#but also I was stewing in my knowledge and crying maybe

[birdwithavendetta]

trying to make art for @keferon's apocalyptic ponyo au (specifically jazz and prowl) and-

were doing great here, were doing so good, no problems at all, not a single one

[msfbgraves]

Any mobverse ficlet for daniel fixing terry's clothes before he goes to "work"? Or maybe making hubby look presentable after sexytimes (yes, Daniel is nekkid while he fixes terry's tie? suit?)

terry wants to stay because his omega is doing that Omega Thing and Now He Is Horny Again but people have got to be killed for the sake of nyc :( and the underworld :(

lol

It would have been perfect. His omega, small and tan and blissed out, relaxed in the knowledge that Sammy is sound asleep. She would be, after being fed while Daddy held her Mama in his lap while he nursed her, Daddy feeling the first stirrings of a new puppy -another puppy! His puppy! -under his omega's heart. Oh, the kisses he's lavished on his Danny's stomach after, before his attentions wandered downwards. And how he'd moaned, his Danny. And here he is now, watching Terry through half closed eyes, as he towels away a few last drops and reaches for his shirt.

"Let me do that."

He's out, quick as anything, and hands him a black covering like the ones in Terry's former laundry service.

Terry hesitates. Danny crooks an eyebrow.

"This one goes better with that suit. Sir."

He kisses his head. "I'm fine, darlin'."

"No you're not. You need a fresh shirt."

"No."

He frowns. "Why not?"

"I said no."

"Yes, I heard!"

"Go on now, sweetheart, before someone else comes in."

"No!"

"You want them to find you naked?"

"I want you to tell me what is wrong with the shirt."

"Fine. I want you to do it."

"The ironing?"

"Yes."

He bites his lip. "Terry, I can't do all the ironing myself."

"You don't have to do all the ironing yourself, I want you to do my ironing."

Och, he knows that look. His mate is Seriously Displeased. But is it such a strange request?

"Terry, this was done by Laura McCormack. As a special favor. She has been doing this longer than I have been alive, and she's better at it."

"I don't care!"

He stomps his feet. "But you're my mate! I don't want to send you out in a wrinkled shirt!"

"And I'm not wearing that!"

This is getting ridiculous, there's only so long you can make people wait before it's insulting. "If you want me going out in an ironed shirt, you can iron it."

Those eyes. They burn. "And you can tell me why I have to tell a dear friend who taught me to make that stew you like, why her perfect work is not up to your standards." He wipes away a tear. "I'm ashamed, Terry."

"Why can't you do it yourself -"

"Because with all the bullet holes, and the bloodstains, there's enough work I can't send out anywhere, so if you really want to make my life harder, Terry, at least tell me why!"

He'd never thought of it that way. But it's also not a small concession to make, not for him. Feels too intimate, too harrowing.

He tries. "It smells dead."

Danny bristles. "Terry, it doesn't stink, that's a mean thing to say -"

"It doesn't stink, there is no smell." He takes a breath. "Amanda used to handle clothes, after my mother died. But then she left, and... look I don't want to wear laundry clothes, if I can help it."

His mate is still for one moment, but then he smiles. "I can fix that." He zips open the cover, takes out the shirt, and wraps himself inside.

Terry sucks in a breath. Those lips. That cheeky smile. Those long legs poking out from under the garment, ridiculously large on his small mate...

"Oh, no no no you don't!" He's quick when he wants to be, takes off the shirt and hands it to him. "There! Better?"

Yes, Jaysis. It feels like an embrace. He nods, overcome. Daniel kisses his cheek. "Let's fix you up."

And the way he touches him, slipping on a T-shirt, buttoning the shirt proper, stroking the arms, fixing the collar, then ducks to get his shoes as Terry blinks away a tear before slipping on his socks and pants. Daniel grabs a robe before helping him with his tie. Then a small cry:

"Oh, that's Sammy!" A kiss on the cheek, and he's out like lightening. "See you tonight, Sir!"

The tie is only half done.

Terry needs to sit down for a bit.

Jaysis, Mary and Joseph.

He'd die for him. Right here.

Then he fixes his tie, grabs his hat, and gets back to business.

[qierxing]

Obligations

Yan! Zhongli x Reader

Word Count: 2,837

How long can a man talk before he runs out of air?

Scratch that. How long can this man talk before you decide to strangle him?

"...as such, the rivers, plains, and mountains that are said to have been the remains of what is left of the dead gods remains…."

The intonation of Mr. Zhongli's voice nearly puts you to sleep at the ornate dining table, and if it weren't for the fact that you were at an esteemed establishment (even if you two were in a private room), you surely would've face planted and fallen asleep right there on the mahogany wood. But you don't, because it would be an insult to the very man (and the food) who invited you on this outing.

Mr. Zhongli is a respectable man and apparently, a good friend in your family's circles. Even though you've never met the man till now, even you're aware of his shining reputation; aunties giggling on how he's so charming and polite, cousins admiring his knowledge and strength, and other relatives likewise praising him to high Celestia and above.

And he is, you suppose, very handsome. His face is beautiful; high, defined cheekbones, molten amber eyes that glow warmly, pretty curved pink lips and nose to match. A good face, your auntie would say if she was here. An auspicious face.

“And that is how the geography of Liyue came to be...”

You're sure anyone in your position would be swooning over how his voice flowed like the trickling rivers that ran through Guili plains, but you just wished he would shut up at some point. Not even the delicious spread of food at the glass carousel wheel could distract from his tirade, and that was saying something.

Speaking of, why did he order so much food for only the two of you?

'In Liyue, you can always eat till you drop!' A saying that always echoed among the locals, and still holds true today. But even then, the intricately painted línglóng porcelain holding the remnants of steamed egg soup, roasted duck, squirrel fish, and more and more food, are way too excessive, even if he wanted to impress you.

You idly push around the Tianshu meat on your plate as he continues to drone on, wondering when you can politely excuse yourself without being rude.

-

"So, how was the dinner?" You internally groan as your mom's barely concealed excitement in her voice shows.

"Mama, we just sat there and talked." Well, Zhongli was the one doing most of the talking. But you weren't about to say that, not when you know a lecture awaits that answer.

"Isn't he a very handsome man?" Your mother's eyes gleam dangerously and a resigned sigh leaves your lips as she barrels on confidently. "Doesn't he seem like the perfect husband?!"

"Mama, it's ten in the morning…" What you wouldn’t give to eat your congee in peace.

"He is a respectable man, and quite knowledgeable to boot."

"Not you too, Baba!"

Your father merely chuckles as he continues reading the daily newspaper, and you roll your eyes as he continues chuckling behind the printed pages. Your mother swats at him to finish his porridge, turning to you with a frown on her wrinkled face. You brace yourself, knowing exactly what is coming next.

"[First Name], you're already of marriageable age, you should be looking for your future spouse! Your parents are growing old and when we die-"

"I will be perfectly fine without a husband." You cut her off, rubbing at your forehead. It was too early in the morning for this talk.

"Aiya, I don't want our only child to be by themselves! We will never know peace once we pass away, so much worry-"

You tune the rest of the lecture out, not even having the energy to refute her worries.

When you leave the house to take a walk, you meet the infamous Mr. Zhongli again.

"What a coincidence, I am also taking a walk to clear the mind. Would you perhaps like to join me?" And trapped by societal politeness, and the fact that this man did order you a three course meal the previous night, you agree.

So it's to your surprise that he does not immediately initiate dialogue as the both of you stroll leisurely through the stone gardens in Yunjin terrace, and a comfortable silence falls.

"You seem to have a lot on your mind." You turn to meet his gaze, and then away. Your frustration burns at you in the remainder of the morning's argument, but it dissipates at his concerned face. It is not his fault, you reason, that your mother wants you to court him for a possibility. For fortune. Despite the man's shortcomings, he is nothing but a gentleman.

"I don't want to pry but...I have heard that talking about your thoughts might ease your mind?"

You pause for a long time, breathing out your nose as you close your eyes.

"My parents want me to marry you." You've never been one to mince words, much to your mother's dismay at trying to teach you etiquette. "They think that you're a good match. And they're paranoid about me becoming a spinster."

There's silence for a moment and you open your eyes to not a face of disgust or shock, but rather one of musing.

"And you, [First Name]? What do you think?"

You turn your gaze to the water.

"Honestly? I don't know. I don't know you well enough to make that judgement. I know my parents are worried, but I don't want to get married for the sake of not being alone. I think it's rather selfish, to wish that solely for your partner."

The words tumble out of your mouth, one after another and you wonder how it is that it's easier to confess this to an acquaintance than your own parents.

"I was under the impression that people often like to pursue lasting romance in their lives. It's interesting to see this is not always true." Zhongli hums, hand coming to stroke his chin thoughtfully.

"Perhaps? I don't know. I've always been content with my friends." Shrugging your shoulders, you sigh. "Who knows? Maybe I have yet to meet the right person."

Zhongli hums again in response, seemingly in deep thought with a small frown pulling at his lips. A silence falls once again, and an awkward atmosphere falls upon the both of you.

"Oh yes, I never did thank you for the delicious dinner last night." You note offhandedly, half distracted by the swimming carp in the clear pond water. The water trails are hypnotic, and they help take your mind off the stressful morning you had.

"It was nothing. For my friend's precious child, that was the least I could do." He modestly replies, and you deadpan. It was nothing? A three course meal at Xinyue Pavillion, nothing? You know that squirrel fish did not have a low price tag.

"Regardless, I'm very thankful for your generosity." After all, not many tolerated your blunt, forthright personality, least of all the potential suitors your mother always brought before you. The memory makes you feel guilty at the irritation you had back then at the dinner. "The next time, I insist we have dinner at Wanmin--I've heard their black back perch stew is to die for. My treat."

He hums, and turns to you with a heartbreaking smile, a far cry from his previous countenance. "Is that a promise?"

You raise your eyebrow, "What are you, Morax? Yes, it's a promise, unless you hate fish, I guess."

His amused chuckles are soft but light a warm hearth in your heart.

-

Your mother is growing more daring than you remember.

She shoves you out the door as if you're some kind of fancy wrapped gift to offer to Mr. Zhongli, and there's a manic glee in her eyes as she eyes you and him standing together like a couple.

"[First Name] has been looking forward to this, haven't you, sweetie?"

The Liyuen hanfu she forced you into were a different cut than the modern cheongsam dresses of the current trends. Archaic, if you dare call it that. While some traditionalists still donned hanfu, it was not as common to see it in the streets. When she was shoving you in the under robes, she muttered about how it was something passed down in the family. Which explained a lot. These days, hanfu like this were something of a rich antiquity.

You sigh deeply, tugging your translucent pibo around you tighter as you decide to humor her, if only to get her to stop embarrassing yourselves and leave faster.

"Yes, quite."

Zhongli hums, and when you turn to face him, you're almost unnerved at how his eyes sharpen and scan over you, pupils slit like a dragon's. The moment is gone in a flash and he merely smiles at you gently before taking your hand in his gloved one.

"In that case, shall we get going?"

The nightlife of Liyue is in full swing and Zhongli tugs you closer, and there's something intimate in the way he presses you firmly into his side, the warmth he exudes sending pleasurable tingles down your body.

"Do forgive me for being so bold, [First Name]," He addresses you so tenderly, that you blush when you look back up from your joined hands, "You look absolutely radiant tonight."

How is it this man manages to say such an embarrassing thing so smoothly? What is his secret? He doesn’t seem like the playboys that often loiter around the downtown area of the harbor. You look away, unable to meet his eyes that reflect the lanterns and make his pupils glow.

"T-Thank you, Zhongli, you're too kind."

His eyes never seem to leave you, even when taking in the lovely scenery of Liyue at night. For the bright lanterns glitter and glow on the ocean waves, but his own pupils are glued to your being when you look in your peripheral.

“Is there something on my face?” Tearing your eyes away from the street in front of you, you turn to meet his gaze straight on.

He merely smiles.

“No.” He pushes a stray strand of hair behind your ear, the gesture innocuous, but leaving a burning trail where his finger tips touch your skin. “I believe we have arrived.”

Thankfully you can excuse the burning in your cheeks and neck away with the spices that the Li cuisine favors. If anyone asks, it was the black back parch stew making you look flushed and out of sorts. Never mind the fact that Chef Mao looks quite amused at the fact you’re sputtering in response to his cheeky questions about you showing up with a man to your favored restaurant.

When you look up from checking to make sure your hanfu didn’t get any stains, Zhongli is uncorking a white bottle and pouring it into your cups. At your questioning look, he replies, “Dàqūjiǔ. The Li technique ferments wheat for about two to three months. This one in particular, has a fine aroma after being fermented for a while.”

