stiffens. Emma didn’t miss the weight put behind the question.

“Cap-” he starts but she cuts him off.

“No. No more of this ‘I’m not the captain’ or two captains bullshit. If you’re going to pull rank and make me follow orders then you don’t get to decide you don’t want to be in charge anymore tomorrow. If this crew is going to put our lives on the line for your plan, and trust you to handle Pan, then you’re going to be the one to make the order. And if you die today -” Her harsh facade breaks just a fraction - “It won’t be because of something I could have stopped.” 

The room is silent as the two stare each other down, the rush and howls of the storm growing louder outside, growing closer as they remain locked in the standoff, Wendy’s ultimatum hanging between them. “Well?” she demands. 

He’s silent for another moment, but then he lets out a sigh. “Bring the boys below deck, make sure they don’t make a sound or Pan will remember that they’re here.” Another hesitation as neither she or Will move and his thumb runs over the ring on his finger. “That’s an order.” 

Wendy’s shoulders both straighten and sag at once as she shifts into her new role, her face blank, betraying nothing, but Emma knows. She can see the hurt and the fear, of his betrayal and of the danger he’s putting himself in as she nods. “Aye, Captain.” 

Killian flinches away from the title just the barest amount before she heads out of the room. 

“What are you gonna tell him?” Will glares at his usurping captain. 

Killian sighs. “I haven’t figured that part out yet.” He reaches for his shirt, pulling it on over his head and turning to find the man still there. “Go wake the crew,” he orders again and Will stares at him for a long moment before doing as he’s told. 

Emma watches him as he dresses, yanking her own pants on and rising from the bed, the buttons of his vest fastened methodically, one by one with practiced fingers before he dons his greatcoat. She realizes what she’s watching as he slides his sword into its sheath, secures it to his hip: a soldier dressing for battle, each piece of his armour clad carefully down to the expression he smooths over his face, the one that hides the man who’d let her in his bed and held her against the threat of the night behind a cold, heartless facade.

“Killian,” she starts, ready to fight him on this. Rescuing the boys was her decision. She’d made them do it. This should be her responsibility. Nobody else's lives should be on the line for her choices. A boom of thunder cuts her off before a flash of lightning brightens the room.

“He’s here,” Wendy tells them, stepping back into the room. Killian doesn’t confirm if his orders have been followed - he doesn’t need to. 

“Let me go,” Emma insists. “I can tell him it was my idea. I can -” 

“No.” They answer in unison and before she can protest a boom of thunder echoes above them and an angry, lilting voice calls out above them. 

“Thieves! Show yourselves!” The demand is followed by a roar of approval, small, young voices calling out in a battle cry she’s heard before. The room goes silent, tension in every line of her body and Killian’s. Wendy looks to her captain, waiting for orders, hands fisted like she’s trying not to barge up there herself. 

Emma sees the barest flash of fear in his gaze before he schools it and turns to her, leveling her with a hard, commanding look. 

“Go to the hold with the children. Promise me you’ll stay down there - that you won’t make a sound.” Emma glares at him, his face only inches away as he speaks so quietly she can barely hear him. He glares back just as defiantly. “Promise me, Swan.” She doesn’t answer. She’s not promising that. Not when it’s her fault Pan’s here and he could hurt them. “They need you. They trust you and they need to stay hidden. If Pan’s reminded they’re here… he might demand their lives in place of the dead we took.” 

Her glare deepens. “I know what you’re doing.” 

The corner of his mouth turns up just a fraction before he straightens it. “Then you should have no problem following through with it.” When her shoulders straighten his hand comes to her cheek. “We can’t risk Pan finding out about you - not while we don’t have a way of defeating him or saving Henry. You can’t protect anyone if you’re dead,” he adds, using her words against her now and her eyes narrow. “You can’t protect Henry if you’re dead.” That one hits hard and Emma knows he’s right - but she still doesn’t like it. She doesn’t want him dead either. 

Pan’s warning rings out again, harsher this time - ‘Come out and face me, coward!’ - and Killian’s shoulders tense. “Fine,” she concedes. “But if things go bad -”

“You’ll stay right here.” It’s a warning, and she almost wants to call him on it, to see what he really thinks he can do to her that’s worse than the situation they’re already in, but she bites her tongue. He takes her silence as the end of the discussion. “Darling,” he calls over his shoulder. “Bring her to the hold and then join me on deck - Darling,” he tries again when she doesn’t respond, but Wendy’s attention is focused outside the cabin, staring out down the hall, a frown starting to pull at her brow and Killian’s matches it. “Wendy?”

“Where’s Will?” 

“What?” 

“Will.” Her voice is low, far away but rising with tightly restrained panic. “He should be back by now. Where’s the crew?” 

As if on cue, a voice rings out loudly above them. “Pan! Two visits in as many days? To what do we owe the honour?” They rush to the stairs, crouched low looking out at where Will stands, alone, facing off against Pan. Fuck. Please don’t be an idiot. She can feel Wendy tense beside her and Killian reaches, grabbing his first mate’s arm. 

“Don’t,” he warns and Emma’s surprised to see her try to yank her arm free. But he holds firm. 

“Scarlet.” Pan sounds annoyed but intrigued nevertheless. “It’s been a long time.” He cocks his head, a small smirk on his childlike face. “You got old.”  

 “Go get the crew,” Killian orders, staring her down and not releasing her until the fight fades slightly from her eyes. He knows how much this must be killing her. “If there’s going to be a fight, we won’t be able to stop him alone. Bring them with you and meet me on deck.” 

Will baulks. “How dare you! I’ll have you know I’ve the complexion of a man less than half my age.” He brushes a hand over his scruffless cheek as if to prove it.

There’s still resistance in Wendy’s stance but she nods, dashing off towards the crew’s quarters. Killian turns to her. “Stay here. Don’t let the children leave the hull.” She can only nod, still watching as her new friend continues to bait Pan. “Bloody idiot,” Killian mutters under his breath.

Emma grabs his arm, halting him. She waits until his questioning gaze turns to her. “Be careful. Please.”

He watches her for a moment, eyes darting up to the deck, and then takes her hand, presses a kiss to the back of it and nods the voices above growing louder. He spares her one last glance before dashing up the stairs.

“Hook,” Pan says as soon as he reaches the bow of the ship. “There you are. I don’t like to be kept waiting.” 

“Apologies,” Killian offers with a small bow and a polite smile. “To what do we owe the pleasure?” 

“Where are my shadows?” 

“Your shadows? We don’t have any shadows here.” 

“Don’t lie,” Pan snaps and Emma flinches. “You stole eleven lost boys from me. Those were my lives - I won them fair and square. Give them back.” Emma half expects him to stomp his foot, but it’s then that she realizes that he can’t - because he’s not on the deck. He’s flying, or hovering a few feet above it. Wendy had said that Neverland’s magic couldn’t touch the Jolly - does that mean Pan can’t either? Can he not set foot onboard?

“They’re at the bottom of the sea, I’m afraid,” Killian tells him with a wince and she can see the rage building in the small boy.  

“Then I’ll take them from your crew. Eleven of them in exchange for the ones that you took.” Emma casts a glance back down the hall towards the hold where a dozen children hide. 

“No need for that,” Killian begins. “They aren’t to blame for this little misunderstanding. I’m sure we can find a solution where you get what you want that’s fair.” Pan hesitates at the word fair. He loves his games - he loves his rules. 

“Then who is to blame?” he demands. “Bring the thief forward so that he can be punished.”

“Unfortunately we-”

“I did it.” 

“Scarlet,” Wendy hisses in warning, but he’s already taking another step towards Pan. 

“It was my idea.” 

Pan glares. “Why?” 

There’s a pause and then Will smirks. “I just wanted to piss you off. For old time’s sake.” 

The boy’s anger shifts into something cruel and amused. “Well then, you can pay the price for old times sake. You remember how much fun my punishments can be,” he adds. She sees Will’s back go stiff right before Pan’s hand plunges deep into his chest and Emma has to cover her mouth with her hands to catch the scream that tries to escape. The crew stills, petrified. This isn’t the first time they’ve seen this happen.

“Wait!” Wendy shouts as Will lets out a groan of pain. Killian grabs her arm, silencing her and holding her in place. Pan ignores her, pulling his hand free, something bright and red and glowing held in his palm. That can’t be what she thinks it is. 

“Eleven lives,” he muses again, floating easily across the deck, thinking. He gives the thing a small squeeze and Will cries out falling to his knees. Pan smirks, he’s enjoying this, she can tell; he already knows what he wants to do and Emma’s nails dig into her palms, every bone in her body demanding she go up there and not let this happen. It should be her that pays the price. Not Will. 

His fingers tighten around it again and Will stops breathing, hand clutched to his chest where his heart should be until finally, Pan loosens his grip, looking at Will with his head cocked again. “You really did get old, Scarlet. But maybe not old enough…” He looks him over carefully, then the mass in his hand. “Eleven Lost Boy’s lives… so many years - But I think we can make it an even hundred. For old times sake?” he smirks. “That sounds fair,” he decides. “You can pay me back a hundred years.” 

When he squeezes the heart again, Will collapses onto the deck, bits of dust slipping from Pan’s fingers as the light flickers in and out and Emma can see Killian physically holding Wendy back now, knuckles white around the leather of her coat. Nobody breathes. The crew look like it’s taking everything they have not to run - either to Will or away from Pan. Instead they stand frozen. 

She counts the seconds as they go by. One. Two. Three. Four. Five… Will rasps out a strangled cry, fists balling against the wood planks of the deck. Six. Seven. Eight… She watches him grit his teeth, sweat beading along the back of his neck, fighting. Nine. Ten. Eleven…

When she reaches eleven, Will takes his first breath in what feels like hours, the light in Pan’s loosened grip smaller and dimmer but still glowing, still beating. 

“That should do it,” he smiles, returning Will’s heart to his chest.

Will gasps, settling his hand over it as if to feel the beat under it - make sure it’s really there. Then he frowns up at the boy. “Is… is that it?” 

“Scarlet.” It’s Killian who snaps this time. “Below deck. Now.” Emma can’t see the look Wendy gives him when Will defers to her, but it sends him to his feet and across the deck in a second, head bent low. 

“Emma,” he greets with all his usual bravado despite the raspiness of his breath when he finds her on the stairs. “Fancy seeing you here.” 

She punches him in the arm. Hard.  “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Ow!” 

“That was so stupid! What the hell were you thinking?” 

Will shrugs. “I owed him one. And I’m not going to let Killian get one up on the galant gestures.” 

“Hook.” Pan says, drawing her attention away before she can hit Will again. “If your crew isn’t going to play fair then they won’t get to play with us anymore”

“I’ll get them in line,” he promises and she can hear the edge in his voice. 

“Good. Do you need a reminder of the rules? You were away for a long time…”

“I remember.” 

Pan nods, happy now - a child getting his way. “Good. Then the game can continue.” He turns, hovering over the railing of the ship and casting them one last glance as the threat of a storm begins to clear. “But no more chances,” he warns. Both Killian and Wendy nod solemnly before he flies off towards the beach. 

As soon as he’s gone, Wendy practically runs towards the cabin. “All of you,” Killian commands, drawing the crew’s attention away from their former captain. “Back to work. Now,” he snaps when they don’t obey immediately. They scatter, finding work to keep them busy. 

Emma has to jump out of the way as the other woman barrels down the stairs, grabbing Will by the shoulders. She turns him one way and then another, hands coming to his face as she does the same to his head, checking for injuries. Finally, her hand settles on his chest and Emma can tell she’s counting heartbeats. Will lets her, not resisting as she checks him for any sign of permanent damage. 

When she seems satisfied, she raises furious eyes to his, the hand at his chest fisting in his shirt and shoving him away from her. “Fuck you, Scarlet,” she bites out before storming off down the hall. 

Killian takes over, grabbing him by the collar of his shirt. Will is less willing to let himself be manhandled by him though, shoving at his arm even as he holds firm. “Do you not know how to follow an order, mate?” 

“I’m not your mate,” he snaps back, more annoyed than angry. “And you’re not my Captain.” 

“And here I thought we were getting along,” Killian answers sarcastically. “And you don’t have to like it, but I am your Captain and if you do that to her again -”

“Like you did when you took off to find Henry?” 

“That was different. I did it to spare her the pain of losing someone she cares for.” 

“So did I. Do you really think Pan would have been so forgiving if you’d taken the blame? You’ve been gone a long time, Hook. You’re not his favourite playmate anymore.” 

“And you are?”

“I’m still alive aren’t I?” 

Killian scoffs. “You’ve lasted a decade. Speak to me when you survive a century.” 

“Well if we keep her alive we won’t have to,” Will snarks, nodding at Emma. 

“Me?”

“I wouldn’t have stuck my neck out for you if I didn’t think you were actually going to change things.” Emma doesn’t have an answer to that, the weight of his faith in her more than she can handle right now. “Don’t make me regret it, aye?” he winces, rubbing at his chest.

“What did he do to you?”

He gives a small shrug. “Crushed my heart. Wasn’t so bad, really - I’ve had worse.” 

“What?” 

“It’s a particular favourite of his,” Killian explains. 

“I’ve seen him do it to disobedient Lost Boys for hours - days once. He’s done it longer to me when I was his second. I’m surprised it was only…”

“Eleven seconds,” Emma supplies. The longest eleven seconds she can remember.

“Aye - I thought he’d be angrier.” 

“What did he mean by you paying him back a hundred years?” 

Will shrugs again. “Pan loves his riddles. I’m sure we’ll find out soon enough. I need to go find Wendy.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Killian warns and it almost sounds like a threat. 

