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The bakery is a front!...right? Part 3
Danny carefully finished the last details on a special order cake done by his newest and likely most crucial customer should the man like his pastries.
Bruce Wayne's butler was to arrive in twenty minutes for his youngest son's birthday cake. It was a staking tower and three smaller stacks, each depicting a cow on a farm, and a cat sleeping with a dog in the middle of a leap. Damian had asked for a cake that showed all his pets but was vegan.
It was an honestly fun order even if he didn't quite understand the special instructions.
"Damian's school friends mention a fun new "suger energy" coming from this bakery. I want him not to be seen as someone out of touch, so please make sure to add that in," Bruce Wayne said over the phone to a shocked Danny a week prior. If he got Wayne's attention, then soon his bakery would be the newest hot spot in Gotham!
It would be the perfect cover for bringing over more funds from his Ghost Vault and expanding. He could help many more people with employment without bringing the pesky IRS on his head for having unexplainable cash.
Sometimes doing everything by the book was a headache and a half, but if there was one thing Fentons knew how to do, was make their business significantly legal. How else would his parents file taxes for "ghost hunting?"
Handsome possible mate is near. Phantom purred in his mind while Danny spun the cake one last time to ensure everything was in order.
Sure enough Alvin appears at the kitchen door, not quite within the room, staring
. Danny has no problems with who is in his kitchen, but Andres insisted only kitchen staff needed to be back here. Apparently, they didn't have enough legroom to add more people, taking up unnecessary space.
And Andres had a strange urge to keep all their recipes a secret. It was not uncommon in Gotham for big corporations to send in spies and cause small businesses to go bankrupt when selling their secerts.
Danny, knows he's a good baker, has since he was a child. Even before his move, he could convince other ghosts Rogues to stop mid-fight for a snack break because his creations were tasty. While his original recipes falling into the hands of greedy rich men made him squirm, it was primarily due to someone taking credit for his work rather than any funds lost to them.
So after a while, he agreed to Andres' demands and promoted him to store manager. It was easier to have someone from Gotham run a Gotham shop. It left Danny with more time to bake and keep a eye on the community's recovery.
He was so happy to see that overdoses had gone down by nearly sixty percent since he opened. The homeless population had decreased by forty percent, and overall crime in his area had been a good twenty percent.
It was good to see how he was protecting his haunt.
"Danny" Alvin called after a moment. "Do you need help?"
Now, Alvin is a great guy, cute too but he couldn't decorate a cupcake to save his life. His bother was a better hand in the kitchen.
Bring him to our nessssstttt Phantom urged with a shocking wave of want, almost having Danny tumble over. Ugh, his mating season is getting out of hand.
He had seen Frostbite last week about it, but the yeti told him it was perfectly natural for ecto-beings. He would start to stabilize soon, and hopefully, Phantom would no longer be tripping over its tail to get a significant other and start a family.
His nesting problem only grew recently. Now Danny owned every building on the block- primarily due to the facilities being old businesses that went bankrupt years ago and made it super cheap after sitting there for years collecting dust. He had realized that kids didn't feel safe with adults, so a new building went up for homeless adults on his other side. Then he realized that they could benefit from a laundry place which happened to be one of the businesses that went under.
He got that remodeled and threw more goons into it. Scarecrow's old goons had gotten the word out that Danny paid well, gave excellent benefits, and working for him had the less likely chance of getting their face smashed in. Then a homeless kid asked Danny if he could borrow his bathroom because the temporary ones in the side buildings were small and cold, and the kid really missed splashing around in a tub instead of a shower. He realized he also needed to offer that. So one of the buildings was turned into a bathhouse, with rentable personal spa rooms for regular citizens. Now a community laundromat and bathhouse were open at all hours, helping stop the spread of diseases with good hygiene.
Of course, Danny had to make it seem like the money for all of this came from somewhere. He contacted Vlad, whose status as a billionaire made it easy to wire him the funds. When asked, Vlad would only mention trying to get into his step-kids good side.
He still had plenty of street kids doing bakery deliveries for him, but now he had more space to give them a actually apartment. He of course never ask for commitment and they never gave it to him.
He had a few families approach him to rest out the other buildings for business and he was excited to see different restaurants and cafes blooming to life around him. This whole street, once a dead sad thing, was becoming colorful because of him.
'I'm fine thank you Alvin" Danny says shooting the younger man a grin. Alvin face heats up and Phantom is practically beating its head against a wall. Screaming, crying as Alvin plays with bit of his hair at the bottom of his neck.
Danny swallows down the urge run his fingers through it, focusing on his human side as hard as he could.
"Is that the cake with the special ingredient? The one you send the street kids on deliverieswith?" Alvin asks after a moment pause.
"Sure is. Hopefully, we can get the Wayne's hooked on it. It'll be great for business." Danny smiles. There is a split second where Alvin's face tightens around the mouth like he's angry before it's gone.
"Yeah, I bet. Though with the help of Masters, we won't have to worry about funds for a while, right?"
Putting his tools in the sink to soak, the baker shrugs. "Vlad will help but only after he sees potential in something. The set up I have going got his attention cause of our special ingredient. He's dabbled with it before, you know? That's how he got rich"
Alvin jerks his head in his direction. "So he's an expert?"
"More than an expert. He's the main reason we have so much of this stuff to push. I wouldn't be able to get it on my own without his help," Danny says, absent minded. He's busy trying to beat Phantom back with a stick as his ghost side whines for a child of their own.
He's not going to date any of his employees. That's a weird power imbalance that Jazz would never approve of.
Maybe he should take some time away from the bakery for a while. Danny couldn't find true love if he was always working. He'll ask Tucker and Sam to come to some clubs or something. It could be fun.
I want a baby! Phantom sneered outrage that his demands have been ignored.
Soon Danny promised I'd eat two whole bagels later in the meantime.
"Masters is our leading supplier, and he just lets us manage his goods without instruction? Isn't that a bit unorthodox?
Danny blinks " I guess? Vlad's always done some unorthodox deals. His giving me complete control will likely keep him out of the picture once someone catches on. Gosh, sometimes I wish I got out of the family business as my sisters did, but one of us had done this, or our parents would be unbearable."
Alvin Draper looks sadden "Your parents pushed you into this life?"
"Raised me in it," Danny corrects "My dad and I made his special Fruge for the first time when I was three. Been hooked ever since."
Just then Peter is there looking horror stuck "Your old man got you hooked at age three?"
"Yeah?"
"Why do you keep doing it then?"
"The baking? Well, it's ugh part of me now. I'll die of I stop- er die completely. "
Alvin snatched his hand to tug him close, and wow, he was stronger than he looked for a nineteen-year-old. Phantom woofs as the man practically lefts him off the floor to set him on the counter and stare into his eyes. "You don't have to live like this anymore. Let me help you. Let me protect you"
Both Danny and Phantom chock on their shared spit at the best flirting method anyone could use against a protective spirit.
The promise of protection was like someone whispering sweet nothings in his ear during love making.
"I got to go!" He screams jumping away from the brothers to run out of his own bakery in a panic.
Goodness. I need a vacation. Maybe my sisters would be down for some ectoplasm collecting in the Ghost Zone?
(Jason and Tim take the cake for Damian back to the cave, swearing when the test come back as a regular vegan cake. Had Tim stepped in too early and stop Danny from adding the drug?
Jason was angry that Danny was just another kid the adult around him failed. But now Danny was one of those adults, and it's killed him to admit it, but he would still shoot Danny in order to stop the cycle.
Bruce, after confirming the cake was delicate, shared a slice with his youngest, who adored the flavor. It was the best cake he's ever had. Such a waste of talent on crime.
At least the Bats had a new lead. Vlad Masters and his mysterious rise to wealth. They would get him and Danny off the streets.
Danny is miles away, fanning his blushing face as his sister demands more information of the cute baker boy that knew how to flirt with protection ghosts. )
( Part 1) (Part 2), (Part 4)
#dc x dp crossover#the bakery is a front!...right?#part 3#Danny just digging himself a bigger hole#he thinks everyone made fudge with thier dads and ectoplasim is a special ingredient#Tim just made himself super hot to both human abd ghost Danny
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I just remembered that Delta was with country Branch in Ronda, how does band together go with her there?
So BroZone gets a lot of chastising in Country Branch. John Dory attempts to interrupt the wedding and all of a sudden he hears the absolutely scariest voice yell 'Sit down.' Well, not yell. Firmly say in the same tone of voice that has you knowing you are about to be grounded. Despite being a forty year old man and not knowing who the hell said that he listened.
When he tries to recruit Branch for the rescue, Delta's doing most of the talking. John Dory makes the mistake of asking 'And who are you supposed to be? His mommy?'
The only reason John Dory doesn't die is because Trolls is for children.
At Bruce's instead of the group running up, Delta goes first and introduces herself to Bruce and compliments his parenting. Before she can ask about 'Spruce' (not that she doesn't already have the gist of the situation) she starts rambling about her darling son and what a good mannered, hardworking country boy he is.
She then proceeds to yell "Branchidiah! Come introduce yourself!"
The Country Branch AU version of 'Branchifer' is Branchidiah, if you couldn't tell.
Delta cuts Bruce's attempt at a reunion off to continue to rave about what a good son her Branch is in spite of his 'no good rotten siblings'.
She a little bit talks down to Clay.
Clay: If I was still fun would I have chosen the admin building as my bedroom? Delta: *laughs* Oh well bless your heart, ain't you a cute one? Delta: *pats his cheek* I remember when I was young and wild, oh I thought I was a big shot, tough as nails troll too.
Floyd she keeps trying to feed any time she sees him and telling him he's whiter than a ghost.
Delta: Now come eat this chili, you're as pale as a sheet and just as likely to go blowin' away in the wind. Floyd: I'm okay, I'm not hungry. Delta: I insist. You look like you've had the life sucked outta ya. Floyd: Misses Delta Dawn, that joke wasn't funny the first time you said it.
#sibblings qna#country branch au#trolls branch#delta dawn#brozone#john dory#trolls bruce#trolls clay#trolls floyd
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(not so) young, drunk and alone 1/1
“Swan, it’s me. ‘M so sorry I ‘avnent called for… September, October, Nov… three months. Shit that’s too many months. ‘M sorry but I need your help. The sherrffeff won’t let me leave. He says you have to pick me up - well not you but ‘ynow someone. I don’t know anyone else. Oh! It’s Killian by the way. Killian Jones. I don’t know how many Killians you know but I’m that one. The dickhead who ghosted you. ‘Nway, if you could call me back that would be just - awesome. Yur prolly not gonna call me back. I wouldn’t call me back. ‘Nway… yeah. It’s Killian. Thanks.”
(We'll give this a light M)
Oh hey, it's me, neglecting all the WIPs for something new.
This fic is a little birthday present to myself. It's completely ferral and I had very little control over it but I listened to Dial Drunk on repeat for 3 days and then this happened. This fic is unbetaed but thank you @the-darkdragonfly for answering all my texts and rambling calls while I was writing it!
A Silver hook story because apparently everything I write is now...
Read it on Ao3 (where my italics work)
******
(not so) young, drunk and alone
She shouldn’t be allowed to look at him like that. Not with a smirk caught between her teeth in a way that makes his throat dry and his pulse race. Not with the barely restrained promise of a laugh he’s sure would come out in different company that makes his face burn and and his eyes unable to meet hers. He can’t look at her when she looks like that, and she’s looking at him like that, and he looks - he assumes not great.
So he focuses on the floor instead. The floor is safe. The floor doesn’t stir up conflicting and confusing feelings he’s managed to ignore for the better part of a year. The floor doesn’t make him question every terrible decision he’s made in his life that led him to this exact moment. The floor is… moving. It’s not supposed to do that. Although that’s likely the booze, he rationalizes. But the floor isn’t interested in being rational so Killian lets his forehead fall against the bars he’s already holding onto in an attempt to stay upright. The bars are nice, they’re cool and solid and it slows the spinning in his head a fraction.
“Big night?”
He takes a full ten seconds, counted slowly, and a few deep breaths before raising his head again and facing that smirk. It doesn’t help. The absolute delight in her eyes delivers the same gut-punch it always does - even if it’s at his expense - and the soft blonde curls that have fallen from her probably hastily pulled up bun make him ache to reach out and brush them away from her face just so he can feel the strands between his fingers.
He shouldn’t have called her. He knew it was a mistake when he did it. He should have just let the sheriff keep him in this bloody cell. It’s not as if he hadn’t slept it off a night or two in another cell in another town throughout his youth. But he’s not so youthful now and the sight of the cold, hard bench, the thought of his aching back and the copious amounts of rum still coursing through his blood had been enough to send him over the edge into madness apparently. So he’d pressed the blurry little “absolutely not” in his contacts and called the only person he knew in this whole bloody city.
“Swaann.” He attempts a smile but it turns into a wince as he manages to slur the single word. When he works up to meeting her eyes again - so green, like the sea glass he used to collect on the beach when he was a boy and that takes his breath away every time - there’s a bit of pity mixed in with the amusement.
He feels pretty pitiful. Forty-five and so stumbling drunk that he’d been tossed out of the pub and into a police car, only to be forced to face the one person he’d hoped the rum would chase from his mind. He’s too old to be acting like this. Even with his wits sloshing around in the drink he’d tried to drown them with he knows he’s too old to be acting like this. When you’re young, it’s funny, an anecdote for another time - spending the night in the drunk tank. When you’re his age, it’s just pathetic.
“Alright, let’s get you out of here.” Her voice is sweet, with a laugh still hiding somewhere behind it, and it’s the first sound since he was brought here that hasn’t made his head feel like it was being scratched at from the inside.
“You shouldn’t’ve come here. S’the middle of the night,” he tells her. She doesn’t belong in this sad little room in this sad little jail with the lightbulb that keeps flickering in and out. Still, he can’t stop the stupid smile that finds residence on his face whenever she’s near - because she is here. She came to get him.
Emma raises a brow in a way he thinks she may have picked up from him. “You called me three times.”
He blinks. Fuck. He doesn’t remember that. He looks at the sheriff waiting a little ways back who nods in confirmation, giving Killian his own pitying wince like he tried to stop him. Killian sighs. “‘Mm usually much more charming.”