“Hoh…” You chuckle at his explanation, “You really do know everything.”

“Hardly. I cannot say I know as much as the regular scholar…nonetheless, to good fortune!”

Echoing his cheer, you raise your cup and drink.

The alcohol burns your throat, and you’re reminded of your low alcohol tolerance. Yet, your fellow friend refills your cup just as easily, and who are you to refuse him? By the time you’re on your fourth cup, your world is spinning and you’ve developed a headache.

“Ahaha…wow...everything...is...moving…” You slur incomprehensibly and slump onto the bamboo table.

“Oh dear, we best get you back. In this condition, you’re too vulnerable.”

“No way...if I go back with you...my mom….she won’t let me…!” You raise your head from the cool table, but the effort of doing that makes you groan.

Zhongli all too easily picks you up bridal style, and after bidding goodbye to Chef Mao with a hefty bag of mora, he walks down the now empty streets of Liyue.

“Won’t let you what, dear heart?” He hums, stroking your face gently with the pad of his thumb.

“Won’t let me...let...us...ugh…”

“[First Name], do you like me?”

“Mmh...yeah…” Is all he gets, but the stilted, jagged answer is enough for him. The content smile that breaks his face belies the haunting glow of his molten eyes.

-

When you step out of the door of your bedroom, you're accosted by your sobbing mother.

"Ma-Mama?! What's the matter?" You frantically ask, pushing at her shoulders.

"Oh my sweet child, oh I'm so happy for you! When were you going to tell me, you brat?!"

"Tell you what?!"

"That you're marrying Zhongli, sweetie! Oh, this is such a momentous occasion--"

You're too shell shocked that you do not hear her next words. What? Marry? Zhongli? What on Teyvat was going on--

"--Hurry up, he's waiting for you in the living room!" You're snapped out of your daze when you're ushered hastily into the room, casual robes and all, right in front of the very person you had so many questions for.

The door shutting behind you does not muffle the excited chatter from your parents and you wince when you hear your mother excitedly bantering with your father. Turning and meeting an intense gaze, you feel like you’ve stepped into an arena with a monster.

"Zhongli, why are my parents under the impression we're marrying?"

His golden eyes crinkle in delight at your blunt words, "Because we are, my dear heart."

D-Dear heart?!

"I don't understand."

"What is there not to understand?" You step back as he rises from the cozy armchair he was given. It only just occurs to you how ridiculously tall this man is, and he towers over you, like a mountain.

"I believe we share a mutual attraction. After all, last night only proved it." He leans over and you flinch as he gently cups your face with a small smile.

"We've only known each other for a couple days!" You protest, leaning your face out of his hands. His smile dips into a displeased frown, hands falling to his sides.

"Why need more time to prove what is already there?" He tilts his head. “If this is a matter about your dowry, I’m sure I can help--”

“This isn’t about mora! Zhongli, this is moving way too fast--”

“Is that so? If I’m correct, I believe that your family’s come upon some hard times, no?” And you’re left breathless, struck silent. “Not down to the pits, but just one little slip and...well, your father’s business is already taking loans, isn’t it?”

Your teeth are grinding so hard against each other to the point where it echoes in your head.

“Marry me, [First Name], and you won’t have to worry about any of that. After all, I’ve always had enough good fortune to share. Are you so willing to crush your parent’s hopes and dreams for their child?”

“I-” Your mother’s tears on her weathered face come to mind, wrinkles from stress deeply indented in her skin. Your father, weary, veiny hands covered in scars from hard manual labor, shoulders slumped from his strength sapping. And you realize with a bone chilling fear that this man, this man was threatening to destroy the very foundation of your life.

He smiles upon seeing your uncertain visage, gritted teeth, clenched fists and trembling body.

"You'll look beautiful in red and gold."

-

How numb you feel!

Having to sit there while being dressed, being fawned over by your cousins, cried over by your mother and aunties, and your father and uncles chuckling over your good fortune. All the while, you cannot bring yourself to bring even the fakest smile to your face, only being able to muster up a sheepish smile, but it is of no concern, as everyone seems to mistake it for a shy front for a person about to marry their true love.

At least that’s how your mother is spinning it to your giggling aunties. And even when the festivities are over, you know that this is not the end.

Bare fingers trace your cheeks and lift your veil as a chaste kiss is placed on your lips.

This was supposed to be a day of joy.

Said fingers begin to trail down your body, and more sobs begin to shake your body. When you think about it, this might be the first time you felt his skin touch your own. Zhongli has always dressed conservatively, even covering his hands with his gloves. Thinking about it longer makes your skin crawl.

This was supposed to be--

Zhongli hums appreciatively into your collarbone as he slips your wedding garb off your shoulders, your world collapses and dims, with only a haunting amber light as your guide.

[rayofsunas]

s/o has bad cramps. 

A/n: hi everyone! I hope your day is going smoothly today <33 zhongli’s is short, because idk how to write for dude, sorry lmao :0 to the anon who requested this thank you and enjoy!!

Summary: s/o has bad period cramps.

Parings: Diluc/Fem! Reader, Xiao/Fem! Reader, Zhongli/Fem! Reader

Warnings: fluff, periods 

Word count: 1.1k

Diluc

you returned home in tears one day and he really thought you were dying

he thought you’d gotten so badly hurt, you were on the brink of death

especially when he sees you holding your stomach, hunched over

“love what’s wrong? are you alright?

he doesn’t know what to do tbh

honestly, he’s clueless

even more so if you’ve run out of herbs to soothe the pain 

Diluc will have to ask around Mondstadt about what the best remedies for cramps are and where he could find some

let's just say it’s embarrassing for him, but all the women he’s asked (Lisa, Amber, even Jean) think it’s absolutely adorable

he cares so much and he truly wants to help you, it’s so sweet!

Lisa was the most helpful; giving Diluc names of a few different bath salts and a herb that helped ease the pain 

Amber had given the same information as Lisa, though saying that the bath salts were your best bet

Jean was NO help, she explained she typically powered through the cramps if she had any

what a LEGEND ughh 

let's be honest, Kaeya knows everything, so it wasn’t a surprise when he showed up at your place, with the herbs you needed

but Diluc was still confused as hell

one, how did he know you needed the herbs?!

and two, somehow Kaeya knows more about it than he does and he’s like !?!?!? HOW IS THAT POSSIBLE?!

“Women on their periods are like demons. She’ll wanna rip your head off and jump you at the same time.”

HOW DOES HE KNOW THIS INFO

that’s all Diluc wants to know, HOWWW

when Diluc returns home with all the stuff, he’s more than happy to help run a nice bath for you and add the bath salts, give you the herbs with a nice cup of hot tea, and help you get settled in bed

tbh, he doesn’t mind if you complain or whine about the pain, it’s just another thing he can’t judge you for

it’s natural and uncontrollable

the best thing he can do, is be there for you and help you no matter what

Xiao

if your cramps are period related, sorry but Xiao is lost af :0 

he’s used to the usual muscle aches and cramps from strain in battle, etc. he’s not human, but he can still feel some variants of pain 

considering you’re his first lover, he has no experience with periods and the unfortunate pain that can come with it

the two female Yaksha he once worked beside never had this issue so he’s even more out of the loop

when he sees you crying about the cramps, at first he’s blunt and a little rude

“why are you crying? are humans seriously this weak...”

trust me he means well, it just came out all wrong

but then he thinks about it again and how harsh he sounded

he knows you wouldn’t cry about nothing, so this is pretty bad

the very first time he experienced your period was when you had asked for a change of pants and underwear

he blushed the tiniest bit when he realized he’d have to go into your underwear drawer and grab you a pair 

he’s much more comfortable now, but back then? you had only been together for a little over four months and you were both taking things slow

he’d never seen your underwear or had been intimate yet, so he was shook af

though, Xiao didn’t think much of it and kindly did as you asked 

but when he stepped into the bathroom and spotted the bloody pants and underwear on the floor?

sheesh, he can only think of one thing

“are you dying?”

he really thinks you’re dying also, like WTAF Y/N WHY IS THERE BLOOD ON YOUR CLOTHES?!?!?!

but nah, you just had a little accident ;-;

“no, not literally. but figuratively, yes.”

poor boy, he’s seen so much blood in his lifetime... his own, his friends, strangers, but it hits different when it’s from you

“what’s going on then?”

“i’m on my period.”

“period?”

“yes. do you know what that is?”

“something I figure only mortals go through.”

“yes, unfortunately, only women...”

“how come I never knew this...”

“it never came up?”

despite being clueless, he learns very quickly over time, that you’re “delicate and fragile” most during your period

he figures basic herbs and pain medicines can do the job, but if they fail?

he’s there to rub any sore spot

naturally he doesn’t have much to say, so he’ll comfort you physically

he’ll ask, “where does it hurt?” and get straight to work as soon as you respond

backrubs? you got it

tummy rubs? he’ll help you, just find a comfortable spot in bed

personally I believe physical affection may be Xiao’s preferred love language; so he definitely gives the BEST tummy/back rubs :)

Zhongli

“are you alright, dear?” 

Zhongli noticed it immediately

that you were holding your lower back as if you’d strained yourself in battle or something strenuous

“yeah, just cramps.”

he’s been around for a LONGGGG time and he knows humans well, so he’s no stranger to periods

he KNOWS exactly what to do

and he’s on it as soon as he hears the words “period cramps”

he knows all the best remedies, maybe even some you’ve never even heard of from “ancient times” as you liked to call it

“are you sure this still works?” you ask seriously, though there’s a hint of teasing behind your words

“humans have evolved a lot.”

“not that much, darling.”

don’t worry, you’re in the best care with Zhongli

he may be broke af, but he somehow always manages to get you the best of the best :)

he’ll do anything you ask, get you anything you want, no matter what

Zhongli will get all the best stews and sweet treats he can possibly find in Liyue, trust me

he may coddle you a bit too much, tbh

if you need to go somewhere, he figures he may as well carry you

excellent piggyback rides btw

like, you’re already in enough pain, don’t put pressure anywhere else

that’s how he sees it

plus, he just naturally wants to take care of you

he does mean well, even if he smothers a bit too much

period cramps hurt a lot, he’s never experienced them obviously, but he can only imagine how bad they are

at the end of the day, he’s the one who’s going to dote over you most

he knows exactly what to do and has basic knowledge on where to get the things to help you feel better

you’ll be in the best hands ever, trust me

2.19.21, rayofsunas

[welllpthisishappening]

But Once a Year (1/5)

This is a trick.

It has to be. Something Pan planned, or some nonsense only possible in Neverland, because one second Emma’s sitting outside the Echo Caves and wondering how exactly things could possibly get worse, and then the world decides to take her up on the challenge. She’s not where she was. Or when she was, either.

And the future isn’t entirely what Emma expects it to be, but that might not be entirely horrible and Christmas with a husband and a family that quite clearly loves her is only kind of messing with her head. God bless us, every one.

————

Rating: T Word Count: 8.3K and just a lot more than originally planned AN: It’s me. Incapable of writing a multi-chapter until starting a new job, and having other prompts to fill, and I really will fill those other prompts, so prepare yourselves for an onslaught of Christmas fic. Of which this is only kind of that. It takes place at Christmas. But also involves time travel, and way more canon divergence than I’ve ever written, and kissing. Because of who I am as a person. Blame @klynn-stormz​​ if you must. Or don’t, because she sent a very good prompt and is very nice and I hope she enjoys this mess of words. 

Also on Ao3 if that’s your jam

————

She’s so goddamn hot. It’s absurd. And disgusting. But mostly absurd. 

Sweat pools at the base of Emma’s spine, drips down the sides of her cheeks and falls from the edge of her jaw. Makes her skin crawl, the kind of heat that’s far too oppressive and she’s already having enough trouble breathing, so all of this seems like overkill. Which is Neverland’s schtick, she imagines. 

Licking her lips doesn’t help. Moving is a lost cause before she’s even considered clamoring to her feet, and she’s genuinely not sure if she’d be able to unbend her knees anyway, crouched as she is in whatever foliage surrounds the mouth of the Echo Caves. 

It smells. 

The foliage — and Emma, she supposes. Most of her thoughts drift away from body odor rather quickly though, right back into that cave and she can’t figure out who made the cell Neal was in, but she also told Neal she wished he was actually dead while he was in that cell and she figures that makes her something of an asshole. 