Will scoffs, finally shoving his hand away. “Please. I’ve done stupider things than egg Pan on.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” Killian rolls his eyes and Will glares at him before smirking.

“I’ve become very good at getting her to forgive me.” 

Emma wonders for a moment if she’s going to have to prevent a murder. “Get out of here before I get Pan to come back and crush your heart for good.” 

“What? I thought we were mates -”

“Go,” Emma tells him. Before Killian follows through on that promise. Thankfully, Will isn’t stupid enough to push him any further and does as he’s told. She puts a hand on Killian’s arm. “Just remember that he almost died today. Cut him a bit of slack.” He doesn’t seem convinced, continuing to glare after the younger man. “And he might have saved our lives. He definitely saved mine.” 

Killian scoffs, finally looking at her. “And he’ll never let us forget it.”

“So what’s next?” she asks, trying to distract him from his sort of daughter and her sort of boyfriend’s sort of love life. 

“Hmm?”

“We’ve got the lorelei, we’ve got Tinkerbell, we’ve got a ship full of Lost Boys and pirates, we kept him from getting any more shadows… what do we do now?”

“We figure out what Pan’s plan is.”

“Can we not just… kill him?” she knows they can’t - probably - but she’s pretty sure the idea hasn’t been thrown out there yet so it’s worth a shot. 

Killian shakes his head like she expected him to. “If we could, I’d have done it by now. I did once, when I first returned to Neverland after decades away. I ran him through with my sword trying to avenge my brother.” Her hand on his arm tightens without her meaning it to. “He pretended, made a whole show and lay there until I was sure he was dead - and then he started to laugh. Just another game - the first one I played with him even if I didn’t know it. He told me it was the only time he would let me win.”

“We’ll find a way.” 

He smiles at her, small and half-hearted but she believes him. “I’m sure you will.”

***

“Why do we have to do this?” one of the boys - Kyle, she thinks - complains, dropping the wooden sword to his side. It had been so strange and jarring to learn some of the Lost Boys names over the last few days. “ We have nothing to do but wait ,” Killian had said. “Tink has let the Constant know that we’re ready to meet with them and they’ll send word when they’ve decided if they’ll hear us out .” For some reason, the boys had all been like Wendy in her mind, born ‘ somewhere around the 1880s, I think, ’ or Will, who’d come to Neverland during the Blitz, using dreams to escape the nightmares of real life. But this new group of boys weren’t characters out of a book or an old black and white photo. 

“My mom named me after the guy in some robot movie that had just come out,” Kyle mentioned and it was a moment before it clicked. “The Terminator?!” He’d only shrugged. “That might’ve been it.” This boy was her age. He couldn’t have been born more than a couple of years after she was. Another boy’s tattered shirt had a faded image of Lilo and Stitch on it - he didn’t look more than twelve. These boys were just… kids. Regular kids like the ones she grew up with and the ones who lived in Storybrooke or Boston - boys like Henry. And now they were soldiers. 

“We have to do this,” Wendy answers, giving his fake sword a tap with her own so his arm straightens, “because everyone on this ship needs to be ready to defend her when the next raid happens - If you want to live until the next one.” 

“But we already know how to fight,” he whines. “We defeated you every time.” If Wendy’s upset at the casual mention of her crewmates being slaughtered, she doesn’t let it show. “I already know how to sword fight.” 

“Do you now?” Killian calls from the helm before she can answer. 

“Captain…” his first mate starts but he ignores her. He’s an imposing figure, clad in black leather with the metal of his hook gleaming in the sun and the weight of his sword heavy at his hip. As his footsteps echo across the deck as he makes his way over to where the boys had begun their training they all go silent. 

“Now now, Mr. Darling, if the boy thinks he’s beyond our instruction he should have the chance to prove himself.” He stops in front of the new recruit, drawing his sword in a slow, measured movement, the tip an inch from the kid’s nose and Emma panics for just a second that he might cut him down right there. But then he turns to Wendy, “Bosun, get this boy a real blade,” and she realizes he’s had exactly the effect he intended as everyone around him tenses. 

Wendy goes to fetch a weapon, shooting him the kind of eyeroll kids learn to make in front of adults without getting caught - one she knows very well.

“Think you can defeat me, boy?”

To his credit, Kyle straightens his shoulders, taking the offered sword and raising it to the Captain’s, ready for a fight. She thinks she might see the tiniest bit of approval beneath the scorn in Killian’s expression. The boy moves first, swinging at him with all his might as he deflects again and again. Killian’s toying with him - she knows he is. She saw Killian fight Will that first night on the Jolly. His blocks are too slow, letting the kid get within inches of hitting him. He doesn’t make a single attack, his feet unmoving and she’d think it was cruel if she didn’t understand why he was doing it. 

Finally, when the boy starts to sweat, she sees Killian shift, adjusting his stance as he swings at his opponent. The block comes almost too late, only stopped by the way Killian pulls back at the last moment. He does it again, and again, backing the boy across the deck with blow after blow. There’s no flourish to it, no showmanship, just skill and finesse and strength and speed.

The kid starts to panic, the attacks coming too fast and Emma holds back a gasp when Killian’s blade slices across Kyle’s forearm. After that, it’s easy for Killian to twist his blade out of the kid’s shocked hand with his own, his elbow coming up to knock the boy flat on his ass. By the time he looks up, nose bloody, eyes dazed and watery, Killian’s sword is pointed at his chest, his brow arched in a harsh challenge. 

“Please don’t kill me,” the boy says so quietly and so heartbreakingly that she thinks she sees Killian’s face soften just the barest amount before he takes a step back, dropping his sword. 

“Listen, all of you,” he booms, though every eye on the deck is already on him. “You’ve never defeated anyone. Until now you’ve been playing a game and the game has been rigged. And I’m sorry to say, you’re now on the losing team. The only thing that matters from this moment on is staying alive. And the only way to stay alive is being a skilled enough fighter - and knowing how to hold that skill back enough - that Pan will want to fight you again.”

 He lets this hang in the air for a moment, the boys’ faces showing different degrees of confusion and understanding and horror. “So all of you will follow Mr. Darling’s instructions and learn everything you can from him. You’ll fight to defend this ship, yourselves, and each other when the time comes because you’re part of my crew now.” He reaches a hook out to Kyle who sits cradling his nose and heaves the boy to his feet. “And we look after our own.” 

Killian looks at the boy who nods, message received loud and clear, before clapping him on the shoulder. “Scarlet, see that our newest crew member’s wounds are tended to. He put up quite the fight.” 

“Aye, Captain,” Will complies without argument or sarcasm and Killian must be as shocked as she is because he keeps his mouth shut. 

“Darling must have said something to him,” he tells her when Emma joins him, his sword sliding carefully back into its sheath as he watches Wendy continue her lesson. 

“Or maybe you just did.” Killian only looks at her, brow raised in disbelief before she gestures at the sword hanging at his belt. “So, come on, are you going to show me how to use this thing or not?”

His face splits into a shit-eating grin. “Ah, Swan, I’ve dreamed of the day that you’d ask me to show you how to handle my sword.”

***

“Do you want the good news or the bad news first?” Tinkerbell asks. She’d floated onto the ship that night, looking stronger than when Emma had last seen her - the few days with the Constant clearly having done her good. Her wings looked taller, fully unfurled, the crepe paper like skin no longer breakable and frail as they flutter behind her. 

“Is there good news?” Killian sighs, standing from his desk where he’d been looking over maps of the island while Emma asked him questions about them, how each was different based on when it was drawn, what Pan had changed, who he had brought. He seemed unbothered by the fairy magicking his window open and letting herself in. 

“They’ve agreed to meet with you. They haven’t agreed to help,” she clarifies when Killian looks surprised, “but they’ve agreed to hear you out.”

“And the bad news?” 

“They’ll only meet us in Echo Caves.”

Killian lets out a heavy, long suffering sigh, thumb brushing the inner corner of his brow, words dripping with sarcasm. “Wonderful. Did they happen to give a reason why?” 

“Something about making sure you can be trusted - some incident at skull rock?”

“It was a misunderstanding,” he mutters under his breath. 

“Really because the way I heard it -” 

“It’s fine. Tell them we agree to their terms. When do they expect us?”

“First light.” 

Killian nods. “We’ll be there. And Tink,” he adds when she turns to leave. “Thank you.” 

She sneers. “I’m not doing it for you.” And then she’s gone before he can say another word. 

“What’s Echo Caves?” Emma pulls her knees up to her chest where she’s perched on the desk after she’s sure the fairy’s out of earshot and Killian’s sagged back in his seat. 

“Another one of Neverland’s little delights,” he sighs again. “The magic of the cave compels you to share your deepest secret - whether or not you’re even aware of it.” 

“Have you gone before?” she asks. 

“Once.” His hand drifts up without her really noticing, fingers curling around her calf, thumb tracing over her shin and she thinks maybe it wasn’t a pleasant experience. “Pan wanted to test my loyalty.” She rests her chin on her knee, dreading what he may have had to confess to Pan to keep himself alive on this horrible island. He smiles up at her then, a put-on apathy. “Thankfully, I had many terrible deeds in my past to confess to.” He doesn’t give her a chance to say anything before he releases her and stands again - something dropped between them and something else put up. 

“Are you afraid?” 

Killian doesn’t look at her. “Always.” Her heart tightens. She understands - she’d only been here a few weeks and she’s been terrified every moment - apart from her brief experiment with fairy wine - centuries… she can’t imagine. “But not of the Constant. Tiger Lily may hold a grudge but they’ll do whatever’s best for this island, and so will their people. And I’ve no ill-intent towards them or love for Pan.” He looks at her then, pausing. “Are you?”

“Of having to spill my deepest secret to a bunch of strangers? No, why would I possibly be stressed about that?” she smirks half-heartedly. 

“Strangers?” Killian raises a brow, sliding back across the room and resting his hand and hook on the desk on either side of her. “You hurt me, Swan. I thought we were friends - acquaintances at least.” 

She shoves at his chest rolling her eyes and he smirks. “Usually a guy has to buy me dinner before he gets to hear the all sordid details of my past.” Or coffee in an empty theme park where a pretty smile and a well-placed sneak into his past makes her think she’s safe to reveal herself, to trust someone with all of it.

“Hey,” his thumb brushes over her knee as he tries to catch her gaze. “Where’d you go?”

Not anywhere he needs to know about - or anywhere she’d care to revisit. So she smiles at him, lets her foot brush against the side of his calf, teasing, distracting. “Just trying to figure out which of my deepest secrets are gonna come spilling out of me tomorrow.” He doesn’t believe her, his lie detector almost as good as her own, she's realized, but he doesn’t say anything about it. 

“Well you are a mystery, Swan,” he tells her with a half-hearted smirk. 

“Not for much longer, apparently.” 

Something shifts in the way he’s looking at her, sympathy or understanding as he cocks his head. “You know you don’t have to come if -” 

“I’m going.” 

Killian huffs a laugh. “Of course you are. Well if there’s anything you want to get off your chest without an audience, now’s the time.” His eyebrow quirks up in challenge. “Won’t be a secret anymore if you tell me.” She meets it. 

“What? Is one revelation about me not enough for you?”

Something shifts again, something heavier, her skin warm and humming with fear and anticipation as he looks at her the way he had when he’d been curled around her on the floor of the brig. His voice is lower when he speaks. “Perhaps I’d just like to know you, Swan.” 

She casts her eyes to the floor, his gaze too intense - always too intense - before setting the smirk that had fallen from her lips back in place. “You first.” 

“I’m an open book, love. Ask me anything you like.”

She has one question, one that’s been itching at the back of her mind since she’d seen the canvas of scars etched across his skin. “Who were you? Before you were here - before you were ‘Captain Hook’?”

His bravado falters for a moment. “I was many things. Son, brother, slave, sailor, lieutenant, captain, pirate, partner… None for very long.” He gives her another of those showy smirks. “It seems Hook is the only one that stuck.” Her heart breaks a little, so many loves lost and so many injustices done in such a short life. She thinks of the scars that had criss-crossed his back, that she’d asked about so casually then - slave he’d said - and she wishes she could do it over, pay both them and him the reverence they deserve. “What about you?” 

“What about me?”

His hand slides to her wrist, to the laces she’d tied there the first day she’d come back to the sheriff’s office alone. All of his things had been gone. Desk cleared out, jacket taken from the back of his chair, the few things he bothered to keep - a tacky ceramic wolf, a photo of him and some friends she never bothered to ask him about, even the bottle of whiskey he kept in his top drawer - had been ransacked. He had no family that she knew of - no family that could be found at all - and she’d just known that it was Regina. She’d come in and wiped every trace of Graham clean like he never existed - apart from a single pair of boots forgotten by the back door. 

“They belonged to someone I used to know.” 

“Someone you cared for?” 

“It doesn’t matter,” she shrugs. “He’s gone now.” 

“It mattered enough for you to keep a piece of him with you.” He fingers the laces again, focusing on them, not making her meet his eyes again. “I know what it is to lose the people that matter most.” 

Emma pulls her hand back, sliding them both behind her under the guise of leaning back on the desk and gives another dismissive shrug even as she can’t make herself look at him. “Yeah, well, when you grow up like I did you learn pretty quickly not to get attached.”

Thankfully, Killian knows how to take a hint, straightening and flashing her an off  grin. “If only we all possessed such a skill, Swan.” Then, pushing away from the desk,  “I best let the others know what awaits us all  tomorrow.” 

Emma swallows, this island has already taken so much from her - her son, her name, her memories - almost - her whole belief system… How much more can it really take? She doesn’t ask - not anymore as she slides into Killian’s bed instead of her own, and he doesn’t say anything as he joins her a few minutes later, just pulls her against him, breath warm and comforting against her cheek as they try to shut themselves off from the cries that ring out on the deck above them. 