She rolls her eyes but smirks again as the sheriff slides a key into the ancient looking lock. “Yeah, I know. Come on, Graham’s going to let you off with a warning -”
He nearly falls flat on his face when the door he’d been leaning against swings open.
“You sure you’re gonna be okay with him, Em?”
Oh great, they know each other. He’d be more annoyed at her cozy relationship with the unreasonably attractive sheriff if he wasn’t a little bit grateful to the man who caught him and is still holding him up now. If he can just get his legs to go back under him where they belong…
“I’ll be fine. Thanks.”
Killian feels himself being passed from the man who smells strikingly of the forest, to the woman with the irreplicable scent of honey and drugstore soap that overwhelms him with the memory of every time he’s had his mouth or his hand on her skin. The fingers of his one remaining hand burn with the urge to feel her under them again so he balls them into a fist as she drapes his arm over her shoulders. “What about you?” It takes him a moment to realize that he’s who the question is directed at. “You going to be okay to walk out of here?”
Sheer determination not to make an even greater fool of himself than he already has in front of Emma Swan is the only thing he can attribute to both not falling right over with the nod of his head, and the steadiness of his first step as she leads him out the door.
He stumbles three times between the building and her car. She catches him every time with a hand on his chest, her head turning so that her hair brushes his cheek and he’s pretty sure he doesn’t do it on purpose after the first time - though he can’t really trust his own thoughts at this point since they have to be yelled at him through an ocean of rum.
“It’s your bug!” he beams at the old, yellow car. “I love your bug.”
“You hate my bug.”
Oh, right. He does hate the car that broke down every other time they drove to his hotel in the middle of the night, the one that had broken down the night they met. ‘I swear I’m not trying to stand you up. It’s just my car is literally on the side of the road right now and the tow won’t come for another hour at least and there’s… smoke.’
It had been an interesting night, getting an Uber in a strange city to go pick up a stranded woman from a dating app who'd been on her way to his hotel for anonymous sex - a woman he found out had lied about her age when she pointed out that the 1993 beetle was older than she was. ‘I didn’t think you’d swipe right if you knew there was a whole high school senior between us.’ ‘Anything else I should know about?’ he’d teased when they were back at his hotel room where she’d managed to get him out of his shirt with impressive speed. ‘Is Anna even your real name?’ ‘Uhhh, about that…’
She leans him up against the aggressive yellow of the door as she fishes in her pockets for her key. Her cheeks have gone red from the cold and it reminds him of the flush that would sometimes come over her skin if he found the right words or the right touch.
“You’re so lovely.” His thumb is tracing over her cheek though he doesn’t remember raising his hand or reaching for her.
She snorts. “Yeah, okay, Jones. So not gonna happen tonight, but nice try.” This time her smirk is wicked and if he had any real control over his body or his brain he would kiss it right off her smug mouth.
“I wasn’t trying to do anything!” he swears, prosthetic on his heart as she unlocks the passenger side door. “I’m just grateful you came all the way out here to rescue me. My knight in awful yellow armour.” He gasps. She rescued him from a dungeon. “Bloody hell, Swan -” He speaks slowly, managing to get almost every word out coherently. “I’m the princess.”
He’s waiting for her to come to the same mind-blowing realization as he has, but she just shakes her head and rolls her eyes. “Get in the car, your highness.”
It takes an impressive amount of self-control for him to sit still and keep his hand to himself despite his racing heart and thoughts as she leans over to help him secure his seatbelt. Because he’s not supposed to have those thoughts. And his idiot heart can keep its cruel reminders to itself. He shouldn’t have called her. He hasn’t called her - not in months. Not since he realized his mistake and knew this thing between them had to come to an end.
He’s missed her so bloody much.
“Killian.” She’s beside him now in the driver’s seat and saying his name like it’s not the first time she’s asked him this question. “Where are you staying?”
“Oh, I…” Shit. He knows this. He’s got this. Think. There was a hotel. A big hotel with really good room service. Maybe they could go there and he could buy her room service. She always liked that. ‘Listen, I know I came over here for sex and that was great and everything, but there’s a freaking lobster grilled cheese on this menu so do you think I could be here for sex and room service tonight?’ She’d looked at him with that same wicked, eager smile and he was already reaching across her for the phone. ‘I feel like I should be concerned that you seem more turned on by this sandwich than you did by anything else tonight.’ ‘Well, it’ll probably take them a little while to deliver it if you want another go at out-seducing bread and cheese.’
“A hotel,” he tells her finally.
“Yeah, I kind of figured. Which one?”
“Which what?”
“Which hotel, Killian? Which hotel am I driving you to?”
“Oh.” He knows this one! “Mine.”
She sighs, forehead falling against the steering wheel for a long moment. He waits, not sure what he did wrong but positive that he did something. “Okay,” she says, sitting up and starting the car. “It’s late. You can sleep it off on my couch for tonight and I’ll drive you back in the morning when you’re less… wasted.”
She sounds frustrated and he thinks it might be his fault. He looks at her carefully as she turns out of the parking lot, really looks at her for the first time since she walked back into his life a moment ago. Holding his breath against the eyes and hair and skin that always try to steal it away, he takes note of her messy hair, the lack of any makeup, the grey sweats he knows she likes to sleep in. He looks at the clock next, the late - or rather early - hour shining angry, bright and orange. He can figure this out.
“I’m sorry.” He’s an idiot. She glances at him before turning back to the dark highway ahead of them.” “I shouldn’t have called you.”
“It’s fine.”
“No, it’s not.” He hangs his head, hoping he looks sincere and not just as pathetically pissed as he is. “I woke you up.”
“Really, Killian, it’s fine. I was just going to bed.” He looks at the clock again and he envies her youth not for the first time since meeting her. He supposes he’s up this late as well, but that wasn’t by choice. That was the rum’s decision. The rum always makes bad decisions.
“But it’s cold.” She must be cold. She’s always cold and he made her go outside. She hates outside. She probably hates him now. ‘Listen, I’m all for this whole hooking up when you’re in town no strings thing.’ She waved a hand in his general direction. ‘Big fan of everything you’ve got going on here. But it’s cold as balls outside, so from now on you can come to mine and I can stay inside where it’s warm, or I’ll see you in the spring.’
The smirking curl of her mouth tugs at her cheek but he doesn’t reach for it again. “Yeah, it’s November.”
November. The last time he saw her it had been the dead of summer, both of them hot and sticky and barely dressed, stretched out in front of the single standing fan by the bed in her little apartment with no bloody air conditioning.
He misses that apartment. Misses being there with her and letting her make him boxed mac and cheese while he complained about her eating habits. Misses the ridiculous sheets with little Millennium Falcons on them that she’d found when he was running late to meet her that one time. He’d made her wash them before putting them on her bed - ‘fine, mom’ - and then listened to her make Star Wars puns from between her thighs until they tightened so hard against his ears he couldn’t hear anything at all.
And he misses the way she would smile at him when she opened the door, just before she dragged him inside, asking about his flight between heated kisses and frustrated hands. ‘I hate your stupid ties’.
He’s a bloody idiot and he should have never stopped calling. Or he should have stopped calling a long time ago, before there was anything to miss. They had a good thing going, an understanding, no strings. He’d reach out when he was in town for work and they would meet for one or however many nights he was staying. No expectations or dates or sleepovers, none of the complicated stuff. And he’d screwed it up.
His feet slip dangerously against the icy ground - at least he’s pretty sure there’s ice, or the ground isn’t staying still again - as Emma practically hoists him out of the car. “You remember the stairs right?” she asks, ducking under his arm again to steady him. She fits well there with her arm wrapped around his waist.
He hadn’t remembered the stairs. Though he should have, he’d complained about them enough times. ‘What’s so wrong with an apartment with an elevator?’ ‘Aw, can your old knees not handle it?’ He’d caught her as she bolted up the last few flights at his glare, laughing the whole way, and he’d spent enough time on his ‘old knees’ to make her take it back. This time, he’s not so sure he can handle it as he looks up at the rotating stairs that seem unable to settle on a height.
“It’s either that or you’re sleeping in the lobby, Jones.”
He considers it. “Is that David guy still your landlord?” The one who was particularly hostile to the man in his forties coming over at random hours of the night to visit his twenty-eight year old tenant. ‘Give him a break, he still thinks I’m the sixteen year old kid he illegally rented to when I first moved here.’
In fairness, Killian would probably judge himself too if he were in the landlord's shoes. He has judged himself many times for becoming a stereotype of Dicaprio-sized proportions. But the alternative would have been resisting Emma Swan, something he’s incapable of doing - or at least had been until that morning he ruined everything.
“Okay.” The stairs are still moving.
“Hold on.” She takes out her phones - there’s definitely two of them - and holds them in front of his face. “I just want to get you on camera saying that I’m not liable if you fall down these stairs and break your neck.”
“Is that really necessary?” He got that whole sentence out in one try.
“I know you have a lawyer.” ‘You have a what? Wow, I knew you were older but I didn’t know you were like, old old.’ ‘I don’t think it counts if you’ve stolen from parent’s liquor cabinet.’
“Fine. Don’t sue Emma if I die. She’s very nice and doesn’t have any money anyway.”
“Thank you.”
“It’ll never hold up in court.”
“That would be way more convincing if you could pronounce all your consonants.”
The climb takes twice as long as it should and he’s forced to stop once when he makes the mistake of looking down and his stomach rolls violently. ‘I swear to god if you puke in my hallway I’ll leave you here to sleep in it.’
“I don’t remember there being this many floors.”
“It’s four floors. You’ve done two.”
He might die.
He doesn’t die, but just barely, and when Emma leads him through the door and into the studio, she practically drops him onto the old couch. It’s not her fault; he’d made himself very droppable in the last few minutes. At least he landed on the couch and not the collection of wooden crates she’s glued together next to it. ‘That’s not a coffee table, Swan.’ ‘Oh, I’m sorry, is that or is that not your coffee cup on it right now?’
He doesn’t see her for a few minutes, his head too heavy to lift, but he can hear her moving around the apartment and he can picture her, walking through the kitchen on her toes. ‘It’s not weird, shut up.’ ‘I just thought you’d like to know that most people use their whole foot.’
When she finally comes back, he forces his eyes open, unsure who exactly glued them shut or how they did it without him noticing. Fuck she’s beautiful. Even through the boozy marinade he’s made of his head he can see that, and he wants to tell her. He could. He could blame it on the rum. But that would be a bad idea. Complicating things between them would be a bad idea. They’d already gotten complicated enough. God, he’s such a fuck up. Things were good, they could have stayed good. He just had to go and ruin a good thing with his stupid, greedy heart.
“Here.” Two little pills and a frighteningly large bottle of water are set down in front of him. He’s not sure what the pills are but he’s also pretty sure she wouldn’t try to poison him even if he is an asshole who called her in the middle of the night after ghosting her for months. Pretty sure. The water sounds like a good idea.
“Have you eaten anything or did you have rum for dinner?”
“There were peanuts at the bar,” he tells her after guzzling down enough water to drown himself with. She shakes her head and walks out of his line of sight again. This time she comes back with a bag of crisps and he thinks maybe she doesn’t hate him as much as he thought because they’re the kind he likes most.
“Eat that, drink that, and take those,” she orders, pointing to each with a stern look. “And then lie down on your side so I know you won’t choke to death in the night, and get some sleep.”
“Yes ‘mam,” he salutes.
“Don’t get cute with me.” He wasn’t trying to be cute. But it makes him unreasonably happy that she thinks he is. She rolls her eyes at his probably once again dumb smile and repeats, “eat,” before disappearing where he can’t see her again.
When she comes back this time her hair is down, falling over the shoulders of her oversized Jonas Brothers t-shirt she’s apparently had since she was twelve, and he wants to whine or cry at how desperately he wishes he could reach for her and what an idiot he is for being the reason he can’t. She’s carrying an empty garbage can, a blanket draped over one arm.
“Do not puke on my rug. It’s the only new thing in this whole apartment and I love it more than I’ve ever loved anything in my life.”
Killian leans over from where he’s stretched out on the couch that’s too small for him, running his fingers over the blue and white pattern and nods. “It’s lovely, very soft.”
She’s silent for long enough that he looks up again, only to find her with her lips pressed so hard together against a laugh that he can see her chest lurch with the force of containing it. He frowns, looking from her to the rug and back again before realizing that he’s been stroking the rug with his prosthetic hand.
“Emma… I might be drunker than I thought.”
The laugh that bursts out of her is loud and horrible and obnoxious and it’s the best sound he’s heard in a long time. He’s missed that sound, the one that had shocked him so completely the first time he heard it that they’d both ended up on the floor, stomachs hurting and eyes tearing, neither able to remember what had set her off in the first place and unable to stop giggling like teenagers.
“Aw, babe,” Emma crouches down in front of him with a pitying look before beginning to work the straps of his false hand loose. Her hand settles soft against his cheek once it’s free, smirk still lingering on the corner of her lips. “I don’t think anyone’s ever been as drunk as you are right now.”
Her face is so close to his that his heart forgets how it’s meant to work, stopping and racing of its own accord. He wishes she would close the distance, that he could feel her mouth against his for the first time in months, or that she’d simply stay here with him for the rest of the night because the distance and the silence between them has been more than he can take. He doesn't know how he ever convinced himself that staying away would eventually make the ache for her fade.
She smiles at him again, giving his cheek an affectionate pat before draping the blanket over him, the soft one he knows had been her prized possession before the rug. “Get some sleep, Killian. I don’t think anyone’s ever been as hungover as you’re going to be tomorrow either.”
He’s not sure whether or not the way his fingers close around hers before she can pull away was his idea or the rum’s, but she’s looking at him, waiting for him to say something and he doesn’t know what he was going to say or what he was thinking. He just knows that he missed her and he screwed it up - and then he screwed it up again, possibly beyond repair the second time.
Being in this city that he managed to avoid for months in the hopes that he could forget about her has been one of the worst decisions he’s ever made. To think he really believed that he could live here, that he could take the job that was offered and not be haunted by her every waking moment, not dread and hope to see her around every corner.