Feeling clenches in her chest, quite possibly the physical manifestation of her anxiety and growing fear and every single second that passes is another second they haven’t used to find Henry and—

“Ah, shit,�� Emma hisses, not able to get her sword out of its makeshift scabbard in time. Maybe she shouldn’t keep it on her back. 

Hook lifts his eyebrows. 

“Are you alright, love?” “Shut up. What are you doing out here? It’s not your turn to watch.” Scoffing, he lets his tongue trace across the front of his teeth, which is only vaguely obscene, and Emma’s far too warm to deal with this. In both the literal and metaphorical sense of the word. It’s ridiculous that he’s still wearing his jacket. “Aren’t you hot?” she asks, words tumbling out of her before she’s really considered them and she wishes that trend would stop. 

Quickly. Immediately, even. 

Not crying after her mother’s Echo Cave admission might be one of Emma’s great accomplishments to date. 

“Should all of your statements sound so much like insults?” Hook quips, his tongue continuing to torment Emma. Staring at his tongue is becoming something of a very real issue for her. 

Presumably because she’s now all too aware of what that tongue is capable of, and they’d been very good at kissing. Each other, specifically. Better than she thought, honestly. And she refuses to acknowledge how often she thought about it. 

She still hasn’t been able to get her sword out of its scabbard entirely. “I’m going to take your rather pointed silence as confirmation of the insults,” Hook continues. Rocking forward, the edges of his jacket threaten to brush Emma’s bent legs and she honestly has no idea what she’ll do if that happens, so leaning back seems like a reasonable response and not one that’s going to make his eyes do that thing. Where they dim ever so slightly, teasing disappearing and evolving into understanding she both hates and wants on some sort of fundamental level and—

“I’m sorry.”

On the nonexistent list of things Emma doesn’t expect, that might be numbers one through seven. Maybe even up to eight. 

“You don’t—” she shakes her head, hair sticking to her skin in the process, “Well, no that’s not actually true, because you probably shouldn’t have said anything about the making out—” “—I don’t believe I used that particular phrase.”

He actually has the gall to smirk when Emma glares at him, eyebrows twisted in the kind of unspoken challenge that regularly makes her stomach flip. Emma doesn’t have time for stomach flipping. She’s got to find her kid. Possibly get, like, twenty-four minutes of uninterrupted sleep. “Even so,” Hook adds, “it was…” There’s enough fabric on that monstrosity of a jacket that Emma can only imagine he’s got plenty of pocket options to stuff his hands into, but his thumb just finds his belt loop and the exhale he lets out is rife with emotion. The same kind she’s trying to avoid, in tandem with the stomach flipping. “Your father keeps glaring at me.”

Laughing is a patently absurd reaction to that. 

Her father is dying, apparently. Or tethered to this island, and that’s not much better, but it absolutely does not surprise Emma that he’s falling directly back into overprotective and if she’s going to be the asshole she absolutely is, then she should also probably admit how nice it was

to be hugged with that kind of determination before. 

That might not be the right word. 

Whatever, it’s the thought that counts. She thinks she might be able to fall asleep if her dad were here. 

“It’s not a big deal,” Emma lies, barely opening her mouth. Like even that can’t believe what she’s trying to claim. “Although I am sorry about my dad, I can—I mean I can say something if you want.” “No, no, that wasn’t what I was suggesting, at all. I’m sure the prince has better things to worry about than—” “You and me?”

Hook hums. Keeps his thumb where it is, and his eyebrows halfway up his forehead. 

Her stomach noticeably sinks. 

“Of course, not—no, I just…” Stammering Captain Hook catches Emma off guard, eyeing the toe of his boot as it digs a fairly impressive divot into the ground that is no doubt staining her jeans. And she’s about to do something, really she is. Say something almost positive, or reassuring, or maybe simply jump back to her feet, bent knees be damned, so she can grab the lapels of that nearly-offensive jacket and kiss the ever-loving daylights out of him. Again. But something snaps behind her, and every single inch of Kill—no, no, Hook, still Captain Hook. 

That’s more unimportant syntax. 

Because all of him tenses as immediately as Emma had been hoping for before, a soft noise on the wind that’s strong enough to ruffle those sweat-drenched strands of her hair. Her mouth goes dry, the laughter making her pulse sputter traitorously and Hook’s sword all but flies out of its scabbard. 

“Emma, you need to move,” he says, calm as anything. It’s an act. She knows — can tell even when it appears the jungle is getting darker, and the stars above them are going out, but then again, she’s always been able to tell with him, and it’s very disappointing that her rather dramatic swallow doesn’t do anything to help the state of her mouth. 

He used her name. 

Eventually that will feel very important. 

“What? Why, it’s—”

“Please, love,” Hook presses, “I need you to come with me. Right now. How long have you been out here?” Shrugging is harder than Emma expects it to be. As if the heat is actually a weight, pressing directly into her shoulders and rooting her exactly where she is. “We need to move, Swan. You shouldn’t be here.” “Well, that’s kind of rude.”

Widening his eyes makes it even more obvious how blue they are, and they are so ridiculously blue sometimes Emma wonders if she could simply drown in them. Sometimes that doesn’t seem like all that unappealing a prospect. 

God, he was good at kissing. 

“You told me to shut up earlier. Turnabout is fair play, darling.” “Running the gamut of nicknames, aren’t we? Is that a power move?” “Endearments, really. And no, it’s not. Disappointing that wasn’t clearer what with my intention to apologize and make sure you were alright.”

“Sounds suspiciously like playing knight in pirate armor.” “Can’t imagine armor would be very comfortable. Not much freedom of movement, you see.”

She laughs. Without thinking too much about the sound, mostly because the sound seems to bubble out of Emma and that’s not right. She doesn’t bubble. She stews, and sits and—

Something springs from the ground. Spring is generous, honestly. Cracks form under Emma’s splayed out fingers, tiny green vines that file up with a smell that make her vision swim and her senses fog, and she’s dimly aware of a hand on her shoulder. Tugging her forward, but Emma’s legs simply are not interested in functioning, and she’s so comfortable here. Standing seems even more unreasonable than before, especially when all of her inhales come with that scent. Reminding her of something she can’t quite understand, and it’s suspiciously similar to the tide coming in, and he’s still yelling. 

And swinging his sword. Light gleams off the blade, probably because whatever is pushing out of the ground is also glowing, and Emma’s mind can’t really cope with glowing plants right now. 

She squeezes her eyes closed. Burrows her face into the very solid chest she’s somehow level with, and Emma’s not entirely sure when that happened, but she also can’t bring herself to complain about it. Especially when it feels like his lips graze her temple. More than once. 

“Swan, c’mon love we’ve got to go.”

Groaning, Emma’s head doesn’t ache. Nothing does, actually. She’s oddly comfortably and her internal-body temperature appears to be biologically accurate, but she’s admittedly not totally confident about her knowledge of that second thing, and whatever is underneath her left cheek is also quite obviously not the very solid, slightly uncovered chest of a pirate captain she’d like to make out with again. 

Her stomach flies into her throat that time. So, there’s something to be said for a change of pace. 

Emma blinks. Swallows. More than once. Licks her lips, to absolutely no avail — but she can’t be bothered with that when it’s clear her heart is doing its damndest to beat its way out of her chest, and she’s not in Neverland anymore. 

For one thing, there’s a distinct lack of smells. Bad ones, at least. Wherever she is smells suspiciously liked baked goods and the forest, which makes sense as soon as Emma blinks open her eyes. There’s a rather large tree across from her. 

Covered in garland and lights that blink back at her, ornaments hang from nearly every branch, and there are enough presents underneath that she briefly wonders which bank they had to rob to buy all of that. Snow flurries dance outside windows that are frosted over, and there are a lot of windows in this room. 

Some of them look out towards an expansive backyard, while others make it clear just how close they are to the water, and Emma thinks she can almost smell the water, but that might be wishful thinking and—

“Holy shit,” she breathes, gaze finally landing on the voice in front of her and she knew the voice, even when she didn’t want to admit it. That’s something of a theme for her now. “What—what are you wearing?” Tilting his head in confusion, strands of hair threaten to fall into Hook’s eyes. The same blue as always, if not a little sharper because it’s obvious he doesn’t understand what’s going on, and Emma’s going to cling to that. So it feels like they’re on slightly more even footing. 

“Clothes,” he drawls, and that's the same too. Emma can’t move. Is having quite a lot of trouble breathing, and clothes is a vast understatement. 

Pants that are somehow tighter than any of the leather he’d previously sported make his legs look ridiculous, especially when there’s a noticeable lack of sword and Emma was kind of getting used to the sword. He’s rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, nothing covering the brace at the end of his arm, but she’s also admittedly preoccupied with the number of buttons he’s undone and the vest that’s hanging loosely from his shoulders, and this might actually be the first time she’s seen him without a jacket on. 

Her stomach will probably just stay in her throat, then. 

“You’ll do dangerous things to my ego, if you keep staring like that,” Hook warns, but any passably snarky response gets caught behind Emma’s increasingly problematic tongue and her brain still hasn’t caught up yet. 

To the glint of light reflecting from his hand. 

And one very specific finger. 

Mouth dropping and breath practically flying out of her, Emma nearly steps on both of his feet when she jumps to hers, trying without much success to stay upright. Her hands fly towards him of their own accord, or so she will argue forever, and that can’t possibly be her first mistake. 

Putting her goddamn scabbard on her back was, probably. 

As it is, whatever number she’s at is suddenly the only number that matters, because her flat palms make it undeniably clear that she’s got her own bit of jewelry on her own specific finger, and Killian’s hand keeps moving. Up and down her spine, like that’s something it’s allowed to do. There is not enough oxygen in the world to sigh as loudly as she’d like to. 

“Steady on, love,” Hook murmurs, and that about does it. Neck giving up and knees threatening to buckle underneath her, Emma’s fingers curl into this absolutely ridiculous shirt at the same time her forehead collides with his collarbone, and he doesn’t really flinch. 

Tenses, slightly — although she figures that’s because of the worry she can practically fele radiating off him, and his hand stills. So as to ensure that his arm can also tighten around her middle, while his lips brush across her temple and the top of her hair. 

Anywhere he can reach, it seems. 

“Nightmare?” he asks, pulling her closer. They fit very well together, Emma realizes. Like pieces of a puzzle, and that’s admittedly sentimental, but she’s also ninety-six percent certain she’s still dreaming. That’s the only reasonable explanation. 

She can’t be dead. Not from a plant attack in Neverland. And Kill—Hook, goddamnit, Hook, wouldn’t have let that happen. She’s sure of that, at least. 

“Um, yeah, yeah,” she stammers. “I—sorry, I don’t think I meant to fall asleep.” “Nothing to apologize for. You’ve been baking for a small army the last couple of days, only serves that’d be exhausting.”

“Have I?” Leaning back, he narrows his eyes, and that’s fair. None of this makes sense. Rings, and trees, and baking. She’s never baked in her life. If she had, it wouldn’t smell nearly this good. 

“Who, um—” Emma continues, eyes widening when the realization hits her. “Henry! Where’s Henry?” Running is not easy with the arm still around seemingly getting tighter by the second, but her fear has already evolved into the kind of maternal-based adrenaline they do scientific studies on. “Let go of me,” she sneers, and he does. Immediately. The sound of his hands hitting his jeans is far too loud. “Where’s my kid? Why isn’t he here?” The tongue thing. 

Swiping across the front of Hook’s teeth, the tip of his tongue finds the corner of his mouth and the inside of his cheek, jutting out with questions and the almost audible cranking of metaphorical gears in his head. “It’s not Christmas yet,” Hook explains, voice oddly similar to a few minutes before, but Emma’s starting to realize that was not a few minutes before and she’s starting to feel a little nauseous. 

“Yuh huh.” “Are you alright, love?” He says it soft enough that something flutters in the back of Emma’s brain, some long-forgotten hint of emotion that she refuses to acknowledge. She doesn’t have time for it. There’s baking to do, supposedly. “Yeah, yeah, I’m, uh—I’m fine,” Emma promises, only one side of Hook’s mouth tilting up. “Just...tired, I guess.” “Because of the nightmare.” “Say that again when it doesn’t sound quite so much like an accusation.” “No accusation,” he objects, but it rings as sincere as her promise and the light’s got to be messing with her now. Bouncing off his ring the way it is. “Haven’t had a nightmare in some time, but that’s neither here nor there.” “Wow, you suck at that.”

There goes the other side of his mouth. Emma might be staring at his mouth. “Occasionally,” Hook agrees. “What’d you dream about, then?” Lying is very appealing. Coming up with a story Emma knows he’ll only half believe, but she assumes she’s got plausible deniability too, and she can’t think of a single thing to say. That’s disappointing. 