*******

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[kayawolfhorse]

Everything You Thought You Knew | Read on Ao3

—☾—

The moon’s big.

Really big, in fact. Its edges encompass and stretch beyond what’s possible to carve out of the observatory’s dome roof without cutting into the wall that supports it, and while being crushed by a ginormous moon isn’t Grian’s choice of death, he might prefer being buried in rubble even less.

Well, that’s not quite true. If it were only the observatory to collapse, the rest of the world would go on as usual, and Grian would respawn and laugh over a silly death with the silly friends that he calls his family. Just about anything is preferable to death by the big moon, anyway.

By Grian’s unscientific calculations—and unscientific they are, if one wants scientific they ought to approach Cub—the moon is going to crash into and destroy the server in its entirety tomorrow night. That puts just about twenty four hours on a particularly gruesome clock hanging over their heads. Grian doesn’t wear a watch, but Impulse, he knows, does. Grian wonders if Impulse feels their impending doom with every tick against the pulse of his wrist.

There’s no reason for Grian to linger; the observatory’s usefulness outlived. The etches on the ceiling have no new information to give him, and it’s been a long time since he’s needed the telescope to make out details upon the moon’s surface.

Taking flight, Grian beats his wings and tries to feel some semblance of control over the floaty feeling that grabs hold of him in the current bout of gravity-weirdness. And the sound. Grian’s half-tempted to plug his ears against it. The terrible groan and crash of the earth tearing itself apart holds a sort of building crescendo to it; this is far from the worst it can get.

Even so close to the end of the world, even as blocks of the natural terrain are lifted upwards and dropped back into place beneath the ever-looming moon, Boatem is beautiful, and Grian can’t help but admire it as a wave of affection washes over him. An entire rainbow of build styles and personal touches create a vibrant conglomerate full of life and love, its chaos harmonious in its own way. He’s proud of what he’s made this season, what they’ve all made.

Down below, in front of her starter boat, Grian spots Pearl, swerving to avoid a levitating block while balancing a stack of shulker boxes in her arms, only her fluffy antennae visible above them. Swooping down, Grian lands in front of her and jumps up to relieve her of two of her boxes.

Peeking around a grey shulker, Pearl smiles when she catches sight of him. “Oh, hey, Grian!”

“Hi, Pearl,” Grian greets back, and is surprised to find his voice so tight. “Moon’s big.”

“Really? Hadn’t noticed.” Pearl’s banterous sarcasm doesn’t often fail to lift Grian’s mood, an opportunity to trade a quip of his own and laugh together as their conversation grows more ridiculous, but it does now, and Pearl notices, her smile tipping downwards as she places the boxes at her feet.

Pearl isn’t one to prompt, not like how Scar and Mumbo tend to when someone’s upset. She stands and she waits, and it doesn’t take long for Grian to say, “The world’s ending tomorrow.”

“I know.” She does, everyone does. The entire server can feel the tension breathing down their necks.

“I don’t know if there will be any survivors.” This isn’t like jumping into the Boatem hole or flying into a wall too hard or dueling with a friend. The server protects the hermits; softens the pain of dying and negates the permanence of it. If the server itself is what’s being killed? Grian doesn’t know.

“There will be. We’ll find a way.” Pearl’s looking at him, her expression determined, but the fear that squeezes Grian’s chest is reflected in her ocean-blue eyes.

“How can you promise that, Pearl?” Grian thinks he might sound like he’s pleading, but his voice is tinny within his own ears. “I’m sorry, this isn’t how it was meant to go, this is your first season and it’s ending like this—”

Grian’s head is eased into Pearl’s shoulder, and arms wrap around his middle. Her starry pajama shirt is soft against his face as he presses into it, soaking up as much of Pearl’s solid warmth as he can.

“I’m going to call a meeting,” Pearl says from above him.

“In the Boatem hole?” Grian asks. He’s not sure they have the time to set up another meeting room, nor if it matters at all.

Pearl pauses. “…No. In my base. My mega one. I just finished the interior. It’s very cozy, you know.”

The arms around Grian tense slightly as Pearl types into her communicator, messaging the other three members of their little group. Grian knows the message has been received when the communicator vibrates thrice against his back, assumedly from confirmations of assent.

Pearl hums and holds Grian a bit closer, and Grian squeezes back with all he has.

—☾—

The interior is cozy. Despite the white walls and high ceilings, Pearl’s added enough warmly colored carpets, potted plants, and wooden accents that the inside of her lighthouse palace feels wonderfully welcoming. Grian could definitely stand to live here forever.

Not that forever is a term he can longer afford in this doomed world.

Soft murmuring floats from the room beyond the entryway, and Pearl and Grian step into it to find Scar, Impulse, and Mumbo settled on the large, curved living room couch, talking quietly amongst themselves. Boatem is a lot of things, but quiet isn’t one of them. The moon doesn’t weigh on Grian’s mind alone.

“Hey, gang.” Grian raises a hand in a wave as three heads turn towards him and Pearl.

Impulse grins, but it’s strained around the edges. “Hey, guys! Great to see you.” Grian saw Impulse last about three hours ago. Still, he agrees—it is nice to see them. The knot of anxiety in his chest loosens ever so slightly.

Once Grian and Pearl have settled onto the couch with the rest of them, Pearl hugging her knees between Impulse and Mumbo and Grian leaning on Scar, Mumbo asks, “So, Pearl, what’s the meeting for?”

Grian expects her to propose an escape route, or go over the grim inevitabilities of the day to come, and from the look on everyone else’s faces, so do they, but instead Pearl says, “You’re all invited to my sleepover! Happening right here, right now.”

“A sleepover?” Impulse asks, incredulous. The purple of his bowtie makes the circles under his eyes appear darker. They’d all given up this Mooner business a couple days ago, when it was apparent that nothing would change for it, but the lack of sleep had yet to leave most of their faces.

Pearl shrugs. “The moon’s going to crash into the world tomorrow night. Might as well enjoy the last good one we have, right? Cousin or not, I’m not going to sit around and let it ruin a night that could be spent with friends.”

“Yeah, that makes sense,” Mumbo says. “If anything, it’s another night of rest.”

“Tactical sleeping, I like it!” Scar’s eyes aren’t marred by darkness. Grian silently harrumphs at this.

“Not just sleeping!” Pearl laughs. Quieter, she adds, “I was thinking we could grab snacks and watch a movie, or something.” A distraction, and something to drown out the awful noises outside.

“A movie sounds good,” Grian says. Anything to stop hearing the world falling apart beyond Pearl’s arched windows.

Impulse and Pearl move to set it up, Pearl crouching in front of the cabinet the movie collection is stored in, Impulse fiddling with the remote, while Mumbo and Scar raid the pantry and Grian stacks extra pillows and blankets on the couch.

After deciding on one, Pearl hands the movie disk to Impulse, who slides it into its player beneath the television and presses play. The screen remains dark and silent. Grian can see his reflection within its glassy surface. He looks terrible.

“Ah.” Impulse heaves a sigh that floats upon something heavier. “Of course it’d affect all of the redstone; all of my overworld farms have stopped working, too.”

This is news to Grian, whose most complicated farm this season had been a couple beehives in front of dispensers with shears, and he hasn’t checked that thing in ages.

Pearl rocks back on her heels. “Well, that’s a bust, then. Why the redstone?”

Impulse shrugs. “Beyond me. Guess there’s no precedent for all of this; anything goes.”

“At least it’s only the redstone—imagine if it would’ve done something like sponge up all the water or blow out all of the torches!”

In unison, all three of them glance up at the lanterns hanging above the couch.

“That would’ve been hilarious,” Grian admits, after the lanterns remain unsurprisingly unchanged. Impulse and Pearl nod their agreement.

They share the news with Mumbo and Scar, who return with an armload of candy courtesy of Impulse’s factory, potatoes Pearl had sliced and fries into chips, and whatever other junk food they’d managed to find.

Looking utterly perplexed, Mumbo says, “That explains why my door stopped working. Ran straight into it the other day and died!”

“Oh, redstone, you frackle thing,” Scar muses in sympathy with Impulse and Mumbo, nodding solemnly.

“Frackle—? Fickle. Fickle thing, Scar,” Grian corrects, shaking his head, but the corners of his mouth lift in a way they hadn’t all night.

“Of course, of course,” Scar agrees and smiles back, and a bit more of the burden nestled next to Grian’s heart dissipates.

“Failing a movie,” Impulse ventures, after a moment, “What could we do?”

After a brief trip back to their own bases to change into proper pajamas, a nest is made on the couch and the snacks are piled onto the table in front of it, soft light from the lanterns illuminating the tired faces of the Boatem crew from where they sit around the curve of the sofa. Even as the end of the world roars outside, conversation comes to them easily, and naturally turns to reminiscing on the season they’ve lived.

Mumbo tells stories of end crystals and terraforming, of potatoes and the time he briefly spent moonlighting as a vigilante that quickly fell apart with no real laws to uphold. Impulse recounts a narrative of magic pigs and candy shards, the road to perfecting the server’s best candy bar and the joy of sharing it with friends. Pearl speaks of llamas, clock heists, magic pumpkins, and the instances completely unrelated to her in which all of the animals were mysteriously turned upside down.

Scar weaves a tale of fantastic sales owed to his patented traveling Swaggon. “Everyone loves the Swaggon!” he proclaims, after sharing a deal that, if it were offered by anyone else, would have never been accepted.

“Everyone loves you, Scar, which is how you got away with that one,” Mumbo says with a laugh. The rest of the group laughs with him, and Scar waves a bashful hand.

When the attention falls to Grian, he talks about the G-Train and the Midnight Alley and the lengths he went through to collect mobs for the Magical Menagerie, charged creeper shenanigans with Scar included. He talks about pretend-sleep adventures and mini-games and everything in between.

Most of all, Grian talks about Boatem. From the first stacking of the Boatem pole, to the many Boatem hole-related antics, to the chaos of every meeting and prank, the Boatem crew has become family, as the village has become home.

“I’m gonna miss it,” Impulse says.

“It was all really fun.” Scar smiles, and the corners of his eyes are crinkled with sadness-tinged fondness.

“Now, don’t be saying that like a goodbye, mate,” Pearl says, and her voice is crinkled with it, too.

“It’s not a goodbye to us,” Scar clarifies. “Boatem will live on forever. We’ll all find each other again in that great, big, beautiful tomorrow.”

“Promise?” Grian asks.

“Promise.”

—☾—

Morning drags forward after a night of cuddled rest. Grian’s the second awake, beaten only by Pearl, who stands with her hands braced around a mug at the kitchen counter, looking out across nothing.

“The world’s to end today,” Grian says.

“Yeah, I know,” she responds. “Coffee?”

(They make it, in the void following the end. On another world, an alchemist, an elf, an alien, a dwarf, and the server’s richest man huddle together atop a nest of blankets within a giant mushroom the alien calls home. Laughter dances in the air around them as stories and snacks alike are swapped between them, catching up on what this world has become beneath their hands. The moon hangs high and small above them, a beautiful cloudless night. The world carries on as usual. The Boatem crew is safe.)

[cakeawake]

Veins of Twilight

⚠️Disclaimer⚠️

This story contains explicit content, including smut and yandere behavior. Please remember that this is a work of fiction, and I do not condone any of these actions in real life. If you or someone you know is in a similar situation, please seek help immediately. If these themes make you uncomfortable, I advise against reading further. With that said, enjoy the story!!

⚠️Disclaimer⚠️

Chapter two:

You wake up disoriented, the oppressive darkness of the room giving you no hint of what time it is. The thick curtains block out any potential light, casting the space in an eerie, timeless stillness. For a moment, you lie there, cocooned in the heavy comforter, reluctant to face the chill you know is waiting beyond it. With a resigned sigh, you push the blanket off, immediately shivering as the cold air bites at your skin, its sharpness sinking into your bones.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, you rub the sleep from your eyes and glance around the room, its ornate furnishings casting long, sinister shadows even in the dim light. You force yourself to your feet and shuffle into the bathroom, the icy tiles shocking your bare feet. You change quickly, eager to escape the cold, and splash water on your face, the sensation helping to chase away the last remnants of sleep. The bathroom's opulence feels almost mocking as if it's aware you don't belong here.

Once dressed, you make your way out into the hall. The inn is as silent as a tomb, and when you pass the check-in desk, it's unsurprising to see that Zayan is still absent. You pause briefly, glancing around the lobby, wondering where he might be. A fleeting curiosity stirs in your mind, but you quickly push it aside. Whatever secrets he holds, you doubt they'll be easy to uncover.

Stepping outside, the crisp air hits you like a wall, the morning fog clinging to the streets and swallowing the world whole. The mist coils thickly, obscuring everything beyond a few feet ahead of you. It's a cold, damp veil, muffling the sounds of the town and making it feel even more isolated. You shiver and wrap your arms around yourself, looking back at your car parked near the inn. The idea of driving through this soup of fog is unappealing; you can barely see your own hand in front of your face, let alone navigate unfamiliar roads.

Instead, you decide to walk, your footsteps echoing faintly on the cobblestone streets. As you wander, your eyes are drawn to the intricate architecture of the town. The towering Gothic buildings loom overhead, their dark spires disappearing into the fog. Gargoyles perch on the edges of rooftops, their stone faces seeming to watch your every move. Wrought-iron gates and elaborate carvings adorn the facades, each detail hinting at stories long forgotten—or perhaps stories you'd rather not uncover.