Being naive enough to think he could ignore the draw of her is how he ended up in that bar tonight. He’d tried to figure out how many shots of rum it would take to make him forget that he loves Emma Swan, but it seems there isn’t enough rum in the world for that - or at least not enough in that bar.
She’s still looking at him and he wishes she wasn’t watching him with a hesitation and a carefulness that hadn’t been there before. It had always been so easy between them; he’d never felt less self-conscious with another person in his life and now it’s all consuming. She’s lost the carefree warmth he used to see in her eyes, like he took it with him when he left that morning and didn’t come back.
“I’m sorry.”
He can’t tell if it’s relief or disappointment in her sigh. “I already told you, it’s fine.”
He shakes his head. “Not for calling you tonight. For not calling you. Every other night. I’ve been an ass and I’ve been a coward. You didn’t deserve that.” By the grace of whatever gods might be listening to his poor apology, he doesn’t slur a single word.
Her pause is long enough that he worries he said the wrong thing, and he can’t read her expression through the haze of booze and exhaustion swimming around in his head. He should let go of her hand, but he’s painfully aware that this could be the last time he gets to touch her and she’s not pulling away.
She sighs again. “Why don’t we talk about this when you’re feeling better?”
He lets go. “Aye, Swan, whatever you want.”
She walks away. Beyond repair then.
***
“Swan, it’s me. ‘M so sorry I ‘avnent called for… September, October, Nov… three months. Shit that’s too many months. ‘M sorry but I need your help. The sherrffeff won’t let me leave. He says you have to pick me up - well not you but ‘ynow someone. I don’t know anyone else.”
Killian jumps, heart pounding. He feels like he’s woken from a coma, body so heavy with sleep that parts of it aren't responding to him and never having been more confused than he is in these first few moments. It’s daytime, but it’s not morning, the light is too dim, and he’s asleep but not in his bed or in his hotel room, on a couch he recognizes but can’t really place. He has a vague recollection of things that may or may not have happened while he lay here; the sound of someone moving around the room, someone saying his name, a door shutting, an angry car somewhere far off and the bark of a dog somewhere close, the sound of keys and the strange sensation someone poking him in the face - hard.
All of it feels like a fever dream now as he looks towards the tinny sound of the belligerent man’s voice coming from the phone in her hand.Oh no. Oh god what the hell had he done last night? He recognizes the room, the soft blanket he’s under, the long legs clad in grey sweatpants perched on the table in front of him. He doesn’t think he can bring himself to look at her.
“Oh! It’s Killian by the way. Killian Jones. I don’t know how many Killians you know but I’m that one. The dickhead who ghosted you. ‘Nway, if you could call me back that would be just - awesome. Yur prolly not gonna call me back. I wouldn’t call me back. ‘Nway… yeah. It’s Killian. Thanks.”
If you’d like to save this message, press - there's a loud beep before another message begins to play. Bloody hell. He remembers the pub, and the cop - sort of - and he remembers that little line on his phone screen. ‘Absolutely not’. From the looks of it, he absolutely did.
“Heey, isme again. I don’t think I told you where I am. Is’not great, Swan. They put me in the jail.”
He winces, sitting up carefully, head still light and disoriented. “Did I…”
“Mhm.”
Another wince. “Are they all-”
“Oh yeah.”
“‘M not even that drunk. The sherfs just got a commpelex or something.”
“Swan, we really don’t have to -”
“Shh, this is my favourite part.”
Killian hangs his head. “I - Oy, I’m on the phone, sherirff! Don’ they teach you manners at cop school? The cops in your city are rude, Swan. Hey! No - iss my phone. I can call whoever I want.” There’s a shuffling sound that stirs up a faint memory of trying to back deeper into the cell, then a small shout and he remembers why his ass hurts and that he’s probably got a bruise on his hip the size of the one on his ego. Emma has her lip caught between her teeth again, flashing him the same look she had when she arrived at the station.
“Hello? Swan? Oh, right. Yur prolly asleep. You should be asleep, that’s good. I jus’ called ‘cus I…” For a blissful minute he thinks he might have had the sense to hang up, the silence on the other end dragging on and he almost breathes a sigh of relief. But then the message rings out again. “I can't remember why I called you. I think somethin’ made me think of you.” His voice gets softer and so does her expression for just a moment.
“That happens a lot. I been thinking ‘bout you a lot, all the time, really. And not just in a sexy way and not just yer face.” Killian hangs his head. “Even though I’m a fan of your face. And all your other parts too.”
He wishes he could just perish right here and now, wishes the dull ache in his head would become an aneurysm and take him out without a fuss.
“I been thinking about those ridic’lus tiktoks you used to send me and when I was in meetings ‘n I jus’ wanted to be with you. I don’t know anything about Taylor Swift anymore, Swan - I don’t know how to find those myself.” There’s another pause but he knows better than to hope this is over, much of this coming back to him now in mortifying waves.
“I’ve too many shirts in my closet now - It’s so many shirts. I always brought extra ‘cause I knew you’d steal ‘em an’ then you’d walk ‘round your kitchen in ‘em with no pants like yur a sexy Winnie the Pooh or somethn’ and I had to watch you climb yur counters while I had a heartattack ‘cuz you wouldn’ jus’ let me get things off the top shelf for you. Bloody stubborn.” There’s a sigh over the machine. “I don’t want this many shirts, Swan…
‘Anyway I - What? Who does? Sorry, Swan the sherf is being rude again. He wants to know if yur picking me up. Are you picking me up?” There’s so much hope in his past self’s voice that he almost feels bad for him. But he also knows what a bloody idiot that man is and it’s hard to feel anything but the overwhelming urge to disappear into this couch and not have to listen to any more of his drunken rambling. “That would be nice. But it’s okay if you don’t want to. I’d understand. Gnight, love.”
To delete this message press - She hits a button. Message saved.
Killian braces himself for the next one. Gods, how many of them are there? But this time it’s not his voice that comes out over the speakerphone, it’s another man, Irish and vaguely familiar through the sleep and the unfortunately returning memories.
“Hey, Emma, it’s Graham.” Killian’s heart drops into his stomach at the sound of another man calling her in the middle of the night. Of course she wouldn’t have sat around pining like he did, not for a man who treated her as carelessly as he had. Of course - “Listen, I don’t know who this guy is but he says he knows you. I thought maybe he was one of your clients but when I asked him how he knows you he just asked me if I’ve ever been in love...”
The brow Emma raises at him is equal parts question, challenge and amusement and he feels the blood rush from his face. Fuck. He wonders whether four floors would be high enough for him to end this misery if he just went out the window.
“Anyway, just let me know if this is another Walsh situation and I’ll make sure he stays in here, alright? Goodnight, love.” Killian can’t even begrudge the man or the endearment he adds to the end of his message when he’s only looking out for her. Probably a good thing she has someone to keep old, drunk dickheads away from her.
He hears another beep of her mailbox and braces himself for whatever’s coming next. “Hi, love, ‘m sorry for calling so much. I know I made too many ms’takes to be ‘loud to say this, but… I miss you, Swan… And I’d jus’ really like to see you again.”
End of messages. To -
Emma shuts the phone off, setting it down next to her on the coffee table. She tilts her head to see his face which he’s currently trying to bury in his hands. “Sounds like you had quite the night.”
“I thought I’d be more hungover.” His head hurts and he’s tired and his mouth is dry but he expected to be near death after the way he threw them back last night.
“It’s four in the afternoon.” Oh. He does the math of how long she’d let him sleep in her apartment after everything he’s done - after she picked him up.
“At one point I had to make sure you were alive. But I figured if you were able to leave such eloquent voicemails last night that you probably weren’t in danger of alcohol poisoning.”
“Swan, I…” He’s fully aware that he deserves her mocking but he’s too humiliated to even begin to try and explain his behaviour last night. How can he without explaining everything right down to that morning in July where he messed up the best thing in his life.
She takes pity on him, giving a small shrug. “Forget about it. Everyone says stupid stuff when they’re hammered. Everyone calls people they know they shouldn’t.”
“No, Emma -” He finally lifts his head to look at her. “That wasn’t…” He needs her to know that wasn’t what this was, she wasn’t just some drunk dial in the middle of the night. He thinks of how many times in the last three three months he’s looked at that contact in his phone, her name replaced with a reminder that he should not and absolutely could not go there. She mistakes his hesitation.
“You okay?”
“No.” He needs to talk to her, to apologize and beg her forgiveness. But he can’t find the words in his tired, muddled head to tell her without telling her everything. “I’m a bloody idiot.”
Emma smirks. “Yeah, we established that last night - a bunch of times.”
“I mean it. It wasn’t -” He rubs at his eyes, trying to clear the sleep and avoid looking at her. “I didn’t just call you because I was drunk. I’ve wanted to call you. For months. Last night just gave me an excuse.”
“You needed an excuse to call me?”
He sighs. “I was coward enough to convince myself I did.”
When he finally forces himself to face her, he finds her watching her phone, fingers wrung in her lap and lips pressed together tightly the way they always are before she asks something that’s answer matters to her.
“How much of last night do you actually remember?”
“Most of it, I think.” It’s been coming back to him in increasingly horrifying details since she played that first voicemail.
“You said a lot of stupid stuff.”
“I know.”
“How much of all of that was true?”
“All of it.”
She raises a brow. “All of it?”
“Aye.”
“Sexy Winnie the Pooh?”
A smirk tugs at his mouth. “I stand by what I said.”
He wonders which parts of what he said she’s focusing on as her silence stretches between them, heartbroken when he sees a little wall go up. This is why he stopped calling. He knew this would happen.
“It’s fine. It’s not like you owed me anything. We weren’t -”
“Don’t do that.” His hand reaches out for her, fingers playing carefully with the fabric of her too-big sweatpants. “We may not have been in a relationship but we weren’t nothing.” He won’t let her excuse his behaviour, not after they spent over a year in each others’ lives only for him to disappear from hers. “I shouldn’t have acted like we were.”
“So then why did you stop calling?” It’s the most vulnerable he’s ever heard her sound even though she hides it well and he can’t bring himself to look at her. “I liked what we had going. I liked spending time with you.”
“Aye, so did I.” Too much.
“I guess I thought - I guess I thought we were friends at least.”
“We were.” His fingers dance along her calf through the fabric he can’t stop fiddling with and he feels the muscle tense but she doesn’t pull away from him.
“So then what gives?” The anger in her voice makes his gaze snap up to hers. Finally. He’s been waiting for her to be angry with him, she deserves to be angry and he deserves it too. It gives him that small flicker of hope he’d been unable to find until now, a hope that if she’s angry, it’s because she cared enough to be hurt. “Why did you just…” She gestures vaguely with her hands. Disappear.
“Because I couldn’t do it anymore.”
“Do what? Hook up? Jesus, Killian, I’m a big girl. You didn’t have to run away because you were over the benefits part of this friendship.”
“I wasn’t. I left because I broke our rules.”
“What rules?”
The ones they’d so carefully established when they decided to continue this arrangement beyond the first and second time he saw her. The ones that were meant to keep either of them from getting hurt like they both were now.
“The last time I was here, we fell asleep and woke up in the morning still in your bed and I…”
“That’s why you freaked out? Because you accidentally slept over? That’s a bit dramatic don’t you think?” He can hear the disbelief in her voice and also the relief but he’s not done. “It wasn’t like a hard and fast rule -”
His fingers curl around the back of her knee, squeezing as he draws her attention. “That’s not why.” He traces his thumb over the fabric covering her shin and he knows he has to tell her because he can’t do this anymore without telling her and he can’t go back to how things were.
And he thinks that just maybe, she’ll want to hear it. Because as small and insignificant as it may seem, those aren’t her sweatpants, they’re his, lent - stolen - after a rather frantic afternoon in his hotel room six months ago where he may have torn her skirt in his haste to get it off. ‘You need better quality clothes, love.’ ‘Is this you finally offering to be my sugar daddy?’ They have his bloody initials on them - a strange gift from his lawyer friend. And she hasn’t gotten rid of them, didn’t toss them away when he did the same to her. She still sleeps in them.
“I freaked out because I liked waking up with you, and I started thinking that I’d like to wake up with you every morning.” He’d been hot and sweaty and sore from sleeping on her old mattress but he’d looked down at the woman wrapped around him despite the stifling heat, her cheek pressed to his chest and her hair in his mouth and he knew that he wanted this, wanted her, maybe forever. He hears her small intake of breath, his thumb still stroking her skin though the fabric as though it’ll give him the strength he needs. “And I hadn’t felt that way about anyone since…” He can’t finish and so she does for him.
“Milah?”
“Aye.” His reason for never wanting anything more, love lost in the same instant that cost him a piece of himself. He’d told Emma about her, one night when they’d lingered a little too long entangled in the aftermath. He didn’t know the details of her reason, only that she’d been far too young and that he’d hurt her deeply enough to make her wary of anyone who claimed love or devotion.
“I hoped that if I stayed away for a little while that it would fade away and that we could go back to how things were because I knew that if I told you I would lose you. But the longer I stayed away, the more I missed you and the more I wanted you and I realized it wasn’t going to go away - because I loved you.”
Killian watches her for a reaction as he tells her the truth he’d been hiding from her for months and from himself for far longer, but she remains unreadable, fingers still wringing nervously in her lap, breathing a little shaky. But there’s no abject terror in her gaze as she waits for him to finish.
“And by then I’d avoided you for too long and it was too late to tell you or try to go back to how things were and I lost you anyway. Then I managed to convince myself that it was for the best because this wasn’t what you wanted and you deserved better anyway.” Better than an old widower with a used up heart who’d run the moment things became real. “But I thought you had the right to know that I didn’t leave because I didn’t care about you. I left because I cared too much.”
Fabric slips from his hand as she stands, circling the coffee table and leaving him feeling untethered without her and with a barrier set between them. He focuses on the rug, her reaction expected but no less painful, as she paces the length of her glued together crates a few times.
“Okay two things.” Her tone snaps his gaze up to where she moves anxiously and restlessly in the small space. “First of all, that’s the last time you make a decision for me.” He hadn’t expected this reaction. “I don’t need anyone to decide what I do or don’t deserve or what I can or can’t handle. If you want to know what I want, you ask me. You talk to me like the grownup you keep pretending that you are.” That one hurts but he nods. It’s all rightly earned.