“I was in Neverland.”

If nothing else, staring at his mouth — and the rest of his admittedly attractive face — makes it easy to tell the moment Hook’s jaw clenches. Nerves color his gaze, almost as if he’s trying to remember something he’s already forgotten, but Emma appears to be the only one having some sort of existential crisis and the hint of grey at his temples suggests its been some time since Neverland. Figuring out how much time exactly, will probably be a bit of a challenge. “And?” “And what?” “And there’s plenty of terrors to warrant nightmares in Neverland,” Hook says, stepping out of Emma’s space. Also disappointing. “What exactly was it?” Shaking her head slowly, Emma’s hair doesn’t move. She’s not nearly as sweaty as she was either, the blanket at her feet proof positive of that, although her skin feels almost clammy and the magic in her veins has started to buzz. If Killian doesn’t stop moving his tongue in his mouth, she’s going to scream. 

Ah, goddamn. 

“I don’t know,” she says, not the lie she still wants it to be, “just some weird plant thing and you wanted me to come with you, but that was probably now, right?” There’s no way he’s comfortable with his neck at that angle. “Maybe. Do you still want to go?” “To, uh—” “—Doc called this morning, said the paint was ready to pick up.” “Paint,” Emma echoes, another confusing string of words that threatens to knock her back on the couch. It was a comfortable couch though, so maybe that’s not the worst thing that could happen to her. Neither is waking up in a reality where Hook wears jeans like that and stares at her like she’s his—she drops back. Onto the comfortable couch. 

“Mmhm, the color we picked out last week? He claimed he had to order it, but your father claims he’s just nervous because he doesn’t want to offend me and—” “—Why would you get offended by a dwarf?” Dots of pink appear on his cheeks. The bits not covered with stubble, and there’s some grey in that as well. It works, honestly. “He mercilessly overcharges for her services,” Hook says, clearly not the first time this particular rant has been voiced, “and it’s because he’s the only hardware store in town. Which is why you wanted to go. Help small businesses and the economy of the realm, even when Regina claimed we could order it just as easily off Amazon. But that only led to your denouncement of Jeff Bezos, and I do love it when you openly flout capitalism, so—” He shrugs. Emma might be going into shock. “Here we are, with slightly delayed, if not well-mixed paint, enough baked goods to mask the smell, and your parents guarantee that there’s more than enough room for all of us on Christmas Eve.”

“We’re painting on Christmas Eve?” Concern continues to ripple around him, made all the more clear by the pinch between his eyebrows and how often he rocks forward before shaking his head. It’s four times. “No, we’re painting—well, whenever we have time really, but you did mention Friday evening, and that way Hope could stay at the farm. Naturally she’s thrilled at the prospect.” “Right, right, right, that’s....yeah, that’s right.” She’s so bad at lying. To Hook, specifically. Open book practically broadcasts itself from every twitch of his mouth, and Emma is still doing a God awful job of not staring at his mouth, but her head is spinning and she can’t understand any of this and she’s kind of curious about what paint color they picked. 

And who Hope is. 

She refuses to acknowledge the flicker of familiarity in the back corner of her brain. 

She’s got to get out of here. Away from the couch, and whatever color the paint might be, back to Neverland, which is not something she ever thought she’d want, but they haven’t found Henry yet and who knows what Pan is planning next and— “Where’s Henry?” Emma whispers, far too aware of the desperation in those two words. Hook’s lips thin. When he presses them together. “I know he’s not going to be here until Christmas, but is—he’s ok, right?” “Swan, are you—” “—Just tell me where my kid is, Hook!” Those words fly out of her, voice rising on every letter until it feels as if they’re cutting their way out of Emma’s soul, leaving lacerations behind and the blood that’s appeared on the tip of her tongue makes her recoil. She fully expects him to take another step back, not sure when she stood up again, only that her knees are knocking together now, so naturally that’s not what happens at all. 

Hook moves back into her space, made all the easier by the lack of weapons between them, hand finding her cheek as easily as it traced her spine, and Emma doesn’t want to lean into the touch, but he’s so ridiculously warm and she’s teetering on the edge of undeniable insanity, so she’s going to give herself this. For at least six seconds. 

“Visiting Ella’s stepsister, so while he’s probably not having the best time, Lu’s always been a rather large fan of that particular realm, and Drizella is a bit of a pushover. I’d imagine the little lass is going gangbusters on the present front.”

Emma’s breathing out of her mouth. 

That seems fair as well. Trying to piece together any of that information with the life she’s currently living is all but impossible, and it’s only a matter of time until her knees give up again. Honestly, not crying continues to be her greatest talent. 

“Maybe I should just go to the store,” Hook says, “and let you try and get some more rest.”

Even the thought of being left here alone makes Emma’s magic boil in the pit of her stomach — wherever it might be sitting now, and she’s already shaking her head. “No, no, I want to make sure it’s the right color.” “Yuh huh.” “Sounding less than agreeable, Captain.” It’s a mean trick. One she knows will work, and it does. Hook’s eyes flash, and his brows jump, the hand that returned to her hip at some point tightening ever so slightly. “Tell me that you’re alright, and I’ll consider it.” “I’m fine.” “You’re a woefully bad liar is what you are, Your Highness.” Scrunching her nose, Emma tries very hard to temper the fluttering between her ribs. Magic mixes with nerves and flirting that’s not necessarily easier than it’s been, but certainly more fine-tuned. As if it’s a dance both of them are used to. “You can’t pull your sword on Doc, you know that, right?” “That hasn’t happened in years.” “Hook either, that might honestly be worse.” “He’s got a stranglehold on the hardware economy in this town. It’s not right. Gives him leave to charge an arm and a leg.” “If I tell you I’m fine again, will that distract you from your questionable obsession with hardware-based economies?” “Probably not,” Hook grins, more teasing and fluttering and his eyebrows jump again. As soon as Emma licks her lips. 

“No challenging the dwarfs to a duel.” Saluting is only passably overwhelming, but that appears to be the way this is going, and Emma cannot come up with an appropriate adjective to describe whatever sound she makes. As soon as he kisses her cheek. Giggling is out of the realm of possibility. “Noted,” Hook says, “c’mon, the sooner we get this over with, the sooner we can pick up the little sea monster.”

At this point, Emma would almost welcome a battle with a sea monster. Get her blood flowing, provide an outlet for all her adrenaline and, she hopes at least, if she dies in this dream, she’ll wake up back in Neverland. 

This has to be a dream. 

So, it seems they live in a mansion. 

Stepping outside, Emma’s breath catches loudly as she stares at the wraparound porch and there are somehow more windows than she’d originally noticed, and a turret-type thing involved that’s only vaguely absurd. Almost as much as the way people greet them on Main Street, familiar faces mixing in with strangers, all of whom nod and smile and some who even reach a hand out to Hook like he’s not a pirate or only recently returned to Storybrooke with the one thing they needed to get to Neverland, but Emma also supposes that was years ago, even if the math is still admittedly kind of messing with her. 

That was never her strongest subject in school. 

And there’s no sword strapped to his hip when the bell over the hardware store door rings, but Hook’s called “Doc” still sounds appropriately threatening, the scuffle of shoes and slightly panted breaths making Emma almost smile in spite of herself and her mathematical failings. “Captain,” Doc exhales, shuffling behind the counter that spans the far wall of the store. Tools and cans of paint line the shelves above his head, a name tag pinned to his shirt that seems unnecessary, but Emma’s nearly charmed by that as well and wholly unprepared for Doc to glance her way, adding—“Your Highness, it’s so nice to see you. I’ve got your order all ready, if you’d like to…”

Whatever else he says disappears in a haze of buzzing magic and malfunctioning joints, Emma’s fingers fluttering at her side while it sounds like Killian does his best to argue the price. For the paint. That they’re going to use. In their mansion. 

She didn’t ask which room they were going to paint. 

That felt like a flashing-neon sign, announcing how little she belongs in this place and Emma’s fairly certain Hook can tell, but that’s also another sign she’s not entirely ready to deal with at the moment and Doc flinches when the literal hook drops onto the counter. 

Emma presses her lips together. 

So as not to laugh. Like a person nearing their psychotic breaking point. 

“But Captain,” Doc argues, “we did agree on that mark, and—” “—Aye, but that was before it took an extra three days to receive the color, and I think there should be some sort of fee reduction for that.” “There aren’t any fees, just—” “—The overall cost, then.”

Pain flutters at the back of her consciousness when her teeth continue to dig into her lips, but the feeling twits with amusement and that looming sense of insanity, and Hook hardly even moves when Emma does. So she can rest her hand on his shoulder. 

“Maybe it’s not that big of a deal,” she ventures. 

Hook gapes at her. “Traitor.” “Pirate,’ she counters. “But I think we can afford it. Y’know, just to help the—” “—Locals,” he finishes, “aye, it’s something I’ve heard several thousand times before, love. But it is the principle of the thing.” “The thing being what, exactly?” “Efficiency,” Hook replies, as cool as any vegetable Emma could come up with, and Doc’s eyes go comically wide behind his glasses. The whole thing is actually pretty impressive. Attractive, maybe. She doesn’t have time for that. She has to—

Get back home is not the right string of words at all. Home is some abstract concept that certainly does not exist in the reality Emma came from, and even less so in a place like Neverland, but she doesn’t belong here, with the jewelry and the house, and she can’t quite get over the way his face twisted. When she called him Hook. 

“Naturally,” Emma mutters. “Can we just get the paint, Doc? Then we’ll be out of your hair.” Doc hums, but he doesn’t move and Emma can’t believe he doesn’t move. She’s given him an out. A reason to scamper back to wherever he’s keeping their paint, away from Hook’s appraising stare and the hand that’s already inching back towards hers, and he’s somehow even more tactile than usual. 

It makes her mouth go dry again. 

“Of course, Your Highness. If your husband could just agree to the terms of price, then—” Hook rolls his whole head, hair shifting in the process, and that’s minimally distracting when Emma’s heart constricts in her chest. Because she knew. Has eyes, after all. And the notable ability to stare. But there’s something about hearing the word that makes it all the more real, and Hook’s argument doesn’t have anything to do with relationship monikers. 

She’s starting to have several assumptions as to who Hope is. One assumption, really. 

Pulling her hand away from Hook’s is easier when he’s so preoccupied, twisting the ring around her finger and staring at the stone and it’s—well, it’s gorgeous, honestly. Exactly what Emma would imagine if she’d ever let herself imagine such a thing, and that’s got to be another sign or something at least in the realm of positive, and it turns out they’re painting the dining room. Blue, and that’s something of a cliche, but anything Emma has to say about that gets stuck halfway out of her undeniably chapped lips when Killian ushers her out of the store, a smile tugging at the ends of his mouth because— “Color reminds me a bit of that gown of yours.”

She’s atrocious at this. Schooling her features, or acting like every word out of his mouth isn’t a punch to her literal gut. It’s a miracle she hasn’t just keeled over. In the middle of goddamn Main Street, where the guy who is very clearly her husband has stopped them. 

So as to stare at her incredulously. 

“You’ve got no idea what I’m talking about, do you?” “Presumptuous.” “Not an answer, m’dear.” Maybe Emma will start keeping track of endearments. Just to give her mind something to latch onto. There appear to be more than she’s used to. “You wore a very blue gown to Elsa’s wedding, made some rather wonderful comments about how it matched my eyes that also made you blush rather severely, all of which I will admit to still thinking about with almost startling regularity.” She’s got no idea who the fuck Elsa is, or why they’d go to her wedding. Wearing a gown. And making sweepingly sentimental statements. 

Her smile is weak at best. “Sorry, just—that paint smell got to me, I think.” “Sure it did,” Hook says, clearly not convinced, “maybe we should go see Regina.” “Why would we do that?” Leveling her with a slightly different expression, Hook’s tongue shifts behind his closed mouth. Emma juts her chin out. In misplaced defiance, and inherent stubbornness. She’ll find Regina later. When she’s not at least partially thinking about kissing this version of Kill—

Hook, Hook, Hook, Ho—she wonders how he proposed. If he proposed. Maybe she did, what does Emma know? Nothing, apparently. “Do you remember what those plants looked like?” “What?” Emma asks. “Maybe you’re the one who got messed up by paint fumes.” “Absolutely scathing, Swan. Answer the question, please.” There’s an undercurrent of command in his voice — like she’s a member of his crew, and she doesn’t know if he has a crew anymore, but Emma bristles at the thought of being part of it all the same and the muscles in her neck do not appreciate being angled like this. “I told you, it was just a dream.” “Aye, you did. And as you would so lovingly put it, that particular lie sucked quite a bit. So once more, what were you dreaming about and where were you in the dream?” Opening her mouth, Emma’s sarcastic and inevitably snark-filled response evaporates as soon as she hears the clack of heels on the sidewalk next to them and the woman walking towards them has shockingly red hair. And a kid clinging to her side. Who immediately tries to launch herself at Hook. 