Despite the beauty of the town, there's an unsettling emptiness to it. You haven't seen a single person yet, not a passerby, not even a flicker of movement in the windows you pass. The silence is deafening, and with each step, the weight of the stillness presses heavier on your chest. You can't help but wonder where everyone is, a faint unease stirring in your mind.

As you round a corner, a large building comes into view through the fog. Its towering presence is impossible to ignore, with walls lined almost entirely with tall, arched windows. The glass panes glint faintly in the muted light, giving the building an ethereal glow. A wrought-iron sign hangs above the grand double doors, swaying gently in the breeze. The words "Hollow Hearth Library" are etched into the metal, their elegance stark against the weathered sign.

With a deep breath, you push open the heavy doors, their weight surprising you, and step inside.

The air is thick with the scent of aged paper, polished wood, and a faint hint of candle wax. Towering shelves stretch from the polished oak floors to the vaulted ceilings, their dark wood carved with intricate details—floral patterns, mythical creatures, and swirling designs that seem almost alive. The shelves are packed with books of every size and color, their spines embossed with gold lettering that glints faintly in the dim light. A wrought-iron spiral staircase spirals upward in the center of the room, connecting multiple mezzanines that extend like bridges across the vast space.

The ceiling is a masterpiece in itself, painted with celestial scenes of stars, constellations, and swirling nebulae that seem to shimmer faintly when the light catches them just right. Massive chandeliers hang from iron chains, their candles casting a warm, flickering glow that dances across the room. Between the chandeliers, gothic arches frame the ceiling, their pointed edges emphasizing the room's height and grandeur.

Large stained-glass windows line the far walls, their vibrant hues muted by the mist outside. The windows depict scenes of scholars, mythical beasts, and arcane symbols, their meanings shrouded in mystery. The colored light filters through, painting the floor and furniture in shifting patterns of ruby, emerald, and sapphire.

In the center of the main hall, long mahogany tables are arranged in neat rows, each one accompanied by high-backed chairs upholstered in dark velvet. Green-shaded lamps sit atop the tables, their warm glow inviting visitors to sit and read. The tabletops are scratched and worn, evidence of countless years of use, but they add to the library's charm.

To the left, a massive stone fireplace dominates the wall. Its mantle is adorned with gargoyle statues and an ornate clock with hands shaped like ivy tendrils. A fire crackles softly within, its warmth barely reaching the vast, cavernous room but offering a comforting presence nonetheless.

Near the entrance, a curved desk sits like a sentinel, its surface meticulously organized yet brimming with character. Quills rest neatly in an ornate silver holder, their feathers gleaming softly in the dim light. Ink bottles of various shades are arranged like an artist's palette, and an imposing leather-bound ledger lies open, its yellowed pages filled with delicate, flowing script.

Behind the desk sits a figure draped in a tailored, high-collared coat, the rich fabric catching the faint glow of the nearby lamp. Their head is tilted slightly downward as if immersed in their work, though their eyes are closed. Yet, as if sensing your presence, they lift their head with an almost supernatural awareness.

"Hello, dear," they say, their voice deep and smooth as velvet, tinged with an unsettling warmth. The sound wraps around you, drawing you closer almost against your will.

You take a tentative step forward, compelled by curiosity and unease. As you approach, you notice the sharp contrast between the dark frames of their round glasses and their tan, flawless complexion. Behind the lenses, their long, dark eyelashes seem impossibly delicate, casting faint shadows on their cheeks as they blink slowly. They study you with an air of quiet amusement.

"How can I assist you today?" they continue, their voice carrying a gentle lilt that makes the question feel more intimate than it should.

Your eyes are drawn to their hands, which rest elegantly on the desk. They are long-fingered and deft, faintly ink-stained from what appears to be hours of meticulous work. Despite their composed demeanor, there is something about their presence—an aura of authority mixed with an undercurrent of mystery—that makes your heartbeat quicken.

"I was wondering if you had any information on jobs in town," you ask the librarian, their sly smile deepening as they set their quill down with deliberate care.

"Well," they begin, their voice carrying a hint of intrigue. As a matter of fact, we do have a position open in a new office that's being built. Quite the opportunity for someone with your background."

You nod, though a twinge of disappointment flickers through you. The idea of returning to an office job isn't exactly thrilling, but the pay is decent, and it's a role you know you can handle.

"Is that job not to your liking?" the librarian asks, tilting their head ever so slightly. Their glasses catch the faint light, obscuring their eyes for a moment, making their expression unreadable.

"It's not that..." you start, searching for the right words to explain your hesitation.

Before you can finish, the librarian cuts you off smoothly. "How about we make a deal?"

Their tone is calm, almost too calm, and the way they lean forward slightly feels deliberate as if they're letting the weight of their words hang in the air between you.

"A deal?" you echo, your voice tinged with suspicion. What is with everyone and making deals? The memory of Zayan's unsettling grin flickers in your mind, and unease settles deeper in your chest.

"Yes," the librarian replies smoothly, threading their fingers together and resting them on the desk with an air of calculated calm. "Why not work here, with me?"

Their words are simple, yet the way they say them feels loaded with something unsaid. The corners of their lips twitch, just shy of a full smile as if they're savoring the weight of their offer before you've even responded.

"Here?" you ask, glancing around the expansive library. The idea isn't unappealing—there's a quiet charm to the rows of books and the gothic ambiance, far removed from the stifling monotony of an office. Still, the offer feels too convenient, too... deliberate.

"Indeed," they say, their voice dropping into a velvety tone that seems to wrap around you. "This library could use an assistant, someone with a curious mind and a knack for order. I suspect you'd find it... fulfilling."

You narrow your eyes slightly, sensing there's more to their words than they're letting on. "And what's the catch?"

Their smile grows, and a flicker of amusement flashes behind their round glasses. "No catch, per se, just the usual workplace expectations. Sorting books, managing visitors... and perhaps handling the occasional oddity."

"Oddity?" you repeat, your brows furrowing.

"This library isn't quite like others you may have encountered," they admit, their voice light but their gaze intense. "But I assure you, the experience will be rewarding."

You hesitate, the air between you thick with an unspoken challenge. The librarian seems entirely at ease, as though they already know your answer, their knowing smile making your skin prickle.

"And if I say no?" you ask cautiously.

Their fingers tighten slightly where they rest, though their expression doesn't falter. "Then you are, of course, free to leave. The choice is yours."

You pause, weighing your options. On one hand, this job could be an invaluable opportunity to learn more about this enigmatic town and its strange, timeless aura. On the other, the deal feels undeniably suspicious, much like the one you made with Zayan. Something about this place—and this librarian—prickles the back of your mind like a warning.

The librarian remains perfectly still, their unreadable smile never wavering, their presence unnervingly serene. Their eyes remain shut, yet you feel as if they're somehow watching you intently, waiting for your answer. When you glance at their round glasses, a strange thought strikes you: why would they need them if they never open their eyes?

"I think... I'll work here," you say, hesitating slightly as the words leave your mouth. The decision feels uncertain, like stepping onto thin ice.

The librarian's smile widens, and for a brief moment, it feels as though the entire room exhales with them. "Excellent!" they exclaim, their tone lilting with genuine, or perhaps feigned, delight. "I'm happy to have you. Why don't I give you a tour, if you're free?"

Their hands unfold, gesturing gracefully toward the maze of bookshelves stretching out behind them. You hesitate but nod, curiosity outweighing your unease.

"Perfect," they say, rising smoothly from their seat. Despite their languid movements, they seem to glide, not walk, around the desk. "Follow me, and I'll show you the secrets this library holds. But remember..."

They pause and lean in just slightly, their voice lowering into something almost intimate. "Once you step into the depths of this place, you might find leaving isn't as simple as you'd think."

They straighten their smile firmly in place and beckon you to follow. Despite the lingering apprehension in your gut, your feet move forward.

As you walk through the labyrinthine aisles of the library, your curiosity begins to outweigh your unease. The towering bookshelves seem endless, the scent of aged paper and leather binding filling the air. They move gracefully ahead of you, weaving through the shelves as they passionately describe the intricacies of the library's vast collection.

You nod absently, half-listening, before a realization strikes you. You slow your pace, looking at Silas with a slight frown. "Um... I just realized I never caught your name," you say, interrupting their monologue as they pause to gesture at a particularly ancient tome.

They stop mid-gesture, tilting their head slightly in your direction as if considering your words. "Ah, right. How terribly rude of me," they say with a small, apologetic smile. "My name is Silas. Silas Aldridge."

You open your mouth to introduce yourself, but Silas cuts you off with a wave of their hand. "No need for that. I already know who you are, so don't trouble yourself."

Their words make your stomach drop. You blink at them, your brows knitting together. "You... already know?"

Silas resumes walking, their tone light and conversational, as if they hadn't just said something profoundly unsettling. It was almost eerie how easily they brushed past it, as though discussing the weather instead of whatever cryptic truth lay beneath their words.

"Oh, of course. It's part of my job, after all."

You quicken your pace to keep up, your mind racing with questions. "And what exactly does this job entail? How do you already know me?" The words spill out in rapid succession, your curiosity clawing for answers. Something about this entire encounter feels off, and the more you think about it, the more the unease settles deep in your gut.

Silas merely chuckles in response, the sound carrying a teasing edge. "So many questions," they muse, casting you a knowing glance. "All of them will be answered in due time. But for now, you must learn to be patient."

Their words do nothing to soothe your unease. If anything, they only make you more determined to uncover the truth.

You open your mouth to protest, but before you can utter a word, Silas smoothly interrupts.

"It seems our tour has come to an end," they say, their tone light yet final.

It takes you a moment to process their words, and only then do you realize—you're back at the large service desk where this all started. A sense of disorientation settles over you. Had you really been so distracted that you hadn't even noticed where Silas was leading you?

"I expect you to start in two days," Silas continues, as if this is simply a matter of fact, not something up for debate. "Just to give you some time to get adjusted to town. I'll see you then."

Before you can formulate a response, they turn on their heel and stalk off, disappearing somewhere deeper into the labyrinth of the library. Just like that, you're alone.

You linger for a moment, glancing around as if the towering bookshelves might offer some sort of clarity, but none comes. With a sigh, you turn toward the massive windows lining the front of the building, noting the position of the sun—it's just past midday.

Taking a breath, you push open the library's heavy doors, the weight of them grounding you for the first time since stepping inside. Stepping out onto the street, the town stretches before you, unfamiliar yet oddly expectant, as if it, too, is waiting for something.

You start walking, unsure of where you're headed, your footsteps echoing faintly against the quiet street. The air is damp and cold, seeping through your clothes and settling into your skin. Despite the sky being clear—an expanse of pale blue stretching endlessly above—you can't shake the unsettling dimness that cloaks the town. It's as if an unseen filter has drained the vibrancy from everything, leaving behind muted tones and elongated shadows that seem to stretch just a little too far.

The buildings, old and looming, stand in eerie stillness. Their windows reflect the sky, yet there's something off about them, as if they're watching you rather than simply existing as glass and brick. The streetlamps, unlit, seem unnecessary in broad daylight, but their presence feels ominous, almost as if they're waiting for night to fall.

A breeze stirs through the empty street, rustling the leaves scattered along the cracked pavement. The silence isn't quite silence—there's a faint hum beneath it, a distant whisper of something just out of reach, too soft to decipher but enough to send a chill down your spine.

You wrap your arms around yourself, trying to shake the unease settling in your chest.

You wrap your arms around yourself, trying to shake the unease settling in your chest. The town feels too quiet, too still, yet something about it hums with an unseen presence. Then, just as you take another step forward, you hear it—a faint whisper drifting from behind you.

Your breath catches in your throat, and you whip your head around, scanning the empty street. Nothing. No one. Just the same old buildings and empty sidewalks, stretching endlessly in both directions. Your heartbeat quickens. Maybe it was just the wind. Maybe your mind is playing tricks on you.

Still, the uneasy feeling lingers, crawling up your spine like a cold touch.

You pick up the pace, your casual stroll turning into a brisk walk. As you pass dark alleyways, something catches your eye—movement, subtle and quick, disappearing just as fast as it appeared. Your pulse hammers as you glance toward the shadowed spaces between buildings. For a fleeting second, you swear you see them—eyes. Glowing, watching, unblinking.

Your breath comes faster now. The whispers return, growing louder, surrounding you, pressing against your mind like a presence just out of reach. The town feels like it's closing in, the air heavier, the ground unsteady beneath your feet.

Panic grips you, and before you realize it, you're running. Your footsteps echo through the desolate streets, the whispers twisting into something almost intelligible—but you don't want to hear what they're saying. You just want to get away.

Then—

Impact.

You slam into something solid and unyielding, the force knocking you backward. You barely have time to register the jarring pain as you hit the ground, landing unceremoniously on your butt.

"Ow," you mutter under your breath, wincing.

Blurry from the fall, your eyes trail upward, expecting to see another empty street or perhaps another trick of the shadows. But instead—someone.

A person.

Your breath comes in short gasps, but a wave of relief crashes over you. You're not alone. Not entirely.

Silently, you rejoice, even as the whispers fade into the background, retreating like they were never there at all.

"I'm so sorry! Are you okay?" you ask, your voice breathless from the collision and the lingering adrenaline still thrumming in your veins. You scramble to your feet, brushing the dust from your clothes before quickly extending a hand to her. 

The woman looks up at you, her face pale, her expression unreadable at first. Now that you're really seeing her, you notice the fine lines etched into her skin, the streaks of silver running through her dark hair. She must be in her sixties. 

But it's her eyes that unnerve you the most—wide and darting, flickering to the shadows stretching across the street. She isn't looking at you. She's looking past you, around you, as if searching for something lurking just beyond sight. 