“You’re right.”
“Good.” She stops, shoulders squared as she faces him from across the table. “Second.” He waits, the anger from before no longer sustaining her as he sees the wall she hides behind slip just a little. “You said you loved me.”
He’s not sure what answer she wants, but he gives her the truth. “I love you, Swan.” Try as hard as he did not to, he knows it’s not going away. And he’s not willing to attempt another eight shots of rum a second time to make sure.
She nods. He waits, or she waits, he’s not sure who’s supposed to speak here only that he needs to know how she feels and he’ll wait as long as he needs to.
“Well? Are you going to ask me what I want?”
“What do you want?” He’d give her whatever she asked for at this point as he watches her bite her lip and definitely doesn’t wish he was the one biting it.
“I don’t know.”
“Okay.” Fair enough.
“Look, I get running away from feelings - I’m very familiar with the concept. But the way you did it was really shitty and -” Her voice goes quiet, arms wrapping around herself in a move so full of self-preservation that it breaks his heart a little. “It hurt, okay?”
Her words, thick with betrayal and rejection, pierce sharp through his chest, painful and deserved as she avoids his gaze as determinantly as he’d avoided hers. God, he’s an ass. He’d pieced together enough about her past from the small glimpses she’d given him late on those nights where they were still tangled naked in her sheets and the dark lent them the boldness to be vulnerable to know that she’d been left before.
He joins her on her side of the table, reaching to touch the soft, golden waves that he’s spent months wishing he could tangle his fingers in again. “I’m sorry.” He pushes them behind her ear, thumb stroking over her cheek like her skin could break beneath his touch.
When she looks up at him her eyes are red and wet he pulls her to him without thinking. “I’m sorry,” he breathes, Emma feeling fragile in his arms for the first time since he met her. She’s a force, his Swan, a tempest that could devour a thousand ships and it hurts to see her storms wane.
“I’m sorry,” he says again, quieter, pressing a kiss to her temple as he brings a hand to stroke the hair at the base of her neck, feels her lean into him. “I’m sorry,” he speaks against her brow. “I’m so sorry, love.” His lips brush over the crown of her head and he feels her arms slip around his waist, holding tight to the back of his shirt. He holds her just as tightly, nose settling in the crook of her neck where he presses another kiss and whispers a thousand more apologies. “I’m an ass.”
“Yeah, you are.” Her voice comes muffled from where her face is pressed against his collarbone and he laughs in relief to hear her tease him. He pulls back enough that she can lift her head to face him, eyes still red as he wipes at the dampness left on her cheeks. All he wants is to kiss her and spend the night and the next day and every day after that making this up to her, but he knows better than to push her.
Her hands slide from his back to his chest as she meets his gaze and takes a steadying breath. “I still don’t know what I want. You’re not the only one who’s bad at dealing with feelings and you just put some pretty big ones out there.”
“I know.” He doesn’t expect to hear the words back, not after three months of silence. But if she gives him the chance to stay and try to win her heart then he’ll spend forever earning back her trust.
“But maybe, if you’re still in town for a bit, you could stay for dinner.”
It takes everything he has to contain the ecstatic smile that wells up from his chest, afraid he’ll scare her off. “I’ll stay as long as you’ll have me.” He’s not leaving her again. Not unless she sends him away.
***
“When do you go back?” she asks when they’re sat at the kitchen island. ‘What, exactly, do you have against real furniture? Especially tables. They seem particularly discriminated against.’ ‘Do you see any room in here for a twelve-piece dining set?’ He swallows the bite of the boxed mac and cheese she’d made him cook ‘Because I’m still pissed at you and I’m going to enjoy watching you suffer through this.’ ‘Sadist. Can I at least add -’ ‘No.’
Killian looks at his watch. “My flight was an hour ago.”
“What? You should have said -”
“And miss all the delicacies that Maine has to offer?” he asks, lifting his mismatched bowl. “It’s fine, Swan,” he adds when she looks genuinely concerned. “I’d rather be here.” He can get another flight at the last minute before he’s due back in New York on Monday. Getting his things back from the hotel, however, may be a tad more difficult.
“That’s sweet and all but I think you’d also rather be employed.”
“Aye, well, I may not be employed there much longer anyhow.”
Her eyes widen. “Oh god, don’t tell me you left them voicemails too.”
Killian snorts. “No, I’ve just… had another offer.”
His heart pounds frantically as she asks, “where?” terrified that he’ll scare her off.
“Here.”
“Here?”
He nods. “I wasn’t going to take it, not after realizing how much I’d miss you if I was here. But, well, that was before I drank a full bar. And this town does have its benefits.”
She gapes at him and he can see the thoughts racing behind her eyes. “You’re not moving for me, right? You want the job? Because I told you I don’t know what I want or if I can even do… whatever this maybe is and I -”
He reaches for her hand, calming the rambling that had started. “I do want the job, but of course I’m moving for you, Swan. And I know you’re not ready to decide anything, and I’m not asking you to. But whether you do or don’t decide that what you want is me, I’m going to be right here while you figure it out. I’m not going to leave you twice, Emma. I don’t want to miss you like that again.”
Emma just stares at him, mouth opening and then shutting with questions that don’t find voice and he sits, stewing in the worry that he said too much, asked for too much. He swallows as she jumps out of her seat, his turn to ramble now as she rounds the island.
“I mean, I will have to go home and get my things and resign but I -”
“Shut up,” she tells him, hands sliding into his hair and mouth colliding with his.
He’s more than happy to do exactly that, wasting no time in gathering her up in his arms and pulling her close, returning the kiss he’d missed so damn much all these months, missed the feel of her soft and warm against him like this, for the little sound she makes when his own hand tangles in her hair just hard enough that he can keep he there a little longer.
“Wait,” he breathes and her hands pause where they’d been working the buttons of his shirt free. “Maybe we should slow down.” There’s a part of him screaming at his stupid mouth right now for the words falling out of it. “You said you don’t know if this is what you want. So maybe we shouldn’t rush things.”
She barks out a small laugh. “You’re moving to another city for a ‘maybe’ and you don’t want to rush things?” He doesn’t really have an answer for that.
Her brow and mouth quirk up in one devastatingly attractive motion that has him ready to go back on everything he just said. “This was never our problem,” she reminds him, fingers tugging the buckle of his belt loose. “We’re good at this part. Everything else is where we get messy.” She works the button of his jeans open next. “So just try not to make any more big confessions while you’re inside me…” She runs her teeth over the skin below his ear as she slides her hand into his jeans and he nearly chokes. “And we should be fine.”
“Bloody hell.” His rational self may judge him later, but his current self has Emma Swan with her hand around his cock trying to get him out of his clothes and he’s already established that he’s not a very smart man. “I promise.”
***
It’s a strange feeling to be laying here, wrapped up in an old duvet and Star Wars sheets with Emma’s head on his shoulder and her fingers drawing patterns over his chest. They’ve never done this part, never lingered beyond the time it took them both to catch their breaths before untangling themselves from one another and going about their day - or tangling themselves again. He likes it, but it’s strange, new, something he hasn’t done in a long time. Not with anyone.
“This is kind of weird right?” she asks, breath warm against his neck.
Killian laughs. Bloody mind reader.
“Aye, a bit. I think I’m out of practice.”
“I never practised in the first place.”
He presses a kiss to her hair. “But, it’s not bad, right?” She can probably hear his stupid heart racing as he waits for her answer.
“No,” she shakes her head, sliding her arm around his waist and fitting herself more snugly against his side. “It’s not bad.” He can feel her smile against his skin, glad she can’t see the absolutely ridiculous one stretched across his own. They lay there a little longer, the room darkening with the earlier and earlier nights as he begins to dread the fast approaching hour where he’ll have to leave, until Emma shifts. “My neck hurts.”
“My arm’s asleep.”
She sits up and his arm is flooded with the sudden relief of no longer being squished, but he misses the warmth and the closeness of her immediately. He has two arms. Who really needs both? He’s done fine with one hand. “Where are you going?” he asks when she rises from the bed, reaching for his shirt that she tossed on the floor and he made himself leave there. ‘Do not fold your clothes while we’re in the middle of having sex or I swear I’ll put mine back on you fucking weirdo.’
“Thirsty,” she says as she finishes buttoning it. “You?”
“Aye, thanks.”
“Water? Or would you prefer rum?”
“Hilarious.” His stomach rolls, not finding her so funny. She certainly seems to think she is, smirking as she fetches two water bottles from the fridge. “You know you’re going to have to give me my shirt back this time. It’s the only one I’ve got.” At least until he finds out if the hotel hung onto his suitcase when he missed his checkout. “Unless you have the others squirrelled away here somewhere.”
“I thought you had ‘too many shirts, Swan,’” she reminds him in a poor imitation of his accent and he rolls his eyes. She hops back onto the bed, climbing into his lap to sit astride his hips. His hand and wrist settle on her waist, the shirt in question riding up and making him groan at the feel of her pressed against him.
“Aye well I’ve only got the one to wear out of here tonight and while you look infinitely better in it than I do -”
“Like a sexy Winnie the Pooh, would you say?”
He sighs. “I’m never living that one down am I?”
“You want to show me your hundred acre wood?” Killian lets his head fall back against the headboard as she laughs herself silly. “I have another solution,” she tells him, hands wringing nervously in the sleeves of his shirt. “I was thinking, maybe, since you’ve already missed your flight, and you probably don’t have a hotel room anymore, that you could stay here tonight. And maybe we could give that whole waking up together thing a shot.”
Her cheeks are flushed, freckles bright against the soft pink as she looks up from her hands to catch his eye. He kisses her hard enough that she’d have fallen right off his lap were it not for his arms holding her steady and close to him.
“That a yes?” she asks, mouth curling against his and he catches that smirking bottom lip between his teeth like he’s wanted to since she showed up at the station.
“Are you sure that’s what you want?”
She nods and it’s him smiling against her mouth now. “For tonight at least. But I think there’s still a lot of grovelling in your future before it becomes a regular thing.”
He kisses her again, rolls her onto her back beneath him. “Then I’d better get started right away,” he says, lips finding the length of her neck as he begins to work free the buttons of his stolen shirt.
“Well, you did promise you would write poetry about my boobs.”
“I what?” He looks up only to see her wearing the same confused frown as himself before her eyes widen with laughter and she covers her mouth with her hands.
“Oh my god. You haven’t seen your texts have you?”
Fuck.
*******
Tagging the usual people but let me know if you want to be removed or added!
@kmomof4 @elizabeethan @the-darkdragonfly @undercaffinatednightmare @jennjenn615 @dramioneswan @gingerchangeling @gingerpolyglot @kazoo5480 @lfh1226-linda @csalltheway @xsajx @xarandomdreamx @onceratheart18 @ownedbycaptainswan @teamhook @pirateprincessofpizza @lostintheskyfaraway @zaharadessert @thejollyroger-writer @ultraluckycatnd @justanother-unluckysoul @spartanguard @jonesfandomfanatic @deckerstarblanche @jrob64 @klynn-stormz @wefoundloveunderthelight @sailtoafarawayland @tiganasummertree @winterbaby89 @hollyethecurious @stahlop @superchocovian @snowbellewells @xellewoods @sals86 @karlyfr13s @ouatpost @skairipakomtrikru @lonelyspectator12 @anmylica @alexa-fangirl-forever @inspiredbystardust @marcella2727 @paradiselady19 @koryandr @killiansprincss @goforlaunchcee @motherkatereloyshipper
#captain swan#cs fanfic#captain swan fanfic#cs ff#cs angst#but also just a lot of funny drunk Killian#killian jones#captain hook#emma swan#this thing is ferral guys#I don't even know what this is but I hope you like it#silver hook#silver killian
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..and very old men, they dream of summers
rated G | 1102 words | cw: major character death, mention of drug use, hurt/little bit of comfort
for @steddieangstyaugust prompt “ghosts” (day 2)
Vaguely and very creatively inspired by “Ghosts” by The Presets
Remnants of snow are clinging to the ground as a few shy flower buds slowly emerge, following the sun like Eddie is following the gravelly road back home.
Strangest walk of shame to ever be treaded the one you take after an entire life of big cities, sparkling lights on blurred faces, extremes explored and barely survived to.
Strange because c’mon who runs back home after more than forty years on the road? What even is home when the only sense of belonging you ever found was in the lingering spaces between too many words spoken, in the quiet hours before sun dawn, in the foggy and fuzzy brains chasing drug-induced highs that claimed to self-fulfil all of one’s youth-driven naive dreams?
Strangest because never in all of his nine cat-like fast-burned lives would Eddie ever have said that it was the Indiana torrid and unforgiving blitzkrieg summers he wished to warm his old bones to. Mid-May’s traitorously cold spring tail end was kicking his ass, but Eddie could be patient for this.
Wayne’s old trailer looked like a vintage memorabilia, something straight out of the eighties. Eddie bought it out of the city-owned land for way more money than it was worth it because they were a sentimental little clan, the Munsons. More like a duo maybe. Now a one-man band since Wayne passed nearly a decade back.
Eddie had briefly come back then, just to retrieve his beloved uncle’s ashes, scattering most of them over Wayne’s favourite fishing lake and keeping some to melt into a customised guitar pick because he was a morbid gremlin like that, Eddie.
Thing is ‘course this is home like he spent the majority of his young life between those tin-foiled pressed baking tray walls mock-off, how could he not think back with nothing but fondness about it, slowly climbing the porch steps and sitting down, hugging his cane like he once held a too big guitar during endless strumming-filled nights.
But as a few weeks pass by, the first seeds of summer expanding warm late afternoons into longer comforting nights, when the sun packs its bag for the day and grazes the horizon, Eddie knows he has another ghost to chase before he can settle for good, before old deeds are taken care of, before he can rest.
-- in peace?
You see memories are kind of a funny thing when half of your brain has been fried by poor life choices you don’t really regret but sometimes wish could have left you with some more cooperative neurons.
So when Eddie spots the familiar mop of hazelnut hair he sighs and gets up from the old deck chair, aching bones rattling and all. He could take the car, but he knows it would kill half the fun despite what his knees have to say.