“Codfish heads,” the woman mumbles, Killian not able to hold back his chuckle or keep his arms at his side. The same ones that catch the kid and pull her close to his chest, peppering either one of her cheeks with kisses. 

Emma seriously considers dying right there. 

Dying will absolutely wake her up, she’s convinced. 

“Articulate as always,” Hook grins. The woman sticks her tongue out. “What are you doing here? I thought—ah,” he grunts, a knee slamming into his side, “control the limbs Mel, or I’m going to drop you and then your mom will be even more angry than she is.” The dexterity of this woman’s face is astounding. As is the width of Hook’s smile. “I’m not angry,” she objects, “and I’m here because you didn’t answer your phone. There’s some kind of disaster happening at the realm line.” “What kind of disaster?” “Something to do with magic, and it looks like some of Lancelot’s knights are exploring the forest here, looking for some kind of something because you know they have to have a quest.” “David can’t do anything about that?” “Was more than willing to if you actually decided to acknowledge him today. Hence the frustration over your phone issues.” “An insult roll,” Killian laughs, the sound almost more surprising than anything else Emma’s encountered today. She’s heard him laugh before. Of course she has. But it’s usually cynical, or occasionally even a little evil, and this guy can’t be evil. Not standing there, acting as a human jungle gym to a kid, and a woman Emma’s mind has also started to make assumptions about. The hair was a pretty good clue. No, this isn’t the first time she’s heard him laugh, but it’s certainly her favorite and if she plays the sound on loop in her head for at least several hours, then she hopes no one will ever be the wiser. 

Emma hardly notices that she’s referred to him as Killian. 

That’s probably for the best. 

“And,” he adds, “we finally finished with Doc, so we can go relieve the prince of his duties, even though he offered. Multiple times.” Ariel, Emma assumes this is the goddam Little Mermaid, throws her head back. “Oh Gods, did you terrify him? Is that why you’re being like this? Y’know the paint was back ordered, that’s why it took so long.” “There was no terrifying involved, and if that was the case, he should have made it known. All I heard was that he didn’t have it in stock, and it was going to take a few more days and—” 

He cuts himself off when Ariel waves an impatient hand in his face, turning towards Emma expectantly. “Did he terrify Doc?” Emma nods out of instinct, some dark and distant part of her wanting to be involved in this banter and this place, and this place isn’t real, so that’s a dangerous line of thinking, but she can’t seem to stop herself. In the same way Killian can’t seem to do anything except tug her against his side. And kiss the top of her hair. 

He really likes to do that. 

Especially impressive with the kid still hanging from him. 

“She’s a bloody traitor,” he announces, “but one of the other dwarfs is bringing the paint home, and, like I said, we were on our way to pick up the sea monster, so David can deal with the knights. They only listen to one of their own, anyway.” “No honor amongst thieves, huh?” Ariel asks knowingly. 

Killian scowls. It’s frustratingly adorable. 

“Fine, fine,” she shakes her head, “I retract any annoyance about your refusal to turn the sound on your phone on, if only because you gave my arms a break, and your dining room will look very good in that color.” “It’s a good color.” The arm around her shoulders is the only thing that keeps Emma from melting into the pavement beneath her boots. She had at least six pairs of boots in their hallway closet. Also absurd. And she hears the lilt in Killian’s voice, even if Ariel doesn’t — the soft intensity that sounds eerily similar to the way he promised he understood what it felt to lose hope, how quickly he agreed to her plan, demands, after the kiss and she imagines they kiss quite a lot in this reality. 

If her other assumptions are right. 

Ariel stares at them for a beat longer, one that Emma worries will end in a longer conversation and inevitable discussion of the awkward way she’s standing, but then the mermaid with legs is pulling her kid back and quieting the riot that causes, and Killian’s arm stays exactly where it is. “Send some pictures when you paint the first wall, ok?”

Killian nods. Stiffer than it should be, but Emma’s only barely managing to stay conscious at this point, and she doesn’t object when he directs her past Granny’s and down a road she’s never noticed before. 

His arm doesn’t move. 

In the days that will follow, Emma will never be entirely sure how she manages it. Tears sting her eyes almost as soon as the screen door slams behind her, more than one voice drifting down the hall, and there are pictures everywhere. Her own face smiles back at her from multiple times, eyes jumping from frame to frame and back again, a life that isn’t hers playing out despite her own misgivings, and if she’d thought the overall width of Killian’s smile was something ten minutes earlier, it’s got nothing on the several here. 

Wearing a tuxedo that does something unfamiliar to her heart, and gazing back from an ornate frame that also holds a grown-up face that’s still able to remind her of the boy she left in Neverland, and another with his arm around Emma’s shoulders again, exhaustion clear even from here, but there’s something cradled in her arms and a tiny hat that makes her whole soul ache and—

“Swan,” Hook breathes, and at least they’re back to that. In her head, where she's clearly going insane. “Emma love, I really need you to tell me what’s going on.”

That’s impossible. Not for any other reason than Emma’s vocal chords appear to have stopped working, and she never actually cries. 

It’s a Christmas miracle. 

Of the shittiest variety, because Hook’s hovering far too close to her and Emma wonders if he notices the magic coursing through her, or if this is just how he normally stands and none of it matters when two sets of feet sprint down the hallway. 

Frames rattle in their wake, both of them shouting and jumping before Emma’s even remotely prepared. She can’t imagine she ever would be. Maybe in a different lifetime. This one, possibly. 

Not hers. 

Not as is. 

And as it is, Hook ducks down before the blur rushing towards Emma’s shin can knock her over, hauling the giggling and smiling bundle over his shoulder. More kisses are dispensed, laughter ringing out around them and only slightly muted by the mess of dark curls that threatens to cover Hook’s face. 

He tries to blow it away, several times. 

“Emma,” another voice says, tugging at the end of her jacket and it’s a little overwhelming to see her father’s eyes staring up at her. From a kid. Who isn’t very old, but feels like a memory she can’t place, and if her mind doesn’t stop piecing things together Emma is going to scream. 

She doesn’t want to know. 

Absolutely cannot cope, honestly. 

“Emma,” he repeats, “if you and Killian are going to stay here for Christmas, can we make snowmen again? Because Henry said we could and Aunt Gina said she’d magic them so they wouldn’t melt and you’re way better at rolling than Mom is.” Someone huffs, Mary Margaret’s arms crossing over her chest and there’s an apron tied around her waist. Just to drive the domestic point home. “I resent that, and Dad is totally going to be better at rolling snowballs this year. He’s promised we’re going to win.” Emma’s mouth drops. In confusion, and several other adjectives. All of which Hook quite clearly recognizes, and that’s messing with her too. 

Reading her as well as he does should leave her feeling off-kilter. Reeling, even. It doesn’t. It’s like some sort of metaphorical anchor, and Emma finds herself constantly glancing over her shoulder, hoping for that one specific tilt of his lips and— “Let’s wait to go over rules until Henry gets here, alright mate? Don’t want to get into specifics when he’s going to have his own demands.”

Opening his mouth, the kid’s argument disappears once Mary Margaret makes another noise, adding a soft “Neal,” and only one of Emma’s knees bends. That’s lame. Very un-Savior like. 

And she doesn’t know how Killian manages it, either. She also does not care. Leaning into the hand that’s suddenly cemented to her back, Emma nods like someone has asked her a question, and there are more footsteps and smiles and she bites her tongue. David doesn’t disappear. He’s here. In this place he shouldn’t be, some sort of farm that had an almost kitschy mat outside that screen door and chickens lingering along the side of the front yard, and Killian’s voice is in her ear. “In through your nose, out through your mouth.” “I’ll kick you,” Emma warns.

“I’d drop the sea monster that way.” She’s just about to ask the wholly unnecessary question of who the fuck is the sea monster when the beast in question tries very hard to stand on Hook's shoulders. All limbs and hair in desperate need of a cut, both Mary Margaret and David look overjoyed by her mere presence, warmth blooming of its own volition in Emma’s chest. “Mama,” she yells, resting her chin on top of Killian’s head, “are you going to magic the snowmen too?”

More than one pair of eyes flash towards Emma, suddenly frozen with a maelstrom of fear and words echoing between her ears and she’s got to talk. She can’t talk. Her tongue is growing in her mouth, no doubt a byproduct of that now occurring insanity, and her own eyes keep moving. Tracing over the lines of her daughter’s face, and the questionably cute clothes she’s wearing and her eyes are almost alarmingly blue. 

Tears fall on Emma’s cheeks. 

“Emma,” David mutters, but she barely hears him. Reaching out a hand that’s shaking much more than she’d like, her fingers graze Hope’s cheek and the skin there is soft and warm and obviously loved, like that’s something that’s possible. This new reality doesn’t have any rules, though. So maybe that works here. 

She must nod. Emma’s hair moves, so that’s got to mean something and she’s clinging to every victory she can get at this point. “I’ll try,” Emma says, not quite the promise she'd like it to be. Hook's fingers twist under the hem of her shirt, grazing across her actual spine and it’s disappointing when she tenses. 

Noticeably. 

David’s eyes turn appraising — but he doesn’t immediately look at Mary Margaret like Emma expects. He glances at Hook, a quick jerk of his shoulders that she only notices when they bump hers. “Did you hear about the knights, then?” “Ariel accosted us on our way here. What do they want, exactly?” “As far as I can tell, they’re just scouting, but who knows with those Camelot idiots.” Mary Margaret scoffs. David might actually blush. “I’m going to go out and talk to them now, and Snow sent a bird.” The hand at Emma’s back flattens. So as to keep her upright. 

“Lance usually responds quickly,” Mary Margaret says, “but you know the cross-realm travel, it’s always hit or miss. Especially with the weather. Hopefully we’ll know what they’re doing sooner rather than later.” Humming in what sounds like agreement, Hook shifts Hope and keeps Emma pulled against his side. His eyes dart back towards David, an unspoken conversation Emma doesn’t entirely want to hear. When it’s obviously about her. 

And her father doesn’t respond either, just crosses the space between them and kisses her cheek. “Everything’s going to be ok, kid.”

“Yuh huh,” she mumbles, but it sounds like a lie and Hope falls asleep with her head on Hook's shoulder while they walk home. 

It takes her about three seconds to realize she used that word as well. 

And then another fifteen to totally freak out about it. 

As silently as possible. 

To his credit, he doesn’t press the issue. He stares, without much subtlety — but Hook never comes out and accuses Emma of anything, or questions how little she knows about this life they’ve got, and she’s not entirely surprised when he doesn’t ask when she’s coming to bed. He just takes a deep breath, and kisses the top of her hair again, which is somewhere like the ninth time that’s happened, walking up the stairs and presumably waiting for Emma. 

In their bed. 

They share. Together. As people. Married people, with a very cute kid and Henry’s in some other version of the Enchanted Forest with his wife, which is only marginally screwing with Emma. That’s positive, she thinks. Marginally is better than totally. 

But it’s also not her life, and around twelve forty-seven she starts to wonder if she’s fucked with the Emma that’s supposed to be here by waking up on that couch, and she can’t get over how comfortable that couch was, and she starts walking. 

Aimlessly, really. 

Down halls and from room to room, opening doors that regularly make breathing a legitimate challenge. Henry’s old room clearly hasn’t been changed, and Hope’s hair covers her entire pillow, much like Emma’s regularly does, and they’ve got an actual sitting room and family room, a nautical theme that feels a little to on the nose, but is also somehow perfect and she knows he’s there before he says anything. 

“You’re lurking,” Emma accuses, jumping onto the edge of the kitchen counter now that she’s finished her patrol. 

“And you’re admittedly freaking me out just a bit.” Her laugh does that bubble thing again, something that Killian could probably claim ownership over if he wanted. She knows he won’t, though. Not this version. Not this guy, staring at her like he’s torn between terrified and terrorizing, like he’d challenge the timeline to a duel if needs be. 