"I'm so sorry!" she whispers, voice frantic and almost not directed at you at all. 

She doesn't take your hand. Instead, she scrambles to her feet on her own, movements jerky and desperate. Her lips move rapidly, breathlessly repeating, *sorry, sorry, sorry* under her breath like a prayer, or maybe a plea. 

"Wait! Are you sure you're okay?" you ask, stepping forward, concern outweighing your unease. You gently place a hand on her shoulder, but the second you do, she jolts violently, her whole body going rigid. 

Her eyes snap to yours—wide, terrified. 

"I'm so sorry!" she suddenly shouts, her voice cracking with something between fear and desperation. Then, before you can react, she turns and bolts down the street, moving with a swiftness you wouldn't have thought possible for someone her age. 

You stand frozen, watching as she disappears into the distance, your heart hammering in your chest. 

The street is silent once more.

[fountainpenguin]

"Hey, youngblood! Doesn't it feel like our time is running out? I'm gonna change you like a remix, then I'll raise you like a phoenix!" (x)

---

New Criminal Experience chapter today!

Chapter 8 - “Shot”

❤️ Read on AO3

💙 Start from Chapter 1

💚 More Pixels Imperfect fics

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Mumbo and his new friend sneak up on Carrie's illager patrol... Looks like she, BigB, and their friends have Impulse in a pickle. But what happened to Skizz?

(First 1,000 words under the cut)

---

Minutes later…

Despite Mumbo's insistence to the contrary, the enderman girl jogs with him down the messy street. Her name is Hazel, or at least that's what she tells him. What, are you gonna argue with her? She's just a kid, but when Mumbo urges her to stay out of the way, she laughs and skips backwards, keeping pace ahead of him.

"She can't catch me! I'd like to see her try. And I'd love to see those foreigners come crashing down. You should've heard that vex lady this morning; she was so rude when we were playing. I wish she'd run into my wall so I could crush her head with sand."

"Goodness me."

"Come on- Your glow will give you away. Can you turn that off?"

"Ah… No, I'm afraid. The illusioner pinged me with a spectral arrow, so even if I try to hide behind blocks, my outline's visible to everyone in range. Oh- Be careful with him. His species can see through blocks, whether you're lit up like this or not. Lighting us just makes it easier. For him and all his buds." The scythe hangs like an ice-coated stalactite in the center of his chest, right where his soul slot lies.

"Got it."

Wandering traders do get around quite a bit, you know. Even those who aren't big on going far from home (and there aren't many) have visited the neighboring hubs more summers than they've likely spent at home. Mumbo's seen a great deal of blocks, of course. The rare and the novel pass through Little Sun all the time.

But wherever he expected Carrie and her remaining raiders (Amused huff of emphasis on "remaining") to drag Impulse, it wasn't this. As they encroach the looming building, which must be at least, ah, five or six chunks high, Mumbo slows his jog to a trot. "Oh, my."

It's… a stadium? Yes, that might be the word for it, but if you think a community building like that has stayed untouched in an enderman city, you're terribly mistaken.

It's nothing the average person would construct. Mismatched blocks make up the walls, including anvils, birch, fence posts, gravel, leaves, and even sponges and kelp blocks. Those last two must have been traded for, because they stem from the ocean, and you certainly won't find one of those near the enderman hub. Mumbo gawks at them anyway. Wait a moment… Maybe he's been too hasty. Is it even a building? Is it the local dump? There are plenty of other endermen and endermites wandering around, browsing the walls like they're at the market for cupcakes and flowers. They cluster in groups, pulling blocks out and easing them back into place the way you do with drawers. Even the scrape of wood on wood's familiar, scratching in the grooves of blocks below.

"Who would trade for rare blocks, then shove them in a wall for anyone to take?"

"It's Mish-Mash," Hazel says, waving one arm with a flourish like she's introducing him to the finest work in the Fox Dragon's museum. "Mish-Mash is 'Give a block, take a block."

Mumbo tilts back his head, stepping backwards to take it in again. Technically, they're still within city walls (and the partially built ceiling above the amalgamation of strange things is there to prove it), but that doesn't stop a breeze from whisking through this place. It's dark out there… but the locals seem to like it that way. The claw-scratch moon hangs high above. "And… people do that? I mean, do they actually follow the rules of leaving things behind? … You wouldn't find that type of self-restraint among my kin; we wandering traders stock and sell whatever we can find."

Hazel huffs. "It's art. And if you take anything without leaving a drop-off, I'm turning you in."

"Well, we can't have that."

Right. So… Mish-Mash, then. Well. Mumbo asks his earlier private question, but leaves out the 'dump' bit this time: "Well, is this a building? I'm not seeing a door… And why do I smell pork?"

"It's a sparring ring," she says, making a bowl shape with her hands. "The seats go all the way around. They start up high, but the sparring ring is in the middle, down low."

… That might be a problem. Endermites can cling to blocks, scaling with little effort, and enderman can poof past walls without needing doors anyway. No stairs in sight, though. "So it's an amphitheater, then."

Hazel looks at him. "I'm 8."

Well, the semantics aren't important. Mumbo smiles anyway, shaking his head. Whatever it is, Hazel gets him in. Wrapping her arms around his waist, she teleports them both up to the upper seats, tucked as far in the back as she could get them. Vision blurs, the sky dips, stomachs squeeze… Now, how do endermen go from standing before they teleport to landing in a crouch? Do they still comprehend whatever twisted position their bodies take in that in-between space, even as the world ripples like smoke? That's a question for the ages.

Hazel sits up on her knees while Mumbo clutches his head, wincing through the ringing in his ears. She peeps above the awkward chairs for a few seconds, then ducks her head like a startled duck. Did I say 'duck' twice? Ah, it doesn't matter; you get the point. "The skunk's cooking."

"The skunk is cooking?" Mumbo sits up too. Hiding has its limits; even up here, behind all the careful seats made from cobble walls and stairs, the spectral glow pulsing from his skin is sure to sell him out. His flesh gleams with lantern light. Yeah, you could shake him back and forth and stick him on a hook, too. Carrie might try. He did tear through the whole patrol. Mumbo creeps his eyes above the lip of the nearest stair block chair. Hazel does the same. "Oh," he blurts. "Now, how about that? The skunk is cooking!"

Let's set the stage...

[Full chapter on AO3 - Link at top]

[grimowled]

siempreminta said: The Nephilim studied the map on her phone, trying to figure out the city of Lust. She had become familiar with Pride City, being the resident of the Hazbin Hotel, but wanted to expand her horizon beyond that one location. Besides that, she had heard stories of a Goetian that had knowledge of the vast universe. Maybe he held the answers she sought for. Her golden gaze fell upon the royal palace, taken aback by the sight and sheer size of it. Her nerves made her frozen for a moment, second-guessing herself whether or not she was making the right decision. Well, only one way to find out. Breathing deeply, she rapped her knuckles on the massive doorway, waiting with anticipation to meet this famed Goetian prince.

HE WAS LOVINGLY TRIMMING one of his venus flytraps when a voice suddenly roused his wandering mind from botanical pursuits, as his butler announced a visitor; the owl prince's features twitched with mild annoyance as he paused and slipped out of his gardening gloves to ready himself to either entertain or banish, depending on who it was that dared to seek him out in his own domain.

he instructed his imp butler to precede him and welcome the unexpected guest to wait for him in the antechamber of his study, a dimly lit corridor veined with eerily dancing lights and looming shadows, walls carpeted with stuffy old goetia portraits that gave the illusion of moving within their ornate frames under the flickering candlelight, and an enticing, almost sickeningly sweet scent of delicately wilting flowers to taunt and tempt the mind. the crown and cape of his regal status donned, stolas strode like a vengeful spirit down the endless corridors of his palace, allowing the inky tendrils to follow and bolster his threatening aura.

when the doors opened into the study, a grand room bejewelled with the orbiting sheen of hanging astronomical instruments, and vaulted ceilings that seemed to open into swirling, purple-hued galaxies, he stood there solemnly, his poise chilling and yet perfectly polite, as befit demon royalty of his caliber.

he didn't often receive visits from sinners as his focus was on mortal souls above, though the occasional stray soul that hadn't already fallen into the greedy clutches of overlords or lesser demons still came through, every once in a blue moon; but one look at her with his shrewd predator eyes confirmed the notion that she was no sinner, nor she was like most denizens of hell; in fact the likes of her were a rarity among them not to be easily dismissed, and certainly not expected at the doorstep of a goetian prince. he could infer who she was, but as to her motives? he could only suppose that she sought what everyone ever sought of him - knowledge.

this could be ... interesting.

"--well met and welcome to my humble home, dear."

he spoke in the practiced false modesty of aristocracy, tipping his crowned head ever so slightly in acknowledgement;

"who might you be, and what do you seek from stolas of the ars goetia?"

[justanangryduck]

SPN renovating a theatre AU thats like

Everyone is retired. World isn't ending any more. And Sam and Dean and Eileen and Cas are all together and alive and thinking of maybe moving out of the bunker and finding a real house somewhere and trying to start a normal life.

And then they get a call from some lawyer asking if they are bobby singer's next of kin and explaining that a friend of his left him property out in some little town somewhere and that now it belongs to them (like that one episode with the rich ppl and the girl living in the attic or whatever).

They make the trip down there and it's this old crumbling decrepit movie theatre that looks like it hasn't had anyone in it since the 60s or maybe even earlier. And Sam is all like "Dean it's a dump let's just sell it". But Dean has always had a soft spot for old stuff and he's feeling a little lost nowadays with no big threat looming over his head making sure he always has a reason to get up in the morning and fight. And Sam sees the look in his eye when he examines the star shaped designs in the ceiling above a chandelier covered in cob-webs and the beautiful twin staircases that curve up to the second floor with mouldy carpet steps and the old brass ticket booth complete with velvet curtains and a dusty little sign written in cursive and just goes "Yeah okay".

So they rent a house on the edge of town and it's a little too small for four adults but they make it work. And for the most part the theatre is Dean's project but everyone helps out when they can. And maybe Sam gets a job at the library and cas gets very invested in the health of the house's little garden and they all take turns cooking dinner and washing dishes and pulling weeds.

And when Dean comes through the hardware store for a third bucket of the same colour paint, the old man sitting at the counter is curious enough to ask him what he's working on. And the news that those four strangers who moved in off the edge of town are here to fix up the old theatre spreads through town like wildfire.

Small towns are gossipy like that.

And now everytime he walks into a shop there is some little old lady or nostalgic old man who wants to hear how it's going and share their stories of what it was like back when it was open and all the joy it had brought. He hears more than one story of a first kiss, a first date, a first time understanding just how big and wonderful and wide the world is up on that silver screen. Its a big sort of legacy to live up to but if he didn't have his heart set on fixing her up before he certainly can't stop now.

And it takes more than a year and a half of working almost every single day but when they open for the first time it's an evening screening of somthing black and white that would have played back in the days when it was open and half the town is there, dressed like it's important, like it's an outing. And Dean can't stop smiling. He did this. He fixed this. These hands aren't just for hurting and these hands aren't just for breaking. And Sam hugs him and so does Eileen and so does Cas. And none of them are quite sure what the next step is. Wether to hang around and run the theatre or sell it off to someone who will look after it and keep it going for the eagre town residents. But the accomplishment sits warm in his heart and he knows he did good and that's what matters. And he gets to help people in more ways than one. And he gets to resurrect something without a demon deal or a sacrifice. And he's happy.

[silverghcst]

❝ leave it alone. you are out of your depth. ❞  

Prompt - @iknowwhataradiois

The cracks within Raccoon City were already beginning to appear, paper thin and yet sharp all the same. A looming threat hanging above the clouds, threatening to thunder and shatter the glass. Everyone had just about cleared out for the night, Leon one of the only exceptions, finishing up some last minute reports before running to deliver them to the chief. Except, the chief was preoccupied, voices carrying down the stairwell he had been climbing. Heated shouts bounced off of wood walls and high vaulted ceilings. Umbrella, the Arklay Mountains, suspension, wrapped up in neat little bows, tying a question to each end.  

Firm intent to sweep all of it under the rug, to never have the public hear a word of it. Take time off. It sends his mind reeling. Leon, even with his brand new badge and uniform, the rookie in training, had his eyes rudely opened to how amiss the police station had become. There’s the slam of a door, hurried steps clicking against marble, and he sees her, one of the S.T.A.R.S officers, Jill Valentine.  

He had to be fast to catch up to her, even faster to explain himself, only to be told to stay out of it. He was out of his depth. And she was right, with only having a week of experience to his name. A wolf in sheep’s clothing was implied to lurk within the herd. Appearing more as a shepherd, as the guiding light for the city, the cure for the disease. If what he overheard was the truth, how could he ever hope to fight against that?  

But it just wasn’t in him to leave it alone.

“I can’t do that. I’m not going to just walk away and pretend I didn’t hear anything,” Staying firm, not backing down from the clear warning, from an officer who knew more than him, “I didn’t mean to pry, but I heard enough of your conversation with the chief. If you could even call it that. It... Struck me the wrong way, of how dismissive he was of your case.” 

There was more to this story, something much bigger than the both of them waiting to strike from the shadows. Eyes dart around the near empty station, suddenly all too aware of anyone who could be listening, as his voice lowers considerably for her ears alone. 

“I want to know what the hell is going on around here, why he shut you down like that, why the incident in the Arklay Mountains is being buried.” 

“I just... I just want to help.” 