Once he reaches the road outside the trailer park, it’s a solitary basketball rolling down the asphalt guiding him.
“You know I’m not picking it up, right?”
A light phantom laugh travels in the breeze, mid-June still a short way from summer, but the air feels warm and playful.
Eddie sees shoulders shrugging in a yellow sweater, a smug smile, happy crinkled eyes.
The still waters of Lover’s Lake shine behind him but no that’s not right he’s still walking down the street, the woods are in the opposite direction.
Colourful neon lights make it difficult to focus on his face but that’s not right either, this is not San Francisco, this is Hawkins, Indiana.
-- you really are old.
So Eddie keeps on walking, no basketball in sight but a quiet whistling reaches his ears, Fleetwood Mac maybe?
“Oh so your music tastes finally got better at least, that’s a relief”.
Vespertine nostalgia coats the inside of his mouth with smoke and cheap beer and he needs a moment to catch his breath because now it’s the weight of arms around his neck that makes it difficult to keep walking, the weight of a hug he hasn’t felt in a long while too much for his battered back.
“How much longer?”
-- just a little bit more, Sunshine.
Eddie scoffs at the willful unending mission of never acknowledging his Prince of Darkness nature just to fuck with him.
there’s no darkness in you when you smile at me.
“You’re very talkative today”
-- you’re home, closer now.
Eddie lifts his gaze to meet the rusty gates of the old cemetery greeting him, creaking their welcome. As he goes through them, they merge with the glass sliding doors of a big fancy house, humidity radiating from the pool in front of him sticking to his skin.
His brows knit in confusion and he stares at the headstones further away. He starts to walk around the pool to reach them, but a soft hand to his chest stops him.
-- no need to, loverboy, just walk beside me.
So Eddie follows and as he looks down, there’s actually no pool, which ok weird, just wet patches of grass, Spring’s late goodbyes he guesses.
“I’m cold.”
-- I know, just a few more steps.
His cane gets stuck in the mud so he drops it, kind of stumbles forward, closing the distance between him and his destination.
Steve Harrington
October 17, 1966 - March 27, 1986
Beloved and dutiful son.
best friend
brother
babysitter extraordinaire
Eddie sits down by the grave, shivering a little. He traces the dates and the scratched cliches devoid of any actual feeling his parents left there, smiling at the way the truer later contributions by the ones who truly loved Steve steal the spotlight.
“I miss you, y’know?”
-- I know, Sunshine.
“I’m sorry I didn't come back sooner”
-- sooner wasn't the right time, rockstar.
“Do you ever think about how things could’ve been different?”
-- no, because they couldn't.
Eddie sighs once more but stays silent, regret is an ugly parasite to eradicate.
-- Life does what life does, nobody could've known. I’m glad you got to live a full life, Eddie. More stories to tell me, now.
Eddie lets a small sad smile fight for space on his wrinkled face. “I guess”.
He didn't even notice the sun slowly spilling into a new day in full force, warming his skin.
-- I wanted to wait so you could feel Summer instead of Ghosts.
Eddie laughs, a hearty low rumble escaping his smoke-fatigued lungs. He lifts a hand and rests it on the gravestone, patting it with affection.
“Oh but you are both, sweetheart. And I dreamed about it for a very long time now”
Edward W. Munson
June 21, 1965 - June 21, 2035
Beloved freak.
Sunshine
#steddieangstyaugust#steddie#steddie angst#Eddie Munson#Steve Harrington#Stranger Things#angst#eddie munson x steve harrington#steddie fanfic#steddie fic#old man Eddie Munson#sighsob#freaky friday
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495. I watched Ghostbusters II, and I have questions
Hot take: I loved it.
When they fell on hard times in those five years, it made them more interesting to me. Although, it was never revealed what Winston did in those five years other than appearing at kids birthday parties with Ray. I know Red Letter Media didn't understand why Ray and Winston dances to the Ray Parker Jr. Ghostbusters theme, but I totally get it. My theory is that in the Ghostbusters universe, that song was totally a novelty song that only played on NYC radio stations. My theory is proven more after I saw Frozen Empire and Paul Rudd's character references it.
I do, however wonder why the kids wished He-Man was at their party instead .. I thought that Masters of the Universe/He-Man was more of a mid 80s craze?
I wanna know who Sigourney Weaver had 'dat baby with! Was it the guy who was jealous of Peter in the original film when he waited for Dana outside of orchestra practice? I bet it was him.
Egon wanting to do a gynecological exam on Dana as part of the investigation. Egon totally did it with that slime.
No more smoking! I kinda miss the smoking. I loved in the original that the boys pretty much welcome Winston in by lighting up a cigarette for him in the basement while they discuss Twinkies.
Peter MacNichol! I didn't even realize it was him until I was like forty minutes in. I love him, the only shining light from Ally McBeal! Did I miss why Dana was restoring paintings now instead of being in the orchestra? I guess it was because it was a day job so she could be with baby Oscar at night? I know at one point she tells Janosz that she'll be leaving soon since the baby is getting older?
They are cute as buttons in their suits fighting those death row ghosts in court.
Speaking of cute as buttons, Janine's glam makeover! She got that "return of Ghostbusters" paychecks now.
It's weird that New Years Eve is brought up, and is a giant part of the plot, but other than them wearing the Santa hats in the montage, and the aluminum tree in Peter's awesome apartment, that's all the Christmas we get. Did the entire movie take part in that week between Christmas and New Years? This video tries to figure it out.
Ooo the green dress. Winston saw it in a deleted scene, and said "[Peter's] not coming". Was that dress in the suitcase Peter brings over from Dana's apartment?
Speaking of the suitcase, that apartment scene before their dinner date, that scene felt like it was ten minutes long! I like Peter's apartment, so I'll let it slide.
Winston being scared of the ghost train is one of the best most overacted scenes ever. What was up with all the beheaded heads at the old Subway track?
Why did that scene involving Louis and Janine at Peter's apartment awake something in me? I do have a thing for guys like Louis. I need to put those feelings back away. Y'all know I gave up on dating!
I mean THIS?! With the earmuffs?! I need a minute. Even if Louis thought he had to save the Ghostbusters, I think him and Janine did some things first.
When that cop said "the Titanic just arrived", I felt the emotion in that line. He said it like it was real deal this really happened breaking news. Better Late Than Never.
Bobby Brown's sad cameo where he just opens the door at Gracie Mansion and asks the boys where he can get some ghostbusters stuff for his brother. Yes his song "On Our Own" (which I LOVE) is playing in the background.
I don't care about the Vigo stuff too much, the baby's acting makes the scene bearable however. Those twins who played Oscar were really good baby actors!
Them controlling the Statue of Liberty with the positive slime and the big flat Nintendo controller is silly as heck, and I am here for it.
Now, I know the movie got a cool reception when it came out in June of 1989, especially since it came out the weekend before the biggest movie of the year, Batman. Ghostbusters II made the biggest three day box office record at the time -- but Batman beat it the following weekend. I wanted to read some critic's initial reactions to the movie.
Vincent Camby of The New York Times almost gives away the entire movie's plot! I agree with most of his points, except for him saying the original was "overproduced and sloppy" the effects were made in 1984, what do you expect? On Christmas of 1988, NYT almost gives away the plot again in an article about the behind the scenes process of the film. (gift article)
I think Al meant a "junky" effect when he was referring to the Statue of Liberty walking around instead of a "junkie" effect, but I get what he's saying, even if I loved the scene for its silliness.
(My local paper ran this review too, so that's why you don't see one from my paper. ) I saw Ghostbusters: Frozen Empire the other day, and I feel like this was finally Ernie Hudson's chance to shine after being just the fourth Ghostbuster so so long. To me, each Ghostbuster has their own movie now: the original was Ray's, Ghostbusters II was Peter's, Ghostbusters: Afterlife was (ghost) Egon's, and Frozen Empire was Winston's.
I even found a newsgroup review from June of 1989. That is baby internet! Here is the archive, because I just feel like google groups is going to shut down the old newsgroup archives any day now. Wait, I just found another one (archive).
Here is an article about the press tour held at the newly renovated Plaza hotel in New York City. The press was already clamoring for a third movie. Of course, we wouldn't get that until 2020, 2021, of course.
In closing, never forget the Hardees promotion, with the noisemakers that were recalled almost immediately because lil kids ate the batteries. I remember being about six? and was terrified that my parents were going to take away my Ghostbusters noisemaker.
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Yeah, alright, no. No don't this. I'll do you a few fucking better and teach you right here and now how to do this: You game? Blurb and lesson time. Got you. First up, a SPOOC. This is one technique that can be expanded (gonna give you examples too). WRITING LESSONS AHOY:
SPOOC = Situation, protagonist, objective, obstacles/opponents, climax/cost. So, when Frodo Baggins (protagonist) inherits the Ring of Power (Situation), he must set out on a quest to destroy it (objective). But, will he succeed when the forces of sauron and saruman unite and
try to reclaim the one ring and use its power to destroy Middle Earth (climax - cost if failure). This specific example is taught by Jim Butcher so if you want some weight behind it. There you go. It works. Want to know how to do a blurb? Practice, but check it:
Who is it? What's going on?
Why should we care?
What happens if the hero fails?
If you can, end on a snappy one liner or question. You can open on one too or a question like it.
What do shadows darting across the walls, cryptic writing, black fog, and a little girl who can see ghosts have in common? Paranormal investigator and soul without a body, Vincent Graves, has forty-four hours to find out. To make matters worse, his years of body-hopping and monster-hunting are catching up with him. He's losing his mind. An old contact has shut him out. To top it all off, something's skulking through an asylum, killing patients. Three guesses who might be next, and the first two don't count. The writing on the wall is not so clear. But one thing is: if he doesn't figure this out he's a dead man--well, deader--and a strange young girl might follow. Vincent's got his back against a wall, and that wall's crumbling. Some days it's not worth it to wake up in someone else's body.
That's Grave Measures - book two in my urban fantasy detective series. Who is it - covered. What's going on? Why should we care (the stakes to the protagonist and more). The costs. And the above.
It's not rocket science, and doesn't have to be.
Here's one from book three:
Don't make deals with the paranormal. They're better at it than you, and they never play fair. Paranormal investigator and soul without a body, Vincent Graves, did just that—a deal made in desperation. Now it's coming back to bite him in the middle of a case. He has 57 hours to investigate a string of deaths involving people who've made some devilish bargains. Too bad devils don't deal in good faith. It'd be easy enough, if he didn't have to deal with things such as: - Being hunted through the streets of Queens by a dark elf with a motorcycle fetish. - Ending up the target of a supernatural hit. - An old acquaintance dragging him to a paranormal ball where he could end up on the menu. - And having one of his closest guarded secrets brought to light... Not great for a tight clock, because if he doesn't get to the bottom of this case in time, Vincent and company might just lose their souls. Dirty deals are never done dirt cheap. And the supernatural always collect—big!
Same formula. A lot of fiction uses it. You just might not realize it. You don't need a fucking AI. You need a few minutes every day of practice. You got that. You got this!
With SPOOC, you can outline a whole damn novel.
You get a snappy two-liner pitch to sell with. YOu can expand it into summaries for each book to make up LOTR in this case or your series.
Then you can reverse engineer and keep expanding each summary. It does it for you.
#writers on tumblr#writerscommunity#writers and poets#writing tips#writing talk#writing advice#creative writing#writer things#poc writer#indie writer#fiction#fantasy#scifi#thriller#mystery#horror#novels#novel writing#writers life#writers and writing#writers and readers#writing craft#storytelling techniques#storytelling#ai is theft#ai is stupid#ai is a plague#ai issues#fuck ai everything#fuck ai writing
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canopy
a Destiel post-canon fix-it bit
Once Cas gets back, they orbit each other like a binary system. Always close but never getting close enough to speak the unspeakable. They spend the first few weeks in the bunker marinating in the awkward silences and equally awkward conversations before Dean has had enough.
He is a forty year old man who has faced down every thing from suburban ghosts to the creator of the universe and he feels almost embarrassed how he can’t strike up the nerve to talk to Cas.
So Dean packs a bag, walks to Cas’ room and tells him to suit up, get his shit and meet him in the garage in an hour. Cas just gives him that look that reminds Dean that Cas is a million year old celestial creature and Dean is a little human speck. It makes him grin all the way to the garage.
Cas shows up fifty minutes later, packed bag in tow. He’s wearing jeans and a dark blue henley covered by a chambray shirt that makes Dean’s mouth dry up because Cas looks handsome and capable and like a Winchester.
“Where are we going,” Cas asks, likely out of curiosity because Dean knows it won’t affect his decision to come along. “A hunt?”
“Hunt what?” Dean asks right back at him. “We, my angelic friend, are going to reap the rewards of killing God and go wherever the hell we want.”
With those words, Dean sits himself in the driver’s seat and pulls the door shut with a satisfying click. Cas joins him in the passenger’s seat and moves about until he’s sitting at a comfortable angle.
“We didn’t kill God,” Cas says. “We… deactivated him.”
Dean starts the car and turns to grin at Cas. “You didn’t do anything,” Dean says. “You were chilling in the Empty.”
Someone else might have been offended at the obvious dig, but Cas just grins back at him.
—-
Several weeks on the road and Dean has never felt free the way he does now. They’ve been to more than a dozen roadside attractions, some more bizarre than others. Cas likes the particularly strange ones, asks even stranger questions.
Dean gives the cheap motels a wide berth and gets the rooms in nice hotels.
In Vermont, he fishes out his phone while Cas is pumping gas and looks for a bed and breakfast. One, because he thinks it’s hilarious and two, he’s really always wanted to stay at one that wasn’t haunted.
“How do you feel about canopy beds?” Dean asks without looking up.
Cas clears his throat and puts the gaspump back. “Seems a bit redundant, a bed with a roof inside a building with a roof? But I guess it’s… cozy?”
Dean does look up at Cas, his finger hovering over the Book Now button. The man is all big blue eyes and heather grey sweatshirt and Dean is in love with him, probably has been for years.
“Would you like anything?” Cas asks as he starts walking towards the station to pay.
Dean shakes his head and hits the booking button like he’s on a mission.
When Cas comes back out, he puts a cold bottle of water in Dean’s hand even though Dean didn’t want anything.