“Where’s your sword?” “In the basement. Where it’s been for years.” “You don’t use your sword much?” Taking a step forward, the floor creaks under his sock-covered feet and the realization that he must have put socks back on at some point does what Emma can only imagine is irreparable damage to more than half a dozen internal organs. “Asking that adds to my growing pile of suspicions and worries.” “The freaked out ones?” “Aye,” he nods, hand and hook resting on her hips. Maybe there are magnets there. Maybe he’s just hardwired to touch her. Emma fists her hands. “Why are you surprised by that?” “If I ask you a question will you totally freak out more?” That time he shakes his head. Hair shifts in the process, and there have to be magnets involved. That’s the only reasonable explanation for how quickly Emma’s fingers find the strands, brushing them away and relishing the exact way Killian’s eyes flutter shut and—damn, she did it again. His hand tightens. 

Like he’s nervous she’s going to disappear otherwise. 

“Question for a question is breaking conversational rules,” he starts, “But—” “—You’re a pirate?” “Something that’s been well-documented. What do you want to know?” Everything seems unacceptably vast, and Emma’s not sure which question to pick when they’re all weighing down on her still too-large tongue, but Killian’s eyes don’t pull away from her and he turns his head into her palm. The one cupping his cheek. 

She’s an absolute disaster. Which is, she’ll argue the exact reason, she asks: “Are you in love with me?” He doesn’t laugh. More credit to him, although this credit comes with an asterisk for the exact way his expression shatters. In slow motion. For maxim effect. Muscles in his throat shift when he swallows, the tip of his tongue darting between barely-parted lips, and his next inhale has a distinct shuddering quality to it. 

“More than I knew I could be,” he whispers. “You want to tell me the truth now?” “About? 

Bending his neck, Killian’s exhale brushes Emma’s cheek and for one absolutely insane moment, that would make sense if they were actually married, she thinks he’s going to kiss her. He doesn’t. Figures. Lips graze the edge of hers, sending shockwaves that ripple up her spine and threaten to make magic explode from the tips of her fingers and she has to close her eyes. At the force of his voice, steady despite the emotion behind it. 

“Who are you, really?” The shockwaves disappear. Turn into fear, and something ice-cold and Emma has to blink.

“What?” He clicks his tongue. More than once, in obvious reproach, and she wonders if she’ll have to walk to the plank at some point, the tip of his hook threatening to dig into her skin. “I’ll ask you once more, darling. It’s very good magic, whatever you’re doing. I can feel it, but—” “—You can feel my magic?” “Stop talking,” he sneers, and the symmetry of it all feels like a slap. Several times over. “Now either you tell me the truth, or I’ll have to do something drastic. Who are you, and what have you done with my wife?”

[oneweekoneband]

her Nebraska (1982)

In July I flew to Massachusetts with a plague on, and I felt that it was wrong, but my mother had begged and I’d been out of work for months. Mornings there I ran in long, uneven ovals on the same roads I’d memorized in high school. There’s no sidewalks, but the few feet of dirt between the craggy pavement and the open mouths of the fields serve all right for a single body in motion. When a truck comes up close from behind, the ground shakes, and I step away bouncingly from the street toward thigh-high yellow weeds and grass, and keep going. I was slowly picking my way back in that dirt, sweat-slick from only a plodding couple of miles in peak summer heat, and sucking the wet cotton of my mask in between my teeth on every inhale, when Taylor Swift announced she was releasing a surprise album produced by the guy from The National. Not the guy from The National, like, the voice, but the guy from The National whose photo was circulated on Twitter earlier this year as some kind of antifa super soldier, which isn’t the case, but would’ve been rad. First, I stopped dead to send some outraged, misspelled text messages, and then I ran home faster than I’d moved in years.

Tall, blonde, patrician pop star Taylor Swift is to me something like a cross-between a wife and a boogeyman. Bound we’ve been since we were really children. Time and its changes haven’t rid me of her, and what’s worse is I have never quite been able to wish they would, though I claim as much all the time. Countless hours of my one wild and precious life have been spent on endlessly analyzing the minutiae of Taylor Swift’s music, the mind that made it, the real world events which influenced it. And though all the while I have known she is only a person, and that people, while each strange and lovely in their own ways, are, in the end, mostly dull, needful in just the regular manner, the fantasy is better, the sick dream of a megalomaniac songstress, curious, thrilling, probably evil, and I choose that. I don’t know Taylor Alison Swift, born to this world in, I presume, the usual way. But my Taylor Swift? I’m a renowned expert. I’ve always eaten up stories—movies, music, celebrity news, the one my grandfather tells about falling off his bike once in Ireland as a boy and his face “cracking open like an egg”—like a starved dog. I’m obsessive about my interests, but not inclined to intense fandom, and certainly not fandom in the mode of the stan. For one, I’m too self-absorbed. But caring intensely for a famous person is falling in love with a ghost, and that’s all right—I mean, what the hell? We’re here together just dying... Let’s enjoy—but is an affair best undertaken with the knowledge that everyone alive has their own complex interiority, as unruly as your own, and that you, a stranger, are not in any real way connected to the lawless, blurry middle of that celebrity, and will never be. It’s freeing and fun to know this. I mean, these people are basically in your employ. Glamorous dollhouse dwellers. Acknowledging that uncrossable distance allows for a different, healthier closeness of pure imagination. My feelings, then, can comfortably be at once both fiercely intense and entirely silly. I am a foremost scholar in the art of the Taylor Swift who exists in my head. The real person raised in Pennsylvania I don’t know at all. I have some conjectures on the matter, and, as with all my conjectures, every hackneyed theory, each picky little opinion, I’m sure they’re perfect, brilliant, just absolutely right, but that’s still all they are. Taylor Swift, figure of the cultural imagination, is the Jodie Comer to my Sandra Oh in Killing Eve, annoying and pretty in frills, taunting me endlessly and holding us trapped together in a dance of most enchanting death. But the real Taylor Swift has favorite bed sheets and a social security number and a British boyfriend, none of which I have any desire to know about, and if I saw her at a restaurant I’d politely avert my eyes before, yes, dive-bombing the group text. There’s nobody on Earth I’d stand in line to speak to, but then I’ve been speaking to a certain figment of Taylor Swift for nearly half my life.

I went to a Taylor Swift concert the night before I moved into college in 2009. My father’s work friend, firefighter by day, near professional gambler by night, got comped tickets to the Fearless Tour stop taking place at the nearby casino, and he let me have them as a reward, mainly, for happening to be seventeen. Live in-person and performed acoustically, “Fifteen” made me cry. A few years after that, in the thick, sticky part of my first post-college summer, I wrote approximately twenty-three million words about her in these very pages.  (”Pages”) At that point, Taylor’s most recent release was 2012’s Red, and the work I produced that long ago July about Taylor and her career, writing I was fairly pleased with at the time, feels now, besides just being extremely clearly written by a twenty-one year old, strange to me for the way it favors the sweet over the sour almost uniformly. There is a wholesome kind of ardor in that writing which maybe I’ve outgrown the ability to hold. Or maybe Taylor just proceeded to spend the next half a decade plus releasing one bad single after another, and it was taste—and trespasses against taste—and not some shift in my nature which altered the tenor of our bond. I have real love for my particular image, gleaned from public statements and published art, of smart, bizarre famous woman Taylor Swift, and I admire the bulk of her output very much. I’m just no longer so inclined to fawn. This is not to say I am here to offer a Taylor Swift hate screed. I couldn’t swing it, and, anyway, I’m not a pop feminist-for-hire circa 2010. But we’re older now. Things are different. At twenty-eight, twenty-nine this month—Taylor will, also this December, turn thirty-one—I regard Taylor Swift warily, like an ex with whom you have a tentative friendship, perpetually on the brink of falling one way or the other into hatred or delight, only to wobble back the opposite direction again at the slightest provocation, but still, despite best efforts, even, I regard her all the time. 

folklore was released at midnight on July 24th 2020, but I was at a cabin in rural Vermont without Internet or cell service. I drank Bud Light seltzers with my mother while watching the eerie pandemic return of Major League Baseball, and when I got into a strange bed there I stewed, knowing there were people out in the world all over who were hearing Taylor Swift songs I never had, and that this was a fundamental wrong, a disruption in the balance of the universe. I listened to it the next morning in a Dunkin’ Donuts parking lot. 

And folklore is great. That’s the terrible thing. Slightly less great, maybe, than some people have insisted, tricked, I think, by just the pronounced shift in sound. But it’s great. A little gift I asked for a thousand times and was still surprised to get, like a wife who didn’t expect her henpecked husband to ever follow through and buy the paraffin wax hand bath as-see-on-TV. For years, I’ve been halfheartedly insisting that Taylor had a great album in her. I’d say it even, perhaps especially, while she stubbornly fed me gruel. Or worse, gruel with the occasional whiff of something better. With a ripe, little raspberry dropped into the slop. The bright, villainous thrill of “Getaway Car” made me believe Taylor, my Taylor, was in there somewhere under the lacquer of sequins and synth, which, while not objectionable by default, seemed a costume, and an ill-fitting one. The lived-in world of “Cornelia Street” made those old scars sting. That gay “Delicate” video. When she did “Call It What You Want” on SNL and played guitar while wearing an ugly sweater. If the abominable “ME!”, lead single off Lover, was the stick, 1989’s “Clean” was the carrot. I was Charlie Brown, and Taylor my Lucy, yanking the football back again and again. Over drinks I still yelled that Taylor Swift’s next album would be, “her Nebraska”, referring to my favorite Bruce Springsteen record, and learned to live with that egg on my face for good. I suppose I even came to like it. There was something inherently funny in taking up, like, “blind faith in the as of yet untapped greater artistic potential of massively wealthy and popular singer Taylor Swift” as my totally inane personal cause du jour, and eventually it was a bit, a gag I performed to be obstinate and didactic, but way down somewhere awful near my kidneys I meant it the whole while. And then she did it. A pandemic befell the world and amid a sea of human suffering Taylor Swift remembered she can write. She wrote, and with a massive, crucial assist from Aaron Dessner, whose music on this record is sometimes so beautiful it actually angers me, as the last thing I needed in already perilous times was to be made to try and marry my uniquely perverse emotional responses to beloved divorced dad band The National and fucking Taylor Swift,  she made an album which, if not her Nebraska, per se (I’ve come to realize that a major part of believing Taylor Swift will one day make an album I find as quietly devastating and gorgeous as Nebraska is knowing that no album will ever actually be Her Nebraska... That each will, rather, to me, be more and more evidence that it’s coming still, more proof that the limit is untouched, on and on ad infinitum, or at least until the seas take us into a place of salty peace.) is a shocking credit to all my hard-fought and deluded confidence. folklore is great. This fact has made me feel almost equally as disoriented from my understanding of the world as the time-melting COVID-19 lockdowns have, and it turned my Spotify year in review annual collective AI humiliation kink thing into a glaring indictment of my mental state, but still, I mean... It’s great.

In talking about folklore a bit this week, there are a number of specific topics I intend to cover—what a thrill it is to hear Taylor say “fuck”; Taylor’s terrifying birth chart; the astoundingly perfect bridge of “the last great american dynasty”; “because my ass is located at the back of my body”; the bit in last year’s “Lover” where deranged WASP Taylor Swift implies that to “leave the Christmas lights up til January” is some signifier of being a love-struck bohemian, when actually everyone who doesn’t employ domestic staff to take their lights down does this; how reputation is the best of the Taylor Swift records released in the latter half of the 2010s, actually, and the people who can’t see that are cowards—but intend mostly to let the muse move me where she will. Against the advice of my better angels, she—that tie-in marketing eldritch terror—always does.

[ladyseaheart1668]

Endless Summer Book 4: Daughter of Vaanu (Chapter 55)

Description: In the aftermath of her daughter’s birth, Alodia fights for her life. 

Tagging: @endlesshero1122 @feartheendlesssummer @mysteli @whatmcsaid @xo-endlessmayhem-xo @tigerbryn11​

Chapter 55: Inevitability

Alodia

I felt the static creeping in at the edges of my vision even as I heard the voices around me telling me to push. Michelle. Jake. A thousand ageless, sexless voices belonging to the generations of ghosts manifesting around me. Push. Find a breath somewhere in the suffocating fog, gather together the seeds of strength scattered across a barren landscape and plant them in my core, let my tears be rain to nourish the soil, and push against the determined life tearing me apart in her effort to be free. Then I feel her slip free, and her piercing shriek is like music. She is alive. Unto the world, I delivered the fruit of my womb, and she is free of my body. And when the fog envelops me, I don’t fight it anymore. I’ve earned my rest.

I can feel myself sinking. I can also feel myself buoyed out of freefall by countless arms that ease me gently to the ground.