[the-fiction-witch]

The Business

Media irl X 1950's/1960's

Character Thomas Brodie Sangster

Couple Thomas X Reader

Rating Smut

Concept "No questions about the business"

Smut posing/ bare skin/ spanking/ fondling/ semiconsentual/ full sex/ love bites/ 'pet' & 'good girl'/ others other hearing/ sex in the kitchen

I was nervous looming outside the door for what felt like an hour. I didn't want to disturb him and his business but it had to be done. I stood outside the large oak door of his office, my little blue shoes on the wooden floorboards doing my best not to cause them to creak. The corridor dark without a window in sight the red heavy wallpaper seemed to sap away any light from the small art deco Tiffany sconces with the three sets of diamonds getting larger closer to the center with white on the edge then orange the red facing up creating shadows on the textured ceiling. I held my breath fixing my little blue dress and my curls before I tapped on the door four times I didn't wait for an answer grabbing the golden doorknob and pushing it open revealing the room within. 

The large room with the same wooden floorboards, wood panels halfway up the walls with a red and gold geometric wallpaper, the same lights on little places around the room two hanging ones one above the main desk the other by the bar, the small bar sat to the left side with cigarette boxes and decanters sat, the desk far to the back wall with two windows behind it but the blinds drawn. A red rug across the floor. Trails of smoke in the air. Various business men all lingering about glaring at me and the open door.

"Thomas I-" I began but before I could utter another word 

"Out." He demanded from his large red chair behind his desk "now."

I went to leave but everyone in the room got up making me immediately feel afraid but they all walked to the door past me and out into the corridor once the last man had gone he spoke up again

"Come in" he says much sweeter so I stepped in having the door close tightly behind me 

"I'm sorry I didn't want to disturb -" I began but stopped short as his chair turned to face me revealing him there well dressed as usual, his black polished Oxfords, red suspenders, white pressed shirt, red tie tucked in half way down his shirt, cigarette in hand "your business" I finished he didn't speak his face still emotionless, he beckoned me with his index and middle finger to come closer with the hand that held his cigarette I stepped across the floor my heels against the floorboards and rig the only sounds other then the clock on the wall behind the bar I stopped In Front of his desk holding my breath again when a sly smirk crawled across his lip, he moved and leant back on his chair giving his thigh a glance, I didn't need to be told twice moving to his side of the desk and perching myself on his thigh to which he wrapped his arm around my waist sitting a hand on my hip. 

"You have nothing to apologize about" whispered, opening his drawer I did my best not to look as I didn't want to be accused of prying into his business "your my wife. You have free rein to come in my office you know that pet" he reassured getting a beautiful silver and diamond bracelet from his draw he took my hand giving the top of my knuckles a kiss and slipping the bracelet on my hand 

"I just don't like disturbing your business"

"You're not disturbing anything." He Cooes giving my cheek a kiss "I wanted them out a while anyway" 

"What have you been up to?" I asked 

"Pet. What did we agree?' he Did bringing his cigarette to his lips 

"No questions about the business" 

"Good girl." He Cooes fixing my hair

"Why?" 

"What?" He chuckled

"Why? The business runs out of our house, it's a family business shouldn't i-"

"Y/n" he warns, sending a shiver down my spine "the business is my business. I don't want my beautiful wife worrying her little head about it all" 

"You're sure?"

"I'm positive pet" he says "go on. I've got work to do" 

"Yes Thomas" I nodded, getting up, fixing my dress a little "anything special you wanted for dinner?"

"Surprise me" 

"Alright" I nodded heading towards the door but before I even got halfway across his office he spoke up

"Y/n." He growled

"Yes thomas?" I asked not even turning frozen looking at the door unsure what he could be about to do 

"Let me see the most beautiful sight in the world" he Cooed 

Immediately I blushed hard smiling a little thought my blush 

"I thought you had work to do?"

"I do. Got to have something to encourage me" he smirked 

I blushed more but took a grip on my dress tugging the fabric higher and higher until I held the hem holding it around my waist I could feel his eyes burning into my skin feeling the air of the room on my bare skin 

"Umm hum" he smirked 

 "turn around" he demanded 

For a second I didn't move now completely blushing hard I went to drop my dress but

"No. Keep hold of that" he ordered 

So I held my dress still with the hem around my waist and turned to face his desk seeing him sat there cigarette between his lips smirking at me as he took in every inch of my bare skin "good girl" he Cooes 

So I dropped the fabric flattering it back to normal

"Go on. I'll see you later pet" 

"Yes Thomas" I nodded quickly hurrying out of his office and back into the house. 

I stood in the kitchen looking out the window to the garden as I mindlessly scrubbed the dishes and the little radio on the shelf playing some gentle tunes. My heels against the black and white tiles, I picked up a plate from the counter of dark wood and a black marble top adding it to my water scrubbing away for a while before sitting it in the rack. I froze up as I headed the door open and close, his footsteps down the corridor before he arrived in the kitchen, I could immediately smell the sent of gunsmoke and of blood, I didn't turn to see him meerly watching him in the glass mirror in the back of the display cabinet watching between the stored glasses. He stepped over to the kitchen island in his black suit putting a hand through his messy blonde hair, he undid his jacket pulling out his usual gun fiddling with it a moment and taking the bullets out setting the gun and it's bullet shelve on the marble separately, then pulling out his switchblade taking some kitchen towel wiping it clean and sitting it too on the counter, he slipped his jacket off hanging it one of the stools of the kitchen island rolling his sleeves up as he stepped across the kitchen to the stove opening the lid and having a taste of my cooking he seemed pleased setting the lid back on the pot before he came and stood behind me stroking his fingers across my apron strings his breath against my neck until he kissed my cheek, the moment he did his hands took my dresses fabric pushing it and my petticoats up to my waist he held my hips a second and ground himself against my bare ass before he moved back and undid his pants pulling out his hard erection, he moved me slightly allowing him the angle to slip Inside me leaning my hips against the counter top hard as he began his slow but passionate thrusts immediately I melted feeling him inside me dropping my work to hold the edges of the sink trying to remain composed I knew how wet me was making me not to mention all his little grunts and groans in my ear as he worked his hands tight around my waist

"Squeal for me pet" he demanded 

"Thomas I-"

"Do as I ask. Or I'll Bend that dirty ass over and spank you raw" he ordered

"Yes Thomas" I nodded allowing myself to be much louder with my moans and screams his hand left my waist to unbutton one of the buttons on my dress slipping his hand in to grasp my breast which only made him chuckle more, I knew I was close and so did he getting faster and more merciless on me his gropes and strokes becoming more aggressive until I hit my orgasm squealing loudly my eyes rolling back my head against his chest my juices dripping down my legs, he let me ride it out but wasn't long before his own far quieter orgasm burying himself as deep inside me as he could before pulling out and doing his pants up, he tugged my dress down and gave my cheek a sweet kiss before he moved to lean on the counter beside me

"What?" He asks I was confused and turned seeing a few of his business boys in our kitchen doorway. I had no clue how long they had been here but I turned bright red thinking they could have seen, or heard everything that had just happened. 

"Melrose wants a call at nine" one said 

"Let him wait. He's never punctual when the shoes on the other foot" Thomas said getting a cigarette from his box in his pocket putting it to his lips and trying to light it but his lighter wouldn't strike so I took one from the side and lit it up for him "thank you pet" he cooes giving me a wink

"The Canadian account sir?"

"Have Sammy look into it I can't be bothered with their pleasantries" he said and the boys nodded, he smiled and pulled me into his side so I co nuzzle on his shoulder when I noticed one of the boys looking at me in a particularly focused way 

"Well fuck off then" he ordered and the boys left going off somewhere else 

"How was it?" I asked

"All delt with pet. Now I have some more work to do in my office if you could bring me some of that lovely soup down in about an hour?"

"Of course"

"Good girl. And when I'm all done with work how does you me and the triumph sound? We'll pop into town to the pictures?"

"That's sounds lovely'

"Perfect. Go make yourself look mesmerizing I'll finish this work up' he says slapping my butt before heading off to his office 

I laid on bed having long since finished my book wrapped up warm in the cosy covers and blankets doing my best to fall into the sweet arms of sleep even though the bed was empty. I heard sounds from downstairs but I didn't think twice trying to sleep until I hear the door opened for a moment I didn't move assuming it would just be Thomas home from a meeting and he'd climb into bed with me in meer moment but I heard sounds of pain and a light turn on in the ensuite I sat up seeing the light coming on though the slightly opened door "Thomas?"

"Yeah" he answered back, sounding in pain I quickly climbed out the bed wrapping my robe around me and hurrying over pushing open the door seeing our light blue bathroom fixings, the sweet white and blue tiles, the bright light above it all, Thomas sat on the edge of the bathtub his bare feet on the rug, his pants as well dressed as when he left but his jacket gone his hotel shirt covered in blood he was in the process of unbuttoning his shirt having opened the medicine cabinet spilling medical supplies across the sink

"Oh my god Thomas!" I yelled in shock trying to get a good look at him but he pushed me away "you're covered in blood!" I yelled trying not to panic too bad about to go and call for an ambulance

"Relax!" He demanded "it's not my blood" he says 

"What?"

"It not my blood. At Least not all of it" he says getting a cigarette from his pocket lighting it up and looking much more relaxed

"The hell happened?" 

"Bad meeting that's" he shrugs slipping his shirt off 

"Oh my god your shoulder!" 

"Yeah I know. It's fine I already worked the bullet out just need to sterilize and wrap it up." He says "relax pet. Nothing I can't handle" 

"Still" I said getting the stuff to clean his shoulder helping him out where I could "business isn't going to well I take it?"

"Pet."

"Sorry i-"

"It's fine. Natural for you to be curious. Just keep that little nose out I don't want you getting hurt" he says as we finished up with his shoulder

"Well how do I think I feel. If you worry if get hurt don't you think I'm always worried about you?" I said slipping off my robe to return to bed he stripped off and climbed into bed beside me pulling me into his chest "careful!"

"It's alright. I know you worry. I wish I could tell you it's all perfect safe and all perfectly above board but… you made me promise on our wedding not to lie to you. It's all fine pet don't worry anything happens to me you'll be well looked after I promise"

"I don't want to be looked after. I want you"

"I know. How about I take a week off?"

"What?"

"Really, a week. No business at all. Not boys coming around just you and me?"

"I'd like that thomas" I cooed nuzzling closer 

"Alright. I'll get it sorted tomorrow morning. Let's get some sleep"

"Alright, you don't need anything before bed? For your arm?"

"Well I can think of something my little wife could do to make me feel better?" He smirked giving my head little kisses 

"His will that help your shoulder?"

"It'll take my mind off it. Make me feel better" he Cooes playing with my hair 

"Goodnight Thomas"

"Fine. Goodnight y/n" he smiled kissing my nose "love you"

"I love you more"

[cheekygreenty]

Leave Me Lonely p.1 - The Darkling x Reader

Based on Ariana Grande’s song Leave me Lonely ft.Macy Grey. Was supposed to be just one part but I got carried away as per usual 🤓

'Get the General!' Zoya's eyes were borderline frantic but her composure remained the same, the once pristine blue kefta was dirty and ragged and her long luscious hair was disheveled, a piece of it in the way of a small cut on her temple.

'Zoya are you alright?' You were exiting the General's tent when you saw her approach, your body filled with an alarming feeling as you raced to meet her and some other Grisha, The skiff, she was manning a skiff across the Fold not even an hour ago, why is she back?

She ignored your question and continued with her dutifulness, 'The General, this is urgent'

You nodded and ran back, mind whirling with the possibilities of the skiffs return. Zoya was a great Squaller who'd successfully manned many journeys across the Fold so why was she back here, all scratched and bruised.

He was conversing with First Army Lieutenants and Captains when a rough grasp around his arm interrupted the flowing conversation. He squared his shoulders but when he saw your panicked face, he relaxed but only the smallest amount. Not even 10 minutes beforehand you two were involved in a heavy argument and at the feel of his tense muscles beneath his kefta, you guessed he thought you were back for more.

You had a right to come back and throw insults at his face, hell, he was the one who brought out that side of you. A vicious, ruthless, and malevolent side you never knew you had, but you ignored that urge.

-Dangerous Love, you're no good for me darling-

'We have a situation.' You cocked your head in Zoya's direction and waited until his company excused themselves and stood to the side before you let Zoya speak.

'I think we may have a sun-summoner.' She said without any negligible hesitancy. The tent suddenly froze in time. The Grisha held their breath and the otkazat'sya paled as your eyes grew wide. A Sun-Summoner.

'We were 2 markers in and were attacked by volcra, a searing light came out of nowhere, or rather came out of a girl, a first-army soldier.' You could see the lieutenant perk up at the sound of one of his being mentioned but Aleksander's expression hadn't changed since Zoya started talking.

'Bring her to me.'

'A Healer is bringing her now.' As she concluded her statements, she silently moved off to the crowd of other Grisha who'd come back from the skiff journey looking equally as shaken as she did.

You leaned back on the desk for support as you settled the information she'd just given you. This was Zoya, a very, very credible witness who'd just said a Sun-Summoner had been found. A legend come true, a myth that no longer needed debunking.

You looked at him again, this time noticing a flicker of hope in his eyes. He stared right back into your own wide eyes and gave a gentle nod followed by a small squeeze of reassurance to your hand which still held a tight hold on his arm. He kept his back to the entrance but you had a full view of her once the tent flap opened.

She was brought in by two guards in a scuffed First-Army uniform, Whether it was from the volcra or just daily use, you didn't know. She looked slightly sickly but mostly scared, like a wounded animal being hunted by its prey.

'Bring her closer.' You had let go of his arm now, that feeling of surety left you cold as his touch disappeared from yours. The guards brought her forth a bit more, letting her go and stepping back as their General finally turned around.