“You need to hydrate yourself,” Cas says and turns to walk away.
“I love you,” Dean says. It stops Cas so abruptly it’s like time has stopped. “I’m… I’m in love with you. And we’re at a gas station which is a stupid place to say this but here we fucking are.”
Cas turns back to Dean and looks apprehensive.
“Before the Empty swiped you,” Dean keeps going because this once in a lifetime momentum and even he knows he’s on a one way street now. “You told me all these great things about me. And if anyone else had told me I would’ve laughed my ass off at them. But I actually believed you.”
The apprehension in Cas’ eyes remains steadfast, his whole body language like he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“You told me you loved me,” Dean says. “And then you were gone. Didn’t even give me a chance to think about it, much less figure out that… you’re it for me too, Cas. You’re loyal and you’re brave and kind and maybe the most stubborn, toughest son of a bitch I’ve ever met.”
Thankfully the apprehension makes way for what looks like a spark of hope in Cas’ eyes. It reminds Dean yet again that this is a million year old celestial creature, hiding out in a human vessel, inexplicably in love with this little human speck.
“I love you, Castiel,” Dean says. He shrugs, because there’s nothing else he can think of to say.
Cas smiles at him so beautifully it becomes clear pretty quickly there’s nothing else he has to say.
—-
Later, Dean pulls the covers up over their heads and kisses Cas for what feels like the hundredth time. He decides he’ll never ever get tired of it.
“Under the covers, under a canopy, under a roof,” Dean says, smiling wide. Cas eyes are the color of the sky once the sun has set in the minimal light. “How’s that for redundant?”
“It’s cozy,” Cas says. He runs his knuckles over Dean’s face.
This is freedom, Dean decides. This is peace.
Also available on ao3: canopy
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Did I share these dumb things yet
They are dialogue fun-times for a thing I'm not writing yet, called Bloodhound (at the moment). It is a detective story starring a 345 year old vampire and his 16 year old adoptive werewolf daughter. The same two from this thing
They help monsters and things kinda like monsters.
[for those digging into tags because of Before Deluca, this is an outdated representation of Lucient. He rewrote himself. It was very rude of him, but I like him more as he is now]
“He looks so much like ol’ Darren...”
“You been around a long time, maybe he’s a descendant?”
“Would it be weird to ask him out?”
“Nah, dude’s like forty, even if he is that Darren whatever’s great great great grandkid, it’s not like he’s your kid.”
“But what if he doesn’t like men...or worse, me?”
“Use your vampire mojo, make him like you.”
“Oriana!”
“What? You can, can’t you?”
“That doesn’t mean I should. And you know that! I thought I raised you better...”
“You did, that’s why I didn’t suggest it first.”
“You shouldn’t have suggested it at all.”
“What about the ones you feed on, aren’t they under your...you know?”
“No, they...they actually ask for that.”
“That’s nasty.”
“That’s gothic romanticism, flower, and we wouldn’t live so comfortably without it.”
—
“Wait, so all vampires keep their bitemarks?”
“Correct.”
“But you don't have any marks on your neck.”
“I wasn't bitten…on my neck.”
“Then where, ew, ew, don't tell me it's—”
“It isn't, but it is in that general area. Fortunate really, it allowed me to escape detection during the trials.”
“Who was your, are they called sires?”
“No, that's an invention of romanticism. We simply refer to them as master or maker. In rare instances even father/mother.”
“And yours was…?”
“Building a family tree are we, flower?”
“I'm just curious. Was he famous?”
“How do you know it was a he?”
“Dad. C’mon. Like your gay ass is letting a woman anywhere near your downstairs.”
“...point, though I could do without the color. His name was Lucient, we'll avoid the surname lest you take to the wires for it. He was beautiful, kind and altogether horrible.”
“So bad breakup.”
“Psychotic break more like, but it's not something you need concern yourself with. He is long gone.”
--
“She said it’s a tulpa, and I feel I should know what that is...but I don’t.”
“Simplest description would be a dream made manifest. And they’ve become quite the nuisance since the advent of the internet. Do you remember last year with that especially long-necked horse creature?”
“Oh, but he was so sweet! He didn’t hurt anyone.”
“Not physically, no, but his presence sent a number to the hospital for mental distress. Regardless of danger, we are incapable of destroying them—and it isn’t in our job descriptions to do so. If it’s capable of conversation, we’ll ask it to go elsewhere, otherwise we capture and relocate. Did she offer a description?”
“’Really big moth’...wait, does she mean the moth man? The moth man...is real?”
“Remind me to explain the difference between a cryptid and a tulpa to Ms. Fairweather next she rings, would you? And fetch the lamp, no, no, the Elizabethan lamp.”
“What does it matter what lamp, he’s a moth.”
“One does not stop in on old friends without a gift, flower.”
—
“What’s the sap for?”
“Ichor, flower, it is the blood of a deity.”
“Oh, so a snack for the road?”
“Ha ha. Hardly, it is an offering to a reclusive creature born of…personal mythos.”
“Another tulpa?”
“Similar, yes.”
“Something to do with trees, I'm guessing?”
“Yes, but not living ones. I must offer it in a ghostwood.”
“I remember those, they're forests cut down or burned where it's all stumps and ash, right?”
“Impressive, flower. You do listen to this old man's rambling after all.”
“It's ghost trees, dad, who's going to ignore that.”
“You'd be surprised.”
“So what's the creature then, do you know them?”
“Oh yes…I, I do at that.”
“...you two fucked, didn't you? You fucked a tree.”
“Language, Oriana! Why must you be so crude.”
“You're not answering the question.”
“He is as much man as he is tree and it is no business of yours what we did or didn't do.”
“Just keep it in your pants when we see this tree man, I don't need that image in my head.”
“You're not coming, flower. He'll only show if I appear vulnerable.”
“Tell me this isn't an elaborate booty call…I mean I know it's been a while and you've been lonely and moping but—”
“I've been moping?”
“Well, brooding, but it's fine, it's hard for guys your age to meet people.”
“It is not hard for me to, I am doing fine, and you shouldn't be concerning yourself with my love life.”
“Dad, you're going out into the woods to summon a fuckable tree.”
“I’m not listening to this anymore. There are dryads dying by the grove and Namael is the only one I know that's close enough in species to help without falling victim to the same malady.”
“So the tree has a name…does the name have a meaning? Dryad names always have a meaning.”
“Not a dryad.”
“Not a no.”
“Bloodtongue, his name means he's extremely skilled with,”
“His tongue, yeah, I got that. Have fun on your booty call.”
“...”
#yes that last one is about my tree-man from weald and wen#shut up#bloodhound#dialogue#writing#i don't even think any of this will make it in#but i like to write dialogue as character exploration
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GABRIEL GUZMAN is forty-nine years old. He is a Private Investigator. He is the incarnation of Gill from the Disney film Finding Nemo.
+ Inventive, Compassionate, Resilient - Sarcastic, Impetuous, Pessimistic
ABOUT GABRIEL
Gabriel Guzman has lived a lot of lives. If you’re hoping to get any specifics out of him though, guess again. Gabriel keeps his personal life to himself, closely guarding his own secrets. Opening up has never been his strong suit, Gabriel would rather eat glass than talk about his ‘feelings’. There are important things to focus on. Gabriel likes to keep moving forward, repressing the mistakes in his past until the next day starts. Rinse and repeat, right? Gabriel’s always been smart, a born- yet reluctant- leader who would rather work alone. He’s capable of inspiring greatness in others, even roping them into harebrained schemes with ease. There’s a reason he’d rather work alone though. That way, no one else but Gabriel can get hurt. He gave up on 'partners’ a long time ago. In more recent years, Gabriel became a private investigator. The life suited him well. He could feel useful, help others and walk away. Gabriel stayed on the move, rolling into different towns, cracking the case at every turn. Life on the road suited Gabriel, never settling down, never getting too close to anyone. He would have stayed that way too if he hadn’t gotten the call. It had been a long time since he’d heard her name. The fact he was down as her 'emergency contact’ was a surprise, to say the least. Redwood Hollow had called his name and the mystery there awaited.
ADDITIONAL INFORMATION
Gabriel has been a successful PI for years now, spending years brooding in a dimly lit room while pouring over files. His inner monologue is just as brooding and dramatic, always restless unless on a case. Redwood Hollow might be the biggest one yet.
CONNECTIONS
Lorelai Hart - his ex-wife. Gabriel and Lorelai were from another lifetime together and it ended like it always ends. She would have hated that the hospital called him, wouldn’t have wanted anyone to know that she’d been in a coma. Now more than ever, Gabriel suspects there’s much more to this than meets the eye. Mirage - Mirage, Mirage, Mirage… Whenever Gabriel has gotten close- like, really close- to something too big, too true, that woman has been lurking in the shadows. She’s like a ghost, haunting him.
Gabriel is currently unavailable. His faceclaim is Pedro Pascal.
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An Uncommon Witness
[Inspired in a big way by a larger project idea that's crawled out of the quagmire. Barely edited and written in one sitting. Enjoy. TW for blood and inferred gore.]
Detective Harper arrived on scene damp and annoyed. Three days of heavy rain had flooded enough streets to clog up traffic, making travel a miserable affair. Even now it rained, the air heavy, humid, and stifling in the early morning, heavy clouds hanging low overhead as they threatened to drown half of Southbank.
At least he didn’t have to stand around in it, like the poor bastards guarding the scene's perimeter from absent crowds.
Ducking under the white and blue police tape, Harper nodded in greeting to Constable Myles, huddled in her raincoat, moisture trickling down her dark tan cheek.
“Another one?” Harper asks, loud to be heard through the rain, and Myles nodded, lips twisting.
“Same M.O., same symbols,” She said and they walk off path, sodden grass sucking at their boots. “Tourists found the victim on the walkways by the 88’ Pagoda, preserved. Whoever did it hung up a bunch of tarps to keep it clear from the rain.”
“They want us to see, you think?”
“Haven’t been shy so far,” Myles shrugged a shoulder, the walkie crackling with chatter, barely audible over the din. “Maybe they wanted the rain off while they worked. Either way it’s the same. One victim, killed on scene in a ritualistic manner. Area around the body painted in blood, presumably coming from this and previous victims if the patterns consistent.”
“We know who it is?” Harper asked as they climbed broad stairs leading to the pseudo tropical-rainforest and wooden walkways meticulously maintained by the grounds crew. A popular spot in the sprawling parklands, it was a little respite from the sun and heat, nestled between the oversized ferris wheel and a whitewashed block of overpriced restaurants. If the rain hadn’t kept the tourists and locals inside, the horror on display would be plastered all over social media.
“Yeah. Mark Cooper, forty-five years old, an IT specialist, works across the river in the CBD.” Myles flipped over a water splotched page in her notepad. “Like the other scenes, his clothing and possessions were left folded neatly to the side, wallet included, three hundred in cash plus credit cards intact.” They head up a concrete ramp and step under the cover of trees, the scent of rich soil cutting through the smell of rain and metal. Their boots thunk on the wooden walkway that twists and winds between ferns, trees and over a flooded artificial stream.
Harper spotted the tarps immediately, four of them arranged to direct rain away from the naked, ruined body posed with terrible care. One leg laid straight, the other bent, foot behind the knee of the first. The arms were stretched overhead, palms upwards and carved into a bloody mess. Cooper’s skin had been painted with dull blue bands around his limbs and torso, framing the symbols cut into his skin. His face they left alone, eyes open, covered with a strip of hand woven cloth, his expression eerily at peace.
Around him, the dark, damp wood was marked with candles burned to nubs, the white wax pooling through the gaps of the walkway, stars in a constellation of dark bloody lines encircling the murdered man.
Forensic techs went about their work like plastic garbed ghosts, snapping photos, taking samples, hunting for prints, fibres, a scrap of something to give them a foot up.
Harper paid them no mind as he studied the tableau. The same pose, the same set up. A lot of work went into whatever ritual was being performed, a lot of care which took time and effort, likely more than one participant, even if Cooper had been drugged out of his mind like the other three victims. Some of the symbols had been recognised, letters a combination of runes and various occult symbols, the body itself laid out like the Hanged Man from tarot.
Despite the humid warmth, a chill enveloped Harper and he shivered.
“And no one saw anything,” he muttered. “Four scenes like this in a public space, hours of work at least and no one saw a god-damned thing!”
Myles opens her mouth as the radio on her shoulder crackles, the voice garbled and hard to hear.
She sighs and clicks the handset. “They’ve been fritzing all day. Repeat that, over.” She says and the walkie crackles again. Harper picks out one word from the noise. Witness.
“Where?” He demanded.
Down the slope, towards the churning brown of the Brisbane river, a trio of constables shift, looking anywhere but the woman standing in the rain with a broad black umbrella. Tough boots, jeans, and a grey jacket, she stood still, patiently waiting as Harper paused by the officers.
“We have a witness you said?” He asked Buckler, the oldest, a tall, broad shouldered man with a fishers tan. He grimaced.
“We think we might,” He said with a pointed look at the youngest, his fresh out of the academy partner, Mae, a slight lean man of Asian descent. “Tell the detective what you told me.”
Mae’s Adam's apple bobbed as he licked his lips. “She turned up while we were securing the scene, didn’t ask us what was going on until we were done, just asked to speak to the detective when they arrived. She’s been waiting ever since.” Mae glanced at the woman, and cleared his throat. “Might just be a freak wanting a look.”
“Or maybe she saw something,” Harper said. “I’ll go have a chat, thanks Buckler.”
“No worries, Detective.” Buckler jerked his thumb and he and Mae head along the taped perimeter as Harper ducks under the tape again.
Outside the cordon, the air felt lighter, the sound of the rain sharper on the boardwalk.
“You asked to speak with a detective?” he called and the woman’s umbrella tilts, showing a pale face framed by short choppy brown hair, eyes bruised and shadowed from lack of sleep, but clear and piercing, examining him as he approached. Mid-thirties, Harper guessed, no make-up, pierced nose, and clean. Not a vagrant, and if she used, she was sober for the moment.
“I did. Thank you for coming to talk with me, detective…” She trailed off and Harper nodded, pulling out his notepad and a pen.