...Alodia...my daughter…

Vaanu? Father? Is that you?

“Hey. heyheyheyheyhey…” Jake’s fierce whisper close to my face, the repeated syllable sending puffs of warm air over my skin. “Stay with me, Princess.”

Aren’t I here? Aren’t I here with him? Where am I? Where am I going? Sudden awareness of a chill at the back of my neck brings the world sharply into focus. Jake at my head, hunched over me. Estela cradling my feet on her lap. And Michelle beside me, a towel in her hands rubbing down the small, warm body on my chest.

“You’re doing so well, Alodia,” she tells me. “The hardest part is over, but you’re not quite done yet. Placenta should deliver in a few minutes. ...Are you okay if I leave you for a minute to check on Diego?”

“...Diego…? Is he…?”

“He’s injured his shoulder. I’ll take care of him until help arrives. Iris, monitor Alodia and the baby. Keep checking their vitals and sound the alarm if there’s any change.” I am aware of her placing my arms around the body on my chest. “...You hang onto your baby, Alodia.”

...My baby...my daughter…

...My daughter…

Oh, no...please, no...please, leave me alone… Drawing breath feels like trying to suck up ice-cream through a straw. I open my mouth, forcing out a word in a weak exhale.

“...Jake…”

“I’m here. I’m right here. I’m right here with you.”

His face is dim and fuzzy above me. But behind him, my father’s ghostly form is bright.

“Alodia. My sweet child…”

No! Jake, don’t leave me! Don’t let me go!

You’re not going anywhere, Princess! I won’t let you!

I’m sinking...

Caleb

I didn’t bother explaining to Ysa what was going on in that house. When we met up with her cousins and brothers, I only assured them that Dragonness and her people were taking care of it, and told them we were getting out of here. They didn’t protest. I don’t know if it’s because they agreed with me, or because they just saw there was no arguing with me, or because they were finally satisfied, or they were just cold and worn out and wanted to be back in the warm van. Unfortunately, when we reach the van, there’s one more obstacle to get past.

“Hi, Dragonness!” RJ calls cheerfully to the masked superhuman leaning casually against the van door. Her hands are folded low in front of her, one ankle crossed over the other. In anyone else, the pose would be non-threatening. But Dragonness isn’t anyone else. I’m pretty confident she doesn’t want to hurt me, but she can definitely keep me from leaving with minimal effort.

“...Thought you were back at the squat,” I say carefully. “...Those people need help.”

“The situation is under control.”

“Is everyone okay who we want to be okay?”

“...I don’t know yet. What I do know is that if you hadn’t have shown up when you did, the situation could have been a lot worse.”

“Didn’t seem like you were that far behind me.”

“In a situation like that, every second counts. ...You know who those people are to me.”

“Yeah. Kind of. I’m pretty sure I picked up the basics.” I pause for a second, trying to get a measure of her intentions. “...Listen, Dragonness...the kids are tired and cold. I’d like to find someplace to put ‘em up for the night, maybe get ‘em something to eat.”

“Let me level with you, Caleb. The authorities are going to be all over this whole thing, and I don’t see a way to keep your name out of it. Me and mine might lie, but I’m willing to bet your...former associates aren’t going to be so accommodating.”

“...So say you lost track of me.”

“I intend to. ...But I don’t want it to be true.”

“Pretty much a given now. Considering you could hold me here with your little finger, it’s really up to you to either let me go or turn me in.”

“...Or I take a third option.”

“What kind of third option?”

She takes a step away from the van. “...You trusted me before, Caleb. I am hoping you will trust me again. I don’t know what will happen in the morning. But I do know somewhere you and the kids can be safe for the night.”

Alodia

Consciousness comes in waves. Between the moments of lucidity there is darkness and silence, but it isn’t sleep. It’s like being shut up in a windowless room. I feel afraid in a distant sort of way. But I am also tired down to the marrow of my bones. Anxiety spikes in consciousness and bleeds out with the tide, leaving exhaustion in its wake. There’s a voice, calm and confident, and commanding my attention.

“My name is Ryan. I’m an EMT, and I’m here to help. Can you tell me your name?”

I hear myself answer, “Alodia…”

“Do you know where you are?”

“...There was a house...it was empty...we hid…”

The warmth on my chest had sunk beneath the threshold of my perception, but its sudden absence is jarring. I hear a tiny whimper and icy fear grips me.

River…

“It’s okay, Princess. She’s here. They’re just keeping her warm.” A painfully bright flash makes my eyes water. I try to close my eyes, but they’re being held open. I push at the hand on my forehead.

“You’re doing really well, Alodia. Can you tell me how you got hurt?”

I fell...I slipped in the dark and I fell down a hill…

I’ve slipped under water. The rushing sound fills my ears and drowns out the voices. I’m in the darkness again. Bone tired and riding a gentle current. Then, flashes of sound and color. Flickering red light. Pressure on my hand.

“...born 42 minutes ago, full term…”

Pain, just a nagging sensation in the background a moment ago, rapidly floods my senses, and I choke on a cry.

“I gotcha, Princess. Just stay with me. I’m right here.”

“Placenta delivered twenty-three minutes ago, apparently complete...laceration on the lower back showing signs of infection…”

I try to roll away from the pain, into the dark and silent waters. But I’m not alone there anymore.

“Alodia,” my father says softly.

No. I can’t go with him. I have to stay with Jake.

“...Fever is 104°...Let’s get a saline drip going. TKO.”

“It’s okay, Alodia.” My father is no longer the ghost I knew on the island. His face is human, the way it was when I saw him in a vision months ago, before I even knew I was pregnant. The fear that grips me at the sight of his face is colder and more visceral than anything I think I have felt before.

No...please. Please don’t take me. Don’t take me back…

“I will not take you back. I don’t have that power. But nor do I have the power to save you. Not on my own. But I may be able to help, if you allow me.” His hands seem to enfold mine. “Trust me, daughter. Please. You must trust me.”

Trust him. As if I have a choice in the matter. I’m terrified and exhausted. Too exhausted to fight. I want to go home. I want to be gathered up and sheltered in a loving embrace. I remember the warmth of Ramona Soto’s arms around me when I was a child, tainted by the distance that formed between us when she turned her back on her son. Sometimes Aunt Molly was tender, too. But she isn’t who my heart aches for now. There’s a word forming in my mind as I look up at the strange face of the long-dead man hovering over me in the darkness. It’s a word that was never mine. But I want to surrender to it. I want to wrap myself up in the word and all the tender love that comes with it.

...Dad...Daddy...I’m scared...

Michelle

Our traveling party has been significantly reduced from when we arrived at the abandoned house, but we still have two rented vehicles that need to be taken back to Northbridge. Sean and I take one, while Estela and Rebecca take the other. We should probably be going home to get some sleep. I think that’s where Estela is going once she drops Rebecca off at the hospital. Back to Quinn, back to her brother and the other Catalysts, back to get everyone up to speed and wait for any more news. No doubt they’ll all be at the hospital at some point in the morning. But I can’t go home just yet. Even if I technically can’t help in any way, I have to be at the hospital with my friends. I don’t even need to ask if Sean feels the same. When I ask him if we should go straight to the hospital, I know the answer even before he nods grimly.

We’re silent as he drives, though he does periodically reach over without taking his eyes off the road to put his hand over mine on the armrest between us. I don’t mind. I’m stewing in the knowledge that Jake--and the rest of us--could easily lose Alodia in the next few days. I find it hard to object to my husband reminding me that he’s alive beside me.

I don’t really notice that he’s slowed down until he pulls over and stops on the shoulder of the road.

“Sean? What’s wrong?” I glance at the dashboard, trying to discern if there’s a mechanical problem. Sean hesitates for a moment before spreading his fingers and pressing his palms into the steering wheel.

“Look...feel free to tell me to piss off and keep driving, but...I would really like to kiss you right now.”

Worried and exhausted as I am, I can’t hold back a smile. “I wouldn’t mind a kiss right about now.”

We lean in and he takes my face in his hands as our mouths meet. I am a little surprised at how gentle he is being. I remember the way he kissed me for days after the showdown between Dragonness and Prescott, the fierce need in the way he pressed his mouth to mine. This is different. This is...more like the way he kissed me on our wedding day, just a few weeks ago. Tender. Loving. A kiss that makes me feel like we’re the only two people in the world.

“You’re kissing me like you love me,” I murmur.

“I do. I adore you. I don’t think I’ve ever been more in love with you than I am right now.”

“What makes you say that?”

He touches his forehead to mine. “...What I saw you do back there in that house…”

“Aww. Did seeing me delivering a baby make you sentimental?”

“Yeah. But it wasn’t just that. Alodia was sick. Diego was hurt. Alodia was having a baby. You were the only doctor there. But you were calm. You got help where you needed it. You made calm out of chaos.”

“...That’s my job, Sean. I’m a doctor. Doesn’t mean I wasn’t scared.”

“I know all that. Doesn’t make it less impressive. ...You’re a great doctor, Michelle. And hell, I’ll just say it: you’re my hero.”

I can’t help myself. I grin as I kiss him again. “You know, the only reason I’m not laughing at your corniness is because I know you mean it. Which just makes you more adorable.”

He keeps my face in his hands as he nuzzles my forehead with his. “...Do...do you think they’ll be okay?”

I swallow a bitter taste at the back of my throat. “...Diego should be fine, I think. The baby seems healthy. ...Alodia...it’s a little more uncertain.” I take his hands in mine, pulling back to meet his eyes in the light from the dashboard. “It will depend on how much the infection has spread, if it’s damaged any internal organs...whether there are any post-partum complications…”

He nods, squeezing my hands. “...I...guess we should get to the hospital. Be there for them.”

“Yeah…”

He releases my hands and turns his attention back to the car. He puts the gear shift back into drive and pulls away from the curb. We’re silent as he navigates the dark road ahead, and I don’t distract him by reaching over to stroke his arm or shoulder. But it doesn’t feel like we’re distant at all. Being beside him now, I feel as close to him as if I were in his arms without enough space between us for a hair to pass through.

Alodia

I don’t know how much time passes in the fog of light and noise and pain that I find myself dragged through. I am aware of things in bits and pieces. I don’t remember arriving at the hospital, but I find myself there, under harsh fluorescent lights, my nose assaulted by the sharp antiseptic odor. At some point, I realize River isn’t there, and I hear myself call out to her.

“It’s okay, Alodia,” Jake murmurs, his breath warm on my ear. “They’re just checking her over. They’ll bring her back to us soon.”

I’m cold. The air feels too close to my skin. I think I might be naked. I want to move to cover myself, but I am not sure where the surface is that’s supporting me, or whether I’m even upright or lying down. I do feel Jake’s arms around me, and I cling to him for dear life, even as I feel him gently manipulating my limbs.

“That’s it, Princess. Good girl. I gotcha. I’m right here.”

I open my eyes and find myself on a gurney, the filthy gray sweatshirt I had been wearing replaced by a thin hospital gown. Jake is still beside me, but now he’s wearing a mismatched set of scrubs. Pain flares in my spine, white-hot and intense enough to make my stomach turn. I hear myself make a noise like a wounded animal. I feel the pressure of Jake’s grip on my hand, and his cool fingers raking gently through my hair, soothing an intense itch that I hadn’t realized was there.

“Look at me, Alodia. Look at me.” His voice is gentle, but it brooks no argument. I force myself to meet his eyes. “That’s my girl. You’re doing great. Listen...this next part isn’t gonna be pleasant. You got a really nasty wound they gotta take care of, and you also had some tearing during delivery that they say is gonna need a couple stitches. They’re gonna numb you up so you won’t feel the worst of it, but that part ain’t gonna be a cakewalk, either.”

His words don’t help the sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. I feel my eyes burning. I’m scared. I’m so scared, and I’m so tired of being scared. It all must show on my face, because Jake’s mouth twists into a grimace as he brings my hand up to hold against the rough, days-old beard that darkens his cheek.

“I know, sweetheart. I know. But you can do this. I know you can. You’re the strongest, bravest person I’ve ever known.”

I can’t see my father just now, but I know he’s here. He’s hovering over me and Jake, equal parts a comforting, paternal presence and a frightening spectre I’m terrified has come to take me to whatever afterlife is waiting for me. I grip Jake’s hand.

“Don’t let me go.” My throat is so dry that it seems to chafe with the effort of speaking. The effort of drawing breath is rewarded with needling pain at scattered points on my torso. But Jake tightens his grip and bends to kiss my temple.

“I gotcha, Princess. I ain’t leaving.” The air around me shifts abruptly, and Jake’s grip on my hand tightens with anxiety. Something terrible is about to happen.