'Closer.' She took a tiny step forward. The poor girl is petrified.

'Well?'

'Well, what. Sir?' She was on the defense, I don't blame her. He was intimidating even when he wasn't using his powers.

'What are you?'

'Alina Starkov, Assistant Cartographer, Royal Corps of Surveyors.' Her fearful expression suddenly changed into a more devastated one. 'They’re all gone. It’s my fault. That’s why I’m here, isn’t it?'

'Answer the question.' He leaned back against the desk just as you did.

'A mapmaker, sir' It was clear to you that Ms.Starkov had no idea why she was here. She was scared, alone, and being interrogated by the most feared man in all of Ravka. The tent erupted in a peal of laughter but you had no time for such snobbiness.

'Quiet' You ordered and a silence fell over the space once again. There was a time when you wouldn't dare command a tent full of Grisha, but Aleksander had changed you; changed the way all his Grisha looked at you.

'So who actually saw what happened? Zoya? You manned the mainsail.'

Zoya repeated what she told you, and Aleksander asked the girl whether she'd been tested but your ears stopped listening once she'd stated she grew up in Keramzin. You too grew up in Keramzin before you were shipped off to the Little Palace to train and become a skilled Heartrenderer. You knew they tested all the children, so how the hell did she slip through the cracks?

You came back from your thoughts just as Aleksander approached her and subsequently amplified her powers. A beam of light so bright and strong you felt some heat from it pounced from her skin and up through the ceiling.

Everyone looked away from the harsh ray but you couldn't turn away. It was beautiful and magical, the physical embodiment of hope, but short-lived as Aleksander let her go and she fell back with a look of awe. He moved quickly, whispering into Ivan's ear and then moving back to you.

'Accompany them to the Little Palace. Ride on a horse and be on the lookout, and give her your kefta.' You nodded curtly, knowing he only trusted his inner circle with the transport of the Sun-Summoner to Os Alta, and that included you. Alina was dragged out from the tent still in a daze of her own.

Your earlier argument with him vanished from your memory as he leaned down to briefly kiss you on the top of your head, 'Be safe.' And with that, you left to find your horse.

***

The backroads were peaceful and quiet as your horse galloped along the dirt road. You wanted so badly to sit in the carriage and speak to Alina, a fellow child of Keramzin, but you listened to Aleksander's command and served as a lookout for any oncoming dangers. So far it had been all clear, but as you approached a hill, a tree blocking the road caught your attention. You slid off your horse and signaled the coachmen to stop too.

'The road is blocked! Beware!' One of them shouted and then all hell broke loose. Shots came from everywhere and anywhere while your horse, in a frightful spell, escaped the way you came.

You had no clear line of vision as dust and dirt clouds plummed above ground and a bullet scratched your left shoulder, then your leg. Your eyes stung and lungs burned as you tried to get yourself out of direct lines of bullets and bombs, eventually finding a place behind thick trees.

Ivan and Fedyor joined you almost immediately both panting and the latter holding his hand to his chest.

'You're bleeding Y/N, where is your kefta?' Fedyor panicked and lay his other hand on your leg where the blood glistened like a jewel.

'How many are there?' Ivan risked asking, trying to get your mind off of the bleeding wounds. Your hands were up in the air as you listened for heartbeats and your heart dropped to your stomach. Too many.

'At least 15 more.' You looked around the Grisha desperately devising a plan in your head that would bring you all out alive.

'Get to the carriage, protect the girl' You signaled to the three Heartrenderers and Squaller.

'But you're hurt and you cannot fight the-' Ivan was cut off by the darkening of the forest, a classic tell that Aleksander was here. Relief flooded you all. The shadows loomed over you, directing their course to near the carriage and then up ahead to where Alina was.

You waited for him to erupt from behind the trees and help you, but the minutes ticked by and you were still hiding from the skilled Fjerdan fighters without backup. Fedyor looked to you, disappointment and pity clear on his face.

Only momentarily did the fighting cease as bullets carried on their assault. You assumed they would flee from the fear of being in the Darkling's presence, but they hit back twice as hard. In return, you all fought back equally as strong, knocking out bodies left right and center despite your dwindling body.

All throughout the fight, you had one thing on your mind and that was why Aleksander chose to ignore you. Was he still mad from your argument? No that couldn't possibly be why he would leave you to potentially die at the hands of druskelle.

Yes you were a soldier, but no doubt he knew the extents of the Fjerdan army and their skilled fighters. If outnumbered, a Grisha was basically of no use.

-If you're gonna love me and leave me hanging here....-

You understood she was the Sun-Summoner but you were you. You were the person he shared his bed with every night, the person who could calm his stormy mind, and the person who stayed with him through it all even though you hurt more than he loved. It stung like a throbbing wound and snagged at your already dwindling will to keep the relationship alive.

-then I'd rather you leave me lonely-

—————-

Part 2

Taglist

@aleksanderwh0r3 @theonelittleone @searching-for-gallifrey @lostysworld @0-artemis @exo-1204 @staradorned @bookfrog242 @simp-for-ben-barners @keepdaydreamingbb @acciorudolphx @pansysgirlfriend @pansysgirlfriend @justmesadgirl

[cielcius]

So a 3rd year bakugou x reader where the reader has known bakugou since they were kids but he was a big bully to her just like w midoriya. They're dating now and she forgives give him cause she's seen his growth but she gets turned 13 again by villains and is kinda scared of bakugou the entire time, but everyone talks abt how he looks at her and shows he's cared throughout the years. She turns back and just remorseful bakugou fluff and reader reassuring she's forgiven him. Love your writing 🖤

SEVENTEEN GOING ON THIRTEEN | BAKUGOU KATSUKI

pairings: Bakugou x fem!reader

summary: Being seventeen was like a dream. But being thirteen was hell and Bakugou Katsuki was living for it all.

from the writer: hey hun! sorry this came later than usual but I hope u like it :) thanks for requesting and enjoy. have a lovely day/evening!

genre: angst, hurt & comfort, light fluff, happy ending

wc: 4.9k

notes & warnings: depictions of past bullying, villain attack, mentions of s**cide, cursing, reader gets turned into thirteen year old self

The bomb was near. You could hear it just as the last of the office workers had cleared the floor, the whirring of the elevator being the only noise besides the honking of traffic coming in from the streets below. Your breath was shallow, trying to lower any noise to the ability of your extent in order to get rid of the looming threat. You weren’t sure if it was any help that Bakugou was the only other person with you, seeing that his quirk was the very epitome of the rising threat, a sword hanging by a mere thread over the throne.

It was silent for a minute with only the ticking of the bomb until a voice shouted out. “There’s only a minute left, little heroes. You better surrender and hand over that money now before it’s too late.” The sinister, playful tone of the villain rang over the intercom, a mistake on their part as the both of you rushed to the floor above. The whole level was trashed as furniture were turned onto their sides and plant pots scattered around in pieces.

Taking your stance at the side of the door to the announcement room, you nod to Bakugou as he opened the door and was pushed back immediately. Holding his chest where the villain’s elbow had hit, Bakugou watched as you chased after the villain, activating your quirk as you got closer. They led you up to the roof, another mistake on their part as you cornered the villain.

The entrance was blocked by your figure but the villain pushed through anyways. Readying your quirk, you charge towards the villain before they push you back, their quirk activating as it rendered you unconscious, leaving only Bakugou to find you later in the form of your thirteen year old self.

—

“I’m not sure how long it will last this time. It could be days, maybe even weeks before they turn back to their normal form.” You couldn’t recognize the voice of the woman speaking, not being able to sense where you were. What had happened? The last of your memories had stopped when you were walking home with your friend Midoriya, helping him with his cuts and burns before his mother got back home to question him.

Your head felt as if someone had come up from behind and smacked you in the head with a bat. A bad feeling stirred inside of your stomach, making you feel nauseous in your sleep as you gulped down the bile that was threatening to come up. Your throat burned, you needed water but you were too scared to wake up, to open your eyes to the poor reality that was your life. Had you been caught with bruises and burns all over your body? The inflicted damage that you had desperately tried to hide as you tried to sympathize with your bully.

Finally, you peeled your eyes open, dirt crusting in the creases as you came face to face with a starch white ceiling. The bright luminescent light made you squint, bringing your forearm up as a shield against its rays. “You’re awake. How do you feel, L/n?” You turned your head at the sound of your name, a rugged man standing to the side of where you laid on a cot. Where exactly were you?

“W-who are you?” The smaller woman beside the man hands you a cup, presumably with water as you sit up and the warm liquid travels down your throat. “What’s the last thing you remember, L/n?” You blink, not sure if you should answer the woman as you look back at the man who gives you a nod in return. “I was walking home with my friend after school.” The two adults eye each other, clearly knowing that something was wrong.

“What school do you go to?” You answered with your middle school name, noticing the hesitant looks exchanged before they turned to you again. Perhaps they were a part of the government, though if they were then it would only bring a bigger suspicion as to why you were here. Fear charged up inside you like a flare, wondering what exactly had you gotten yourself into. “Okay. L/n, you’re a third year at U.A. but you’ve been hit with a villain’s quirk. So for a few days, you’re gonna stay in the dorms until your parents can come to pick you up from their trip.”

You were hit with a quirk? It seemed impossible as you didn’t remember anything about coming across a villain while walking home. It sounded more like a scam the more you thought about it, eyeing the two suspiciously as you shifted in your spot on the cot. “Where are my parents?” You don’t remember them telling you that they were taking a trip, the only possibility of there being one was for their anniversary, which wasn’t for another five months.

You followed the man out of the room silently, noting that the sunlit hallways were filled with students much older than you. Maybe they were telling the truth, you were a student at the famous hero school U.A. The students were all in their own world as lunch break was just ending, clusters of teens making their way to class. You looked up at the man who’s steps were sluggish as he led you outside to a building labeled 3-A.

“I have to teach a class but your room is on the left side of the building on the fourth floor. If you’re hungry, the kitchen’s right there and the bathroom’s over there.” Those were the man’s final words as he left you in the brightly lit building. You looked around the large room, taking in the green couches huddled in the corner around a television set, the dozens of tables set before the kitchen, and the bathrooms labeled to the side of the elevators.

You weren’t sure what you should do. It felt like you were intruding on them even though you had your own room. You looked down at the hospital attire where the legs of the pants seemed to drag on the floor everywhere you walked. Maybe a good start would be to change into more comfortable clothes that didn’t make you feel so exposed.

The man was right. Or perhaps you shouldn’t have been surprised when you stopped in front of the door labeled with your name. Walking in, you could tell it was your room, judging by the picture frame set on the desk that showed an old photo of you and your family. Again, it felt as if you were intruding on someone else’s home as you hesitantly looked around for where your clothes were being kept. Finding a good outfit that fit you well enough, you looked around the room more until you noticed a plethora of pictures tacked to the wall.

You assumed that it was either your friends that you had made or your classmates as you radiated a sort of maturity through the photos. Taking a larger one down, you looked at what seemed to be a class picture, absorbing the features of them all at the same time until your eyes stopped on two particular people. Your friend, Midoriya Izuku and your bully, Bakugou Katsuki.

The last time you had checked, Midoriya was quirkless and U.A. wasn’t exactly fit to train a quirkless hero with their harsh training sessions. Your fingers started to fidget with the corner of the snapshot, your eyes trailing over to the blond. Your shoulders tensed just at the sight of him, how had someone like him even managed to get into a school for heroes?

Putting the picture back, you sat at the edge of the bed, the familiar trimming of an old blanket crinkled under your fingertips until they were crushed in the hold of your fists. You looked down at your legs, clearly remembering how bruised they were until now when you had noticed the strange disappearance. You looked around the room again, the pit of your stomach writhing with nerves and something more as the overbearing feeling of displacement washed over you again.

The room was quiet, save for the ticking of a clock. You hadn’t noticed how long you sat there, calming yourself down before you actually ended up hurling. On your desk, there laid a time table of the school days. School was supposed to end at three thirty in the afternoon and it was ten minutes past. But as you stood up, contemplating to get a simple glass of water, you heard the chatter of people from all the way on the first floor, and you sat down again.

They may know you, but you didn’t have a clue about them except for their appearance. But that wouldn’t help if you didn’t even know their names, save for two specific people. At the thought of Midoriya, your posture relaxed just the slightest. Maybe he would be able to help you, that and you had to come out of your room eventually, right?

You opened the door, peeking through a small crack before deeming it safe to creep out of your dorm, until the gentle ring of the elevator stopped you in your tracks. A pink skinned girl walked alongside a brunette, both recognizable from a photo with all the class girls. Their conversation turned to a halt as they noticed you, frozen in the middle of the hallway. You blinked, and blinked again as you felt their arms wrapping you in excitement.

“L/n! You’re back! Are you okay? How are you feeling?” The pink girl held you with both hands by the shoulders as both girls stared at you, waiting for an answer until the brunette’s eyebrows turned down in realization. “Oh, sorry. We forgot to introduce ourselves. Um, I’m Uraraka Ochako. This is Ashido Mina. We’re your classmates.”

You followed them down after waiting for them to change out of their uniforms, choosing to stick with the two for now. Though you didn’t have many friends, they seemed nice enough to make small conversation with. Through them, you learned how everything and everyone worked in the dorms, all contributing to keep it from becoming a fire-lit dumpster.

It made you nervous to hear that Midoriya usually chose to stay back after class for extra training, coming back to the dorms later on but the welcoming aura of the two seemed to numb the feeling enough to not worry you. “Don’t worry, we’ll get everybody to introduce themselves. They might seem a little intimidating but I promise we’re not.” Uraraka smiled, having you return the same gesture as the elevator doors slid open.