“Harper. You are?”
“Anna Franklyn. With a ‘Y’.” Her gaze flicked past him. “Another ritual murder.” It wasn’t a question.
Harper gave her a sharp look. “You know anything about this incident? Did you see anything?”
“I know what I’ve been told,” she said, voice blunt. “I didn’t see it, but I know who did. I’m here to help them talk to you.” Anna nodded her head towards the wooden Pagoda.
Harper’s brows rose. “Help? You’re a translator?”
Something flickered in her expression, a flash of amusement that came and went.
“Of sorts. I don’t know how long he can hold on for so, shall we?” She started walking and frowning, Harper followed her, lengthening his stride till he caught up.
“Just a few questions before we get there Miss Franklyn, what’s your relationship to the witness?”
“Known him for a few years, more of an acquaintance than anything else. When I heard the ritual took place here, I came to see if he saw anything.”
Harper’s frown grew as he jotted down a note. “How did you hear about it?”
“After the first two, people started paying attention,” Anna said as they turned off the walk to climb the wide shallow steps leading to the hand carved pagoda, a relic left over from Expo 88. It was a narrow, spindly thing a few levels high, no steps leading up, no purpose save for decoration. “No one does that much work, with that much detail unless it’s building to something.”
“And you know something of these kinds of…” Harper trailed off, hoping for a bite. The more people said the more they gave away.
Anna glanced at him. “I know a lot.” She paused on the top step, and dug a hand into her jacket. “Detective, whether you accept it or not, the ones doing this believe in it. And your only witness needs your belief.” From her pocket, Anna pulled out a small, squat jar, glass, the brassy top giving it away as a repurposed pot of Tiger Balm. She held it out to him, expectant.
Harper looked at the jar, then her, and then to the Pagoda, the doors usually locked for the night standing open. It was dark, a dim warm light glowing within. Another shiver crawled up Harper’s back.
“What kind of belief, Miss Franklyn?” He asked, looking past her. The closest constable was back the way they had come, and over the rain… Any trouble would be heard but he didn’t like distance.
“The hasty kind.,” Anna said, frowning herself. “Put this on your eyes and ears or you won’t get a damn thing. Waste time and you won’t get his account.”
Harper narrowed his eyes at her. “I’m gonna need more information before I smear an unknown substance all over myself.”
Anna’s eyes flicked upwards, reminding him strongly of the popular girls in high school, forever impatient with his clumsy attempts to chat them up.
“It’s oil, olive oil from Greece infused with rosemary and grave dirt. It washes off.” Anna said, opening the jar and with her fingers, dabbed a small amount around her eyes, over her lips and her ears. The jar was thrust towards him, Anna’s sharp gaze pinning him in place, not a hint of mischief or trickery on her face. “Consider, you have no fucking idea what’s going on and you want to know more. I want to help. If shit goes sideways you can arrest me. How's that?”
Harper blinked. She was dead serious.
Glancing again at the Pagoda, the familiar structure somehow more ominous in the dim morning and the rain, looming above them like a silent sentinel, Harper considered. No harm in going along for some information, right? Back up was close by and the woman was a fraction his height and weight. He had good chances if it came to violence. Still, something in his gut worried at him.
“All right.” Harper took the jar, and dabbed his finger into the oil. It didn’t smell all that bad, felt a little gritty as he applied it to his skin and it tingled, warm and steadying. “Where’s my witness?”
Anna cocked her head to the side and beckoned, leading Harper towards the Pagoda, folding down her umbrella as she stepped inside.
“Oh good, you’re still here,” she said to the empty space. There was a wooden bench to one side where a black bag sat slumped to one side. A small candle on a tin dish burned, the flame flickering once. “The detective, Harper-” She paused, glancing back. “Inside, detective.”
Harper scowled. “You know I can charge you with interference with an investigation, right?” He growled, stepping over the low wooden threshold. “There’s no one…” He trailed off, blinking against the dark. “Here?”
On the bench sat a man, wiry and thin, bony arms leaning on bonier knees, his neat shirt ruined by a single dark splotch dead center of his chest. He looked up from his hands, skeletal and long fingered, eyes milky, face gaunt. Solid and real but everything in Harper knew he wasn’t. He couldn’t be. He hadn’t been!
“Tadaaa,” his voice rumbled, felt as much as heard and Harper gaped. His stomach had gone cold, like he’d swallowed a ball of ice, and inside his layers of rain coat and button down and vest, his skin prickled like he stood in a static field.
“Wh-What the f-” Harper started and Anna gave him a hard look.
“Your witness. You have until the candle burns down. Fifteen minutes,” she said and looked at the man with an apologetic expression. “Cops.”
The man on the bench nodded as if he understood. “I saw. I saw it all. They called us to witness. Will you listen?” He asked.
Harper’s jaw clicked as he closed his mouth. “Everything?” He asked and the man on the bench nodded again.
“All.”
“Alright, uh… Sir…” Harper licked his lips and flips to a new page in his notepad. “I’m listening.”
The dead man spoke. Harper took his notes.
Finally, he had a lead.
#writeblr#writers on tumblr#short story#original writing#teafuelledwriting#short horror story#creative writing#cosmic horror#writing tag
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Welcome to the new and improved blog of Ask High Priest Red! This is an ask blog featuring the cast of my Pokémon fanfics, Hunter, Haunted and its sequel, The Bringer. Note that there are major spoilers for the first story. If you’d like to read the fic before engaging with this blog, you can find the story here: https://forums.thousandroads.net/threads/hunter-haunted.371/
Be aware that this blog will include content with violence (including against women and minors), gore and cannibalism. Visual material should, at its worst, be 16+. There will be no explicit sexual content.
With that out of the way, let’s meet the characters! From right to left in the image, they are:
Red: Eighteen-year-old high school dropout neck deep in the cult of Helixism. Has sacrificed eight women to HELIX by now. Believes the world is divided into mareep and houndoom, and that he is among the latter. Suffered through the Twitch six years ago, but doesn’t consider that relevant anymore. Currently searching for candidates to be the Bringer, who is the one HELIX will promote to godhood in order to bring back the Helixian Kingdom.
Helix (in Red’s arms): A vessel to part of HELIX’s spirit, yet unaware of the true nature of that god. Happy-go-lucky child who loves his adoptive fathers Red and the nidoking Fonz. Has been resurrected twice.
Michi: A twelve-year-old orphan with aura sensitivity and a pocket knife. Friend of Joanna. Red killed her once, but somehow, she’s returned. Loves exploring the outdoors and hanging out with her ghost friends.
Samson: A thirty-something Arcean priest with a big heart. Has a wife and two children, one of which is an adopted houndoom son. Unaware of Red’s crimes, viewing him as just a kid with depression and anger issues. Ghosts’ rights activist.
Andre: A 23-year-old aura-sensitive Galarish painter from a rich family. Sociable, charming, well-read. Unbeknownst to all but Red, he is also a vigilante who seduces abusers in order to murder them. Red’s number one candidate for Bringerhood, even if Andre thinks the whole Helixism thing is nonsense.
Kohath: The first Helixian king, roughly forty years old, displaced in time by 4,000 years. This slave-turned-warlord’s likes are HELIX, violence, a nice meaty stew, sex with the bros and his dear Aavan houndoom Tsayedet. He is surprised by his sudden ability to understand and speak Tohjoan, but dealing with HELIX has exposed him to wilder things. Admired greatly by Red.
Joanna: A 21-year-old college student - or she was one before her death at Red’s hand. She reincarnated as a yamask, prompting Red to come after her once again. After managing to torment Red for an extended amount of time, she was sadly killed by an exorcism performed by Samson, who was unaware of the situation. She is, however, now back for a second time.
The Beast: A monstrous manifestation of Red’s aggression and bloodlust. While he is quite dim, he is no less dangerous. Loves killing things, eating flesh and belly rubs. Listens to none but HELIX.
HELIX (not pictured): A primordial god. Cold and calculative. HIS goal is to use the body of his Bringer to claim ownership of reality. Currently lives in a fossil hidden away Red’s basement.
That’s all of them! For now, anyway. More characters may appear if some posts call for it.
I will most likely make an ask suggestion post at some point, in which case I will link to it from this post. You are, however, free to ask questions already! I will try to get to them in a timely manner.
Thanks,
Canis
#pokemon ask blog#ask blog#asks open#helixian#lord helix#red#michi#samson#andre#kohath#joanna#the beast#cw violence#cw murder
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plot: jonas keaton, forty-six year old author who left his shitty little small town a few years back to live in the big city, taking his much younger girlfriend with him. now they're back with their kids to fix up the old bed and breakfast his parents left him when they did only it may or may not be haunted (spoiler alert ! it is). younger muse would need to be in their mid twenties at the youngest, early thirties at the oldest all depends on the age of the kids!
'babe, i don't understand. you were the one who wanted to come back home. you were the one who wanted to fix this place up.' he sighed, leaning against the railing that wrapped all the way around the house, 'now, you're telling me you don't want to stay here? because of ghosts?' jonas sighs. there had been ghost stories surrounded the sapphire inn for as long as he could remember. rumors of old civil war generals or ladies in white who wailed in the middle of the night. jonas had never once seen anything though nor did he believe in ghosts.
'you know how big and old this house is? the floorboards creek, the lights play tricks on you, hell, you flush a toilet and everything rumbles.' being back in this town had them both on edge and for good reason. they hadn't left on the best terms and coming back years later with their family in tow was bound to get an uproar from some of the townsfolk, 'i don't want the kids to be scared in their own home.'
he reaches out for her, pulling her in closer to him so he can put his hands on her hips, 'there's no such thing as ghosts.'
#jonas is the epitome of gaslight gatekeep girlboss#he's not a great person lol#not opposed to family relationships#indie horror smut#horror smut rp#indie horror rp#indie kink rp#indie smut rp#open starters
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Umbrella Academy Losers
Bill takes a deep breath, twists the cap off the urn, and dumps the ashes out. They fall into an inelegant heap. It would have hated that.
“M-might have been b-b-better with some wind,” he mutters. Everyone stays silent.
Finally, Richie breaks the silence. “Did anyone else ever expect him to turn into some weird alien…clown…spider…thing?”
No one replies, until Bill toes the ashes. “Yeah.”
“Well,” Richie says, lighting a cigarette, “good to know I’m not completely crazy.”
“I don't think that Bill being on your side points to your favor,” Eddie replies.
Bill frowns down at the small pile by his feet. “I used t-t-to th-think he was i-i-immortal. I g-guess I s-st-still thought th-that.”
“He was always good at making us think he was the biggest threat we’d ever face,” Mike says.
“He was wrong,” Bev replies, and glances at the ashes one last time before light flashes and she’s gone.
Richie’s sitting upside down on the couch, much to Eddie’s chagrin. Sucks for him, but there’s plenty of couches to choose from. He didn’t have to sit next to him. He pulls a joint out of his pocket and lights it. Hopefully having lungs upwards for a change doesn’t make him choke.
Bill sighs. “Richie.”
“Sorry, Big Bill, but if you think I’m going to be sober enough to chance seeing It’s ghost, you’re out of your goddamn mind.”
They all wince in sympathy.
“Yeah, okay,” Eddie says, “but can you at least not smoke with the asthmatic in the room?”
Richie squints, trying to make sense of Eddie’s upside-down face. “Do you have asthma? I don’t remember you having asthma.”
“Were you there for most of our childhood?”
“Physically or mentally?” He asks, but gets up and moves to the bar. Close enough to hear, far enough to not aggravate Eddie’s lungs. Bev and Ben follow him.
“Got a smoke?” Bev asks, leaning against the bar, and Ben falters, accidentally turning his two fingers of whiskey into three.
“You—you’re thirteen,” he says, at the same time Richie asks, “Aren’t you an infant now?”
“I’m forty years old,” she says, fixing them with the second most deadpan stare he’s ever seen. “I’m in the body of my thirteen year old self, which is enough torture. Besides, these lungs are already ruined. Give me a damn cigarette.”
Can’t argue with that. He gives her a damn cigarette.
Ben sighs and adds another finger.
“Richie,” Bill calls, because he has some kind of Big Brother instinct that Richie secretly thinks of as his second power, “you better not be giving drugs to the baby.”
“Fuck you, Bill,” Bev snorts, and Richie follows up with, “Yeah, fuck you! The ‘baby’ gave me cigarettes first.”
“Why’d you stay, Mikey?” Bill asks. “You hated it here more than any of us.”
“Actually I think that was Richie.”
“Hell yeah it was!” Richie calls.
#IT fanfic#guys my internet is shit and my phone keyboard keeps going#out so if this looks like shit. no it doesn’t. I’ll fix it later#ok so the lineup is probably pretty obvious here#bill as luther#mike as diego#ben as allison#richie as klaus#bev as five#stan as ben#and Eddie as victor#i had SO many thoughts about the deadlights and time travel and bev and#richie being the ones to time travel bc in the movies they’re the ones who go through the deadlights#so many thoughts guys#i had other characters picked out and everything too#but I didn’t write them lol#i also changed up a lot of storylines from the show to this so they’d fit the cusr#characters better#like bill having Allison’s divorce plot and Mike being the one who stayed#etc
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Cat’s Cradle - Chapter 4
Ch 1 … Ch 3
“If I am reading this right, they need to eat every two hours?”
“Just about,” Vex says with no small amount of forced cheer. She throws an arm over the back of Percy’s seat as she puts her Jeep in reverse. “It’s going to be just like a sleepover! We can have snacks between bottle feeding the little babies. Play truth or dare with them.”
Percy hums in acknowledgement, careful not to jostle the basket in his lap.
It had been a no-brainer for them to spend the night at Vex’s apartment - a seven minute drive from the workshop certainly beat a forty minute one to Percy’s in this weather. This would be the last time anyone called him paranoid for keeping spares of everything handy… though usually they were for late nights spent on a project, or when his clothes inevitably got ruined by oil or a small fire.
The Jeep is too old for BlueTooth and its radio gave up the ghost years ago. It’s just them, the kittens, and the sparse Sunday traffic outside. Respite as it may be after the earlier chaos, it leaves Percy with nothing to distract him.
It’s only seven minutes.
He tries not to think.
He’s not particularly good at that.
Vex isn’t, either - though she is a fair deal better at hiding it when it suits her, fixing her gaze on the road. Not perfect, though, perhaps only because he is looking a little more closely than he should. Every bump sends Percy’s heart into his throat. Eventually it stays there.
“Are you sure,” Percy says, “that I am not imposing by staying over?”
She makes an effort not to look at him. “Oh, I really appreciate it, actually,” says Vex. “Zahra’s expecting me for eight tomorrow, and I don’t think I can function on that little sleep. You’re a lifesaver darling - thank you.”
That’s not what he meant and they both know it.
“Of course,” he replies. “Careful about the blind turn, dear.”
Seven minutes is a torturous crawl. It’s also not nearly enough.
--
Trinket is disgustingly happy to greet them, his nub of a tail drawing his backside into great wiggles.
Percy is quick to raise the basket as high as can be done safely - Trinket is a very big dog, with thick brown fur and a huge, drooly muzzle. The cropped ears are a stark contrast to the soft look of the rest of him, and rarely fail to send a pang through Percy.
Vex laughs when Trinket, sniffing at Percy’s legs, suddenly redoubles his enthusiastic greeting, now barking. Bless her training - any other dog would be jumping, which would be quite the disaster. “Yes, darling, we’ve got friends! You can’t play with them, though, they’re too little. Quiet down, Trinket.”
The jowls close with a pop, big dark eyes imploring Percy to please let him play with the babies.
“No,” Percy says gently.
Trinket whines as he whisks them off to the bathroom.
With the flurry of activity, it’s easy to set aside how Friday night went.
--
Vex had put off most of her errands to Sunday, given it was her first day off in a week and a half. Once the kittens are settled, Percy offers to watch them and cover the next feeding or two so she can hack at her checklist. He feels guilty that his ordeal ate up her whole morning, and it’s the least he can do.
The alternative, that he does the shopping for her, is off the table: Vex has the whole thing planned to a T to hit the best specials and save the most gas. Percy is, frankly, not sure he could meet her standards.
So most of Percival’s day is kittens.
Bottlefeeding, helping them go to the bathroom, weighing them. Making sure their heatpad is still warm, preparing more formula. And research - as much as he can manage. Everything from things to watch out for to normal growth rates. How to reintroduce kittens to their mother. How to catch a stray cat.
Percy fires off an email to the local SPCA, enquiring first when they can bring the litter in. Second, if they can borrow a trap for Curio.
It’s satisfying to put together a plan of action.
--
With an old cult classic Scanlan had recommended and takeout, it is almost like a sleepover. Bar the absence of Vax - usually omnipresent at the apartment - or any of their other friends. Without them, ignoring the occasional awkward lapses of silence where before the quiet between them had been smooth is harder. The movie is a poor distraction, once the food is all gone and the kittens are long until their next feed.
There’s a beat, when a dramatic reveal falls flat to this audience of two, where Percy almost brings it up. Or Vex almost does - her eyes are dark things, iced with the light from the television.
Almost is not quite enough when Percy’s phone buzzes decisively.
He thumbs through his passcode to find the new email. Hums.
“Percy?” Vex says, leaning closer.
“We can drop by with the litter at our earliest convenience,” he explains, tilting the screen her way. “But they note that there might not be a foster available for them - that all those experienced with neonates already have their hands full.”
Vex sighs, head dropping onto her knee. “Of course.”
“Should we expect the worst?” He taps out the beginnings of a reply - they also agree to let them make use of a humane trap or two.
“I can’t foster kittens right now, Percy.” She sounds so weary - he nudges his shoulder into her’s without thought. Almost as easily she nudges back. Doesn’t pull back. “The end of the next quarter is in two weeks - it’s been late nights for the last three, too. I’ll be lucky to have time for lunch.”
“And the nonprofit,” Percy offers gently, “will also crash and burn without your championship.”
Vex snorts. “Mm-hm. That rich asshole - richer than you, darling - keeps hounding for proof the area needs to be protected. So we’re still canvassing for the endangered species they found a few years back, because apparently it needs to reflect the ‘actual status of the woodland’.” She helpfully provides the airquotes.
Her hands falter somewhat. “And - well. Vax isn’t here. Or he could help.”
Percy nods, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. The movie goes viciously dark - good gods has the cinematography been terrible - and she does too, shrinking in on herself.
“Don’t worry, dear. We can figure it out later,” Percy murmurs. The yawn that takes him makes his jaw creak. “Tomorrow.”
“Later,” Vex echoes. She mirrors his yawn, too, though she stands with it. “I’ll - I’m heading to bed. Goodnight, Percy.”
Ah. ”Night, Vex.” He does not protest - he’s due to start warming a bottle soon, anyways.
(They’re not very good at talking about things later.)
#critical role#cat's cradle au#critical role fic#critical role fanfiction#percahlia#perc'ahlia#percival de rolo#cr percy#percy de rolo#cr vex#vex'ahlia#my writing
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This is all assumptions but...
Rose Red is Red Riding Hood, isn't she? That's why Snow, of all people, adopted the Big Bad Wolf's children, right?
But who is their biological mother? Is it- is it Rose Rose...? I wouldn't be too surprised considering what the Big Bad Wolf represents in the fairy tales he's in and the obvious predatory metaphor in Little Red Riding Hood. How old is everyone, again?
Or are they from "The Wolf and the Seven Young Goats"? They are seven children after all and apparently, there's a version where they're kids instead of goats.
I honestly just want to know everything about the Nolan family, lol.
-Dante.
Rose Red is Red Riding Hood, yes. And this is gonna get kind of messy.
To start, Rose Red and Snow White are both 43. As the Nolan... seven-tuplets are seventeen, that would put Snow and Rose at 26 when they were born.
Snow White is the mother. Now, let me explain.
Under the wicked stepmother (Grimhilde,) the kingdom was a very unsafe place for magical creatures such as Bigby (the Big Bad Wolf.) He was starving. That doesn't excuse his actions, just explains them. We all know how the story of Red Riding Hood goes. He survived that and the grandmother (Rose and Snow's maternal grandmother,) took pity on him, recognizing his actions as those of a desperate boy, and took him in. Bigby was thirteen at the time, only a year older than Snow and Rose, and he quickly became part of the family despite the earlier issue.
Two years later, the whole Snow White thing happens. For the record, Florian is also fourteen at this point. He is not twenty, he is fourteen just like Snow White. Because this was "old" times, where people got married young, the two did get married at sixteen and joined their kingdoms. But they couldn't have heirs. Why?
Florian is a trans man.
This didn't bother either of them. They figured that, when the time came, they would just adopt an heir. But then, when they were twenty-three, Beast tried to take over their kingdom. They managed to keep him from annexing them but, unless they had a biological heir, they knew it wouldn't stick. Beast wouldn't recognize an adopted heir as having a claim to the crown. So, to keep their people safe and their way of life alive, they needed a biological heir. An heir Beast would need to believe was the biological child of Snow White and Florian.
Bigby looked a lot like Florian, and he was really the only person Snow could trust with this. No strings attached, they'd just go right back to being friends. Which they did. Of course, Snow managing to have six babies from one pregnancy kind of raised some eyebrows, but she insisted that multiple pregnancies ran in her family, which they did, and kept insisting that was why until people left her alone. Now, instead of one heir, she has six- Winter, Blossom, Ambrose, Therese, Darien, and Conner.
(Of course, unbeknownst to her, there was a seventh who would come to name himself Ghost, but Snow didn't know about him for a while. He died during delivery and the midwife chose to hide this from Snow. But that's a story for another time.)
So, to recap
Red was twelve in Red Riding Hood and is forty-three now
Snow was fourteen in her story, sixteen when she got married, twenty-five when she got pregnant, twenty-six when she gave birth, and is forty-three now
Florian was fourteen in Snow White, sixteen when he got married, twenty-five when Snow got pregnant, twenty-six when he became a father, and is forty-three now
Bigby was thirteen in Red Riding Hood, fifteen when Snow became queen, seventeen when Snow got married, twenty-six when Snow asked him for that huge favour, twenty-seven when he also became a father, thirty when he got sent to the Isle, and forty-four now
The six are seventeen now and yes, they know who their biological father is because they also know that Florian is trans. Florian and Bigby are both their "real" fathers. They get two dads and a mom.
Ghost is ageless because he is a ghost, but he identifies as the same age his siblings are.
I am really sorry if this makes zero sense.
#descendants#descendants au#isle of darkness#the darkness speaks#winter wolf#blossom wolf#ambrose wolf#ghost wolf#therese wolf#darien wolf#conner wolf#dante anon
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10 Lines Tagging Game
Rules: share the first lines of ten of your most recent fanfics and tag ten people. If you have written less than ten, don’t be shy and share anyway!
Thanks to everyone who’s shaken me out of my stupor by tagging me: @yletylyf, @danpuff-ao3, @likelightinglass, and @ripeteeth! I'm going with first paragraphs, and a little more where pertinent. I had to scroll all the way back to 2014 to manage the full ten, partly because I skipped all the fic snippets.
I haven’t had time to comment on others’ posts, but I’ll get to that soon. Please, anyone who hasn’t shared, post your lines! I’ve read every excerpt I’ve seen so far, and they’re all wonderful, even the snippets from canons I don’t know. I won’t tag because I’m at work and rushing this out, but others should try! It’s fun to get reacquainted with your own first lines.
Candles Lit Against the Dark - (HP, Minerva/Wilhelmina and a big helping of Snape, 13.6K),
At around four in the afternoon, with three chapters to go in the espionage novel she was reading – since popular thrillers provided not only diversion but an eye-opening refresher course on Muggle slang and cultural attitudes – Minerva glanced up from the page to find Wil leaning in the doorway, watching her.
The Afterlight - (HP, Snape/Harry, WIP, 6 chapters, 45.6K so far)
It was possible none of this would have happened if not for Hermione. Or if not for Ron being an insecure prat who had to give himself a confidence boost in the worst possible way. Kingsley Shacklebolt also deserved some of the blame for putting Harry in an impossible position.
But mostly, Harry was aware, the fault lay with Snape. With Snape and his penchant for nearly dying in Harry's arms.
Year of the Thestral - (HP, Minerva/Severus, WIP, 3 chapters, 16.8K so far. Warning: the opening paragraph is ‘romantic,’ the rest of the fic is not)
The headmaster of Hogwarts, as yet unaware that he had entered upon his last day on earth, raised his thin hand to stroke the unsmiling face of the woman who had afforded him so much unlooked-for happiness. How ironic that, while children suffered and Voldemort prepared to strike, with his loyalties so deeply buried that only a discerning heart and penetrating mind could perceive their true shape, Severus Snape should lay to rest the ghost of his old love and touch the flesh-and-blood promise of the new.
The Threefold Death, or: the Lost World (long version) - (HP, Snape/Harry, Snape/Albus Severus, WIP, 3 chapters, 22.4K so far)
If Harry hadn't lost the ability to fly.
If his son had been sorted into any house but Slytherin.
If Harry hadn't waited until nearly forty to get lost in the Forest.
If Al hadn't been a ruthless romantic –
Or if Snape hadn't died. If Severus Snape hadn't died.
Jeeves and the Secret Society - (HP and the Jeeves stories (P. G. Wodehouse), Jeeves/Wooster, suggestion of Snape/Dumbledore, 12K, modeled on Wodehouse’s style and thus the fic most unlike my usual style)
Into the lives of all upstanding citizens an occasion must fall where we fumble the biscuit and end up owing an undeniable debt to mankind. Or in this instance, a kind man or two rather than the whole shebang.
No doubt it strikes you, on the head as it were, that I could say this of Jeeves on the regular. But the truth of the matter is, if I referred the matter to a court of law, that court would be forced to conclude that Jeeves is not like other men and therefore not a representative specimen.
The Sorrows of Your Changing Face - (Doctor Who, Twelve/Clara, 1.5K, not a fandom most of my friends read but this is probably my only chance to write a love letter to this ship, and it preserves the small hot coal of my feelings for them)
"We've really got to stop saying goodbye like this. How many times has it been now?"
She aims for a tone of flippant affection, the nostalgic companionship of Coal Hill and three-week-old coffee runs, heartsore mornings on an alien beach watching Gallifreyan symbols being scratched in the sand, a blanket over her bare shoulders and the transcendently erotic flapper affair that glittered as she curled around his confession, being counselled to choose and so choosing to change her mind. You can't be heartless and do what he does.
Soft Touch - (HP, Snape/Harry, 15.2K, character study with porn)
After the attendant led him down the hall and left him alone in the cosy wood-panelled room, warm enough that he could lie around in his smalls and not suffer goosepimples, Harry performed several quick spells to blind spying eyes, disable extendable ears, cover holes in the walls, and silence illegal recording charms. Not that he was paranoid, mind, but he wasn't an idiot, either.
Warm - (HP, Snape/Harry, 11.3K, porn with character study)
"Well, that was more fun than a barrel of Boggarts."
Harry bumped the front door shut with the snow-caked heel of his dress shoe and peeled off his gloves, watching Severus prop his cane in a corner and continue stiffly down the hall. He'd rather hoped that once they got home Severus would grab his arse and hump him up against a wall. But he could tell from how he walked that the winter freeze between the Ministry ball and their own doorstep had triggered muscle spasms, the ghost of Nagini's venom still flaring and fading in Severus' body even several years later.
The Blood of Stars - (HP, Snape/Harry, WIP on hiatus, 3 chapters, 44.2K, the WIP of my heart, and once I complete the current trio of fics, I want to drag this one back into the light)
At first, it's dark and he's flying.
More graceful in the air without a broom, he shivers at the unexpected freedom. The pulse of escape makes it worth the pain.
For there is pain. Too soon, the downward spiral begins. He drops lower, darker, through an agony of sky. Freefall. The very air hurts.
Impossible Without It - (HP, Snape/Harry, WIP on hiatus, 3 chapters, 16.5K, I’m also fond of this one, and I suspect readers will like it more than Blood of Stars. So I’ll probably work on both at once. Someday.)
Alone in the headmistress' office, Harry sat balancing a tea cup in his lap and toying with his wand, wondering how much longer he could stand to wait before Minerva returned.
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