Stepping out into what you learned was the common room, you took in the large group of people sat by the couches, all having their own conversations until they turned to you. Your back straightened, the sudden attention going to your shoulders until Mina brought you back out of your daze, the cheer in her smile breaking a hole in the shield you held.

A guy, named Ojiro you learned, made room for you on the couch as everybody presented themselves with their name and quirk. You even got a few demonstrations as Yaoyorozu made you a small clip for your hair with Koda calling over a bird to land on your shoulder. You excused yourself a little later after introductions, looking for some water as you wandered over to the kitchen. That was until you realized that you didn’t know which cup was yours, all obviously personalized to fit the owner.

You walked back over to where everybody was on the couches, about to speak up until someone did it for you. “Y/n.” Him. You had forgotten, and you cursed yourself for it, for letting your guard down too fast, too early. You gulped down the once again rising bile in your throat, not wanting to look at him until the force of his gaze made you.

Just at the sight of blond hair, you stepped back, eyes wide as an involuntary whimper rumbled in your throat. Your hands wrapped around the edge of your long sleeve, palms clammy as you made contact with red, with fear. Why was he saying your first name? Why was he saying your name at all? The only thing he ever called you was something along the lines of weak, a failure, a nobody.

Everybody could sense the change in the atmosphere at the new presence of Bakugou, remembering that you were childhood friends, but perhaps ‘friends’ wasn’t the right word. You looked back down to your feet, wanting to be back in your dorm under the covers where not even the monsters under the bed could reach you. You wished they did, maybe you could have been deprived of this horrid moment as nobody dared to utter a single word.

“Um, can I talk to you?” You flinched at his words, his voice bringing back the memory of what he had done just today. Well, today for you but to him, that was three years ago in the past. Your eyes adverted the side, not wanting to answer until you heard him walk closer. Again, you saw the epitome of fear through his eyes as he started to pull you away by the arm. Your breathes were fast, shallow until he stopped to look back at you with something you couldn’t recognize.

“Bakugou.” A voice called for him but his eyes were on you and for you only. He realized that you were your thirteen year old self, still in the time of your life when you both were at your worst. Slowly, he let go of your arm, breaking slightly at the loss of contact with you, but right now, maybe it was for the best. Looking from where his hand left your wrist, he looked back up to you, but you still wouldn’t look at him. He noticed how you were getting further, desperate to get away from him. Was he really that bad? Bad enough to make you act like you were standing in front of the devil himself?

“Can I just talk to you— please?” He could tell how shocked you were at the extra word, probably wondering if that had been in his vocabulary this whole time. But surely, even you could see how desperate he was to just be able to speak with you, to touch you, to just be with you. Finding you just a bit shorter, a bit chubbier, a bit younger, at the top of that building had set him off, hoping that it was only your appearance that had changed. But it seemed as life wanted to test him with your rewinded mindset, pulling his biggest fear up to the surface to act as the first question.

But he didn’t work to change for nothing, for you to be scared shitless of him once again. He heard his name again, almost moving to shout at whatever extra was trying to interrupt but he kept himself restrained so as to not scare you. “L/n, just three minutes and I'll bring you back. I swear.” It felt wrong saying your last name, addressing you in such a formal way when he had just gotten used to calling you by your given name.

Maybe you were still suspicious of him, wondering when he was going to drop the nice act but he wasn’t acting, and everybody knew it. Even if you weren’t aware of it, seventeen years old or thirteen, he would do anything to make you happy, even if it wasn’t because of him, even if he wasn’t in the picture. And maybe it was cheesy and way out of character for him to say this but he’d do anything to get you to even smile, laugh, anything that would make your life better because if it weren’t for him, that’s how it would’ve been. Better.

He should’ve been the one making you happy instead of the other way around when you agreed to talk with him, but he took it as a win anyways. One win closer to getting you back, to show you that he would never in his lifetime hurt you ever again. The pain was something not only inflicted on you, but on him too, and he beat himself up even more every second as he watched you follow behind him out of the corner of his eye.

Turning a corner, Bakugou faced your figure where you had yet to look at him, choosing to keep your eyes to the ground. He held back the temptation to sigh, becoming unsure of how to handle the situation in the three minutes he had promised. Reaching out a tentative hand, he waited for your reaction until you froze, enough to tell him how scared and uncomfortable you were. He couldn’t physically reach out to you, not right now, and so he’ll use his words instead, hoping that it might mend the thin strand holding the blade above your heads.

“I know I wasn’t really a good person in middle school, alright? I was a shitty brat who didn’t know better but really, I’ve changed.” Said like every other toxic antagonist in the movies. It was then that Bakugou realized how hard it really was to come back from something so horrible, understanding yet questioning how he felt years ago back in first year when you had confronted him about his past behavior. And he hated this feeling, the feeling that made him the villain of the story when all he wanted to be was, your hero.

He wanted, needed, to say something else before he had to let you go, and yet there were no words left to be said but two. “I’m sorry.” It was quiet, soft. The words falling like feathers from his mouth as it landed on the floor of your mind, waiting to be picked up and processed. “I know what I did in the past isn’t forgivable, and it shouldn’t be, but you still did it anyways. Sometimes I still wonder how I managed to get you, but now I—..... fuck. Y/n, I’m sorry.”

This entire time you hadn’t spoken, hadn’t moved an inch, hadn’t even made an effort to even look at him as he broke, trying to get you to see how sorry he was. His chest hurt, like his heart was aching for you even though you were right there in front of him, but that wasn’t it. He missed you. Tears leaking, he waited for the soft touch of your fingertips to wipe them away but you only stood there, scared motionless as he silently sobbed.

“L/n,” He called you by your last name this time. “I was a bad person, I know, but let me show you that I’m not like that anymore. Please.” This wasn’t like him. Bakugou Katsuki, the one you knew, would never say please, not to someone like you. But this wasn’t your Bakugou, this was someone else, a stranger who wanted to show you who he really was. You knew you shouldn’t open the door for strangers, your parents had taught you that well, but maybe just this once, you would leave it unlocked for him to explore and show you what type of person he really was.

“Okay.”

—

He was powerful, even more-so than he was in middle school. Frankly, you were never able to imagine how the public would ever be able to see him as a hero but there he was, getting his special attack ready against the villain ahead. You couldn’t find Midoriya in the crowd, lost to the boy as you chose to watch Bakugou’s next move. You weren’t sure what to expect when Midoriya tried to take you to see Bakugou on patrol, only remembering that villain activity had just started to rise as the Symbol of Peace appeared less and less every day.

You supposed that it was still the same in this timeline, not noticing how the crowd had stepped back to give the rising hero space for battle. You wanted to look away, go back to finding your friend where you had lost him but your eyes wouldn’t let you. There were still a few running amok, trying to get out of range as the villain attacked, giving Bakugou only seconds to counter and avoiding the crowd by a single hair as the clouds of smoke filled the street.

The smoke brought you back, coughing as your eyes stung from the particles. You shouldn’t have strayed far from your friend, trying to find a certain store when the villain appeared. As the interior of your elbow muffled your coughs, your body was pulled by a force, an arm around your waist as a voice told you to ‘hang on tight’.

Bakugou blasted you away from the scene, knowing full well that Midoriya would find a way to defeat the villain on his own with no context provided. Just a few blocks away would be safe enough for you, Bakugou landing with his hold on you becoming tighter. “Are you okay?” It had only been two days since you turned thirteen again, still scared of Bakugou as he put a tremendous amount of effort into his actions in order to make peace with you.

You nodded, beating yourself up not only for getting lost but for potentially putting Bakugou in danger as he made an effort to save you. Yet for the first time in your life, your feelings about him weren’t filled with just sorrow, but with realization and something along the lines of what may have been hope.

“Why don’t you go take a swan dive off the building? And take your little friend with you while you’re at it, bitch.” Bakugou sneered, making you back up against the window-pane wall. You should’ve taken up your teacher’s offer for art club, maybe you’d be safe there instead of crying pathetically alone in your classroom as Bakugou once again made time in his schedule just to put you down in the dumps. But that was low, especially for someone who was supposedly aiming to become the number one hero.

Still, you said nothing. You didn’t know what to say, it’d be ill-mannered of you to wish the same of him, and you weren’t going to stoop to his level no matter what. And so you said nothing. Standing there as you tried to censor his words until you were on the ground, holding your cheek where his quirk had burned you. You wouldn’t be able to hide that, you’d have to come up with an excuse, perhaps you could say that you spilled boiling water on your face as you tripped during home economics.

You hadn’t realized that Bakugou and his goons were already gone until the classroom was silent once more. Getting up, you watched from the window as your oppressor walked away, grinning like he hadn’t just made an impact on someone’s life for the worst. As the saying goes, the axe forgets what the tree will always remember.

But maybe the axe was brand new, finding its purpose as it realized that maybe hurting the tree wasn’t a very good thing.

—

“L/n! We forgot to tell you but we usually have game nights on Thursdays. Did you wanna join?” You looked at Kaminari, then to Sero who stood just behind him, and finally to the rest of the class where they were sat by the couches. “Um, I guess.” The honey blond grinned and pulled you over to a seat on the couch, close enough to see the old board game that had been pulled from the depths of the dorm closet, Monopoly.

“Should we really be playing this? You know the first and last time we played was in first year and five people cried from going bankrupt.” Said five people looked away from Yaoyorozu as she voiced her concerns. “It’ll be fine, we’ll play nice this time.” Oh how naive Class 3-A can be at times, a big loving family just waiting to be broken apart by the board game famous for tearing friendships down until there was nothing left but tears.

But saving it for the actual game, Iida suggested playing in teams to which everybody agreed to. As everybody paired up, the slow realization dawned upon them as they realized that Bakugou was usually the one to pair up with you, until now. “Bakugou, you know what, how about we switched partners, Hagakure usually gets frustrated with me anyways.” Mina pulled on his arm, trying to get him from getting closer to you as you shrink in your spot on the couch. Perhaps it would have been best to stay in your dorm tonight.

“Fuck off, Raccoon Eyes. I don’t care what age Y/n is, we’ll still beat the shit out of everybody here.” With hands stuffed in his pockets, he plopped down softly in the spot next to you, eyeing you as your shoulders conveyed the devastatingly familiar uncomfortable reaction.

He wasn’t sure if he should play now, regretting not taking Mina up on her offer. What was he thinking, making you uncomfortable like this? Should he move away? Bail?

You still couldn’t clearly look at him, making him wonder if his actions were really doing anything to show you how different he actually was now. Shoji passed out the materials, quietly placing them in yours and Bakugou’s area as Bakugou continued to gaze at you.

It was your team’s turn to roll the dice. “Do you.. wanna play or not?” Holding out his hand with the small cubes, he looked away to give you a chance to breath under the weight of his stare, now conscious of how pressuring he may have been just now.

A minute passed, or at least what felt like a minute. Bakugou was starting to think that maybe you had gotten up and walked away, abandoning him and his effort until he felt a soft tickle in his palm as you grabbed the dice to roll.

His eyes whipped around just in time to see a faint turn of your lips, something of a smile and maybe some more as you moved the little figure up a few spaces before returning to your original position beside him.

A little aways from the couple, Yaoyorozu and Kaminari whispered to each other as they observed you. “Aw, look at the way he’s staring at her though.” The honey blond followed the darker-hair’s gaze to where she gestured.

As told, Bakugou was staring just like he always did, but nobody dared to point it out as usual, instead leaving the two to their own devices. “It’s hard to believe that he’d look at her any other way, don’t you think?”

—

“Katsuki!”

He never thought he’d be able to hear his name fall from your lips with such fervor ever again as he turned to you. After just a week and a half, you were back to third year Y/n, a student at U.A. and the loving girlfriend of Bakugou Katsuki.

He was glad— he missed you, but something felt off as he hugged you again. Your touch was the same, warm and full of much love and then some, but a feeling resided still in the core of Bakugou’s stomach. A feeling that told him there was something that needed to be fixed.

You could tell, that it was Bakugou who was there but at the same time, it wasn’t him. Knowing your thirteen year old self well, you were scared shitless of him, never daring to make a comeback. But what his past actions did, affected not one but the both of you. “Katsuki,” You kept your hand placed on the swell of his cheek. “Look at me.”

It was funny now that it was him who couldn’t stand to look you in the eyes, not scared but sorry. Sorry that he was never able to fix anything with your visiting past self, sorry that he couldn’t make a bigger effort, sorry that he ever did that to you in the first place. “I know you’re a good person, and that you’ve changed. I know, but do you?”

He wasn’t sure what he should’ve expected you to say, but certainly not that. A simple question with a bigger meaning, one that he couldn’t bring himself to answer.

Was he really a good person? Had he exaggerated who he really was to your past self? He was a stranger you had left the door open for, but the moment he stepped in, the chance to take everything dear to you was too good to pass up.

“Y/n.... I’m sorry. I don’t know if I’m a good person, if I’m good enough for you—” His eyes snapped up at the gentle slap to his cheek where you previously held on, interrupting his poorly rehearsed apology.

“Bullshit, Katsuki. You should know better than to think that I still haven’t forgiven you for that. I have and look where we are now. Katsuki, I love you. Not only because you’re a good person or because you changed but because you put the effort in trying to make that change.

“You could’ve let me be with the others but you still wanted to change the image of yourself in thirteen year old me’s mind,” You brought your other hand to fully hold his face. “Katsuki, you’re a good person.”

And it was as simple as that. You loved him, he loved you, and that was all you needed. Bakugou couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer, closing them tight as tears threatened to leak down his cheeks. Quietly, without another word, you brought him in for another hug.

Katsuki, you’re a good person.