Sleep now, my daughter. It will be better if you sleep.

“Look at me, Alodia,” Jake says again. Again, I am compelled to obey, and I look into the depths of his clear blue eyes. “That’s it. Just keep your eyes on me. Don’t look anywhere else. Just look at me.”

But as the pain washes through me in a heady wave, I can’t help but break my gaze. I hear myself moan and Jake seems to press closer to me, even as the rest of the world is falling away again.

“I’m here. I’m here. I’m right here. Just stay with me…”

Grayson

My family has a luxury mountain cabin a little ways upstate. Dad hasn’t been there since Mom died, but once I was old enough to drive, I took over the upkeep and used it for my own private getaway. In college, I always had friends over to the cabin for spring break, and for summer parties. Tahira and Poppy were both frequent guests back then. I haven’t been back since before the gala that changed everything, but I keep it well maintained enough that when Tahira contacts me to ask if Caleb and his runaway children can stay there for a night, I don’t have any qualms about saying yes. Since everything is remotely connected, I am able to unlock the door and turn on the lights and the heat from my apartment. The local town doesn’t have a late-night grocery store, but I do put in an order for delivery from a nearby Chinese restaurant with instructions to leave it in the kitchen.

I don’t hear anything for a couple of hours, and in the meantime, I can’t sleep. I’m sitting up at my kitchen table with a mug of decaf when I hear the tapping at my balcony door. Tahira, in full Dragonness garb, waits for me on the balcony, squeezed into the shadow in the corner to avoid the beam of the outdoor lights. In a big city and a big apartment complex like this, one never knows who might be up late and watching, curious about who Dragonness is visiting at this hour. I flip off the outdoor light before I unlock the door and let her in.

I barely have the door open wide enough for her to slip through before she pounces on me, kissing furiously with her fingers raking through my hair. I push back, wrapping an arm around her waist as I stumble around to blindly push the door closed. I’ll worry about the latch in a minute. Right now, I am aware that my girlfriend is hovering an inch or so off the carpet as she presses her hips against me, one hand tugging at the belt of my bathrobe. My hands are at her back, groping for the mechanized clasp of her supersuit, but I resist tapping it just yet.

“Tahira… your wound. ...Is it safe to…?”

She hesitates, pulling back just a little. “I...think so…” But her feet sink into the carpet again as she presses her forehead to mine and reluctantly adds, “But maybe I should wait until a doctor clears me. I mean, it’s gotten a lot better...but I don’t know. I’ve never been stabbed before.”

I pull back enough to remove the mask from her eyes and brush the dark wisps of hair off her forehead. I lean in and kiss the spot between her eyebrows, then each eyelid in turn, the tip of her nose, and her mouth.

“...I missed you,” I murmur.

“I missed you, too. In case you couldn’t tell.”

I lace my fingers together at the small of her back. “Can I get you anything? Coffee? Tea? Water?”

“How about a shower and a change of clothes?”

“I’m set up for that, too. Actually did a load of some of your stuff just yesterday.”

She snorts lightly. “I’ve got enough clothes here for a load? Might as well be living here.”

“...Might as well be,” I murmur. “...But that’s a discussion probably best saved for later. Did Caleb and the kids get settled in okay?”

“Yeah. Hopefully they’re still there in the morning. I don’t know what we’ll do if they aren’t. Don’t know what we’ll do if they are, either.”

“We’ll come up with something. I promise. You’re the Hero of Northbridge, and I’m the son of the city’s most powerful billionaire captain of industry. Between us, there have to be some strings we can pull to keep the kids together and Caleb out of prison.”

“You’re basically the head of Prescott Industries now,” she points out. “And you’ve got a lot more goodwill than your father. ...I’m honestly less worried about how we’re going to keep the kids together than I am about the whole Caleb situation. I don’t just want him out of prison, I want him on the right side of the law. And that’s going to take a lot of compromise.”

“We’ll figure it out. For now, you need to rest.”

She sighs, wrapping her arms around me and letting her head fall onto my shoulder. “...Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. ...For what?”

“For not asking why I care what happens to Caleb.”

I kiss her hair, letting my cheek rest against her head. “I don’t have to ask why, Tahira. Even if I don’t know. I trust your instincts. If you think he’s worth caring about, I believe it.”

“...I hope my instincts aren’t wrong about him. Because I have a feeling I can’t shake that we’re going to need him on our side in the future.”

Diego

My arrival at the hospital is a whirlwind of doctors and nurses asking questions, taking pulse, temperature, and blood pressure, and sticking me here and there to collect blood samples, place an IV for fluids, and pump painkillers into the space between my shoulder joint and my arm bone before they attempt to put the two back together.

Having my dislocated shoulder put back in its socket is not the most pleasant experience, but it’s also not as bad as I would have anticipated, especially once the painkillers set in. I feel a little heady, but there’s no violent wrenching motion to force it back into place like they show in the movies. It’s a lot more slow and gentle. Having Varyyn there to hold my good hand goes a long way, too. I really haven’t thanked Dax enough for his Christmas present.

I don’t exactly feel the bone slip back into place the moment it happens, but I do feel the pain start to ebb away almost immediately, and exhale with relief. The doctor smiles down at me.

“Think that did it. How do you feel?”

“Waaay the heck better,” I reply languidly.

“That’s what we like to hear. I’m just going to get a sling on you, and send a nurse to take you to your bed. We’re gonna keep you overnight, just for observation, but I’m optimistic you’ll be discharged tomorrow.” He pauses a moment, glancing at Varyyn. “I know you two live out-of-state. Do you have friends in the area who could put you up for a night or two after discharge? I don’t want you to have to rush your travel plans to get home.”

“We have a number of friends in the area,” Varyyn confirms. “And we certainly won’t be going home before Alodia and her baby are discharged as well.”

“Alodia is our friend who came in with us,” I explain when it’s clear the name doesn’t ring a bell with the doctor. “Or probably a little before us. Alodia Chandler. She had a newborn baby. A little girl. ...She was hurt. A cut on her back that got infected.”

The doctor’s eyes flicker with a brief spark of recognition, and he nods. “Ahh. Of course. I remember her coming in.”

“Do you know where she is?” I ask anxiously. “Do you know if she’s okay?”

“I haven’t heard anything since she came in. But she and the baby would have been taken up to the mother and baby unit.”

“Would I be able to see her?”  

“Right now, you would be better off getting some rest.”

“That’ll be easier if I know what’s going on with my friend,” I point out. The doctor nods, reaching out to pat my good shoulder.

“Tell you what. As soon as I’m done here, I’ll see what I can find out. It’s quite likely she’s not ready for visitors herself yet, but would it help if I could get you an update?”

“Yeah, it would. Thanks.”

The doctor’s assurance is enough to keep me satisfied for a little while. I don’t badger the orderly who comes to take me to my room. It’s early morning by now, and the sunlight is streaming through the window. The orderly draws the curtains as I settle into bed. Varyyn sits down in a chair beside me and takes my good hand. When the orderly leaves, I roll my head to look at him.

“You’ll be more comfortable in the bed, you know.”

“...Is that permitted?”

I shrug. “Don’t know. At the moment, I don’t really care. If it’s not, we’ll stop when they tell us we have to stop. And I really want you to hold me right now.”

“I’m not very much inclined to argue. I want to hold you.”

He slips off his shoes and lies down beside me, holding me gently. I let my head rest on his shoulder. I feel safe in his arms. For a while, I can almost pretend that he and I are back in our bed in California. But I think the truth of where we really are and what’s really happening is pretty inescapable, because the dreams that take over once I’ve drifted off are anything but safe and peaceful. I wake up with every muscle in my body cramping around my thumping heart and the fading image of angry wasps droning around me. My own sharp gasp is already a vague memory as Varyyn’s soft lips brush my forehead and cheek.

“Shhh. You’re safe, my darling. I’m here.”

The sun is still up, but the light isn’t streaming through the window anymore. “How...how long was I…?”

“Only a few hours, my love.”

“Hours…? But...Allie. What did…?”

“The staff could not say much. But Sean and Michelle spoke to Jake. River is well and healthy. She is in a room with her parents.”

I want to smile at the thought. But the fact that Varyyn started with River’s condition is enough to tell me that her mother isn’t as well and healthy as she is. “Varyyn…”

Varyyn knows what I want him to tell me. He sighs, kissing my forehead. “Alodia’s wound has been treated. The tearing she sustained during delivery has been stitched. The infection is being treated with antibiotics. But...it is simply too early to tell if she will be alright.”

I gulp against the choking sensation in the back of my throat, biting my lip in an effort not to let out the anguished howl I can feel clawing its way up from my chest. I can’t stop the tears from dripping down my cheeks, but I am not going to wail like a banshee in the middle of a hospital.

“I should have gone for help,” I whisper when I can speak again. “I shouldn’t have waited. I should have gone when I knew she was sick…”

“That would have meant leaving her alone with enemies in pursuit when she could not defend herself. You did the best you could in an impossible situation.”

“She might die, Varyyn. River might never know her mother. Jake might lose his wife again…”

Varyyn kisses my cheek. “Diego, everyone knows how much you love her. No one doubts that you did everything in your power to protect her as best you could.”

I roll away from him as best as my injured shoulder will allow. I feel him withdraw just a little, feel his hesitation, and guilt pricks at me. He’s right. In my heart I know he’s right. But that knowledge isn’t enough to cut through the fear that encases me.

“...It won’t matter if she dies,” I say after a protracted silence. “...If she dies, it won’t matter how much I love her or if I did everything I could. She’ll still be dead.”

“Perhaps not. Not right away.” He hesitantly strokes my hair, and when I don’t pull away, he continues. “...But don’t bury her before she is gone. Hold onto hope as long as we have it.”

Alodia

I know that I am a ghost. But I don’t care. I’m home on La Huerta. The place where I was born. And for a moment, that is all I need. But then I see my friends. Jake, Sean, Craig, and Estela. All four are battered and bruised. Estela’s expression is stoically grim, but I know her well enough to see fear in her dark eyes. Sean and Craig are doing a worse job of hiding their anxiety, though they still seem to be holding it together. I guess they think they have to for Jake. Jake’s face is breaking my heart. He’s not crying just now, but his eyes are swollen and rimmed in red, and his face is splotched red with tears. He looks down as he walks, hunched and shaking like a terrified little boy.

Across from them are Diego, Varyyn, Michelle, and Raj. Diego breathes shallowly as he regards the other foursome.

“Where is Allie?” he asks, his voice low and trembling.

Sean answers the question, even though Diego is looking at Jake. Jake raises his eyes to meet Diego’s hard gaze, and there is guilt there. I don’t hear Sean explaining. But I know what he’s saying. They don’t know where I am. I fell from the chopper and they haven’t found me yet. Diego’s fear and grief burn into anger and he flies at Jake.

“You were supposed to take care of her! You let her die!”

Jake doesn’t fight back. He barely flinches to protect himself. Varyyn grabs his lover to hold him back.

“Diego! Diego, stop! She isn’t dead!”

I am, though. I want to tell Varyyn that I am. ...But I’m not. I’m standing at the Threshold, staring numbly down at the eleven graves. I look down at my hands. Wrinkled and papery, speckled with liver spots. But both of them flesh. I’m not the Endless. The Endless is in front of me.

“This is where we’re always going to end up,” she says mournfully. “This is the fate I cannot protect you from. It may be tomorrow, or it may be ninety years from now. But you will always live to see the last one die.”

“...They were protecting me.” I raise my eyes to meet her face. “...That’s what I’ve been seeing in my dreams. I watched them die to protect me.”

“You will always live to see the last one die.” She reaches out to cup my cheek in her good hand. “...Unless you die first…”

I can still feel her bony fingers against my cheek, but I am no longer at the Threshold. I recognize this place. I have danced on this stage for years. This is the stage at the performing arts center where my dance school’s showcases, workshops, and recitals have been held since I was a four-year-old ballerina, feeling like a princess in my shimmering purple tutu with a plastic tiara bobby-pinned to my head. It is familiar, but somehow wrong. Distorted. I shouldn’t be here, waiting in the wings like this. I haven’t been a student in years. I don’t know my choreography. I am in sweatpants, without dance shoes or stage makeup, and my hair is a tangled mess. And I am pregnant. I am sure of it. What other explanation could there be for the potbelly pushing against the waistband of my sweatpants, and the movement behind my navel? But even that feels wrong. Vague memories tell me that I am nearly ready to give birth, but my belly feels too small. The child’s movements are sharp and erratic.

But ready or not, I am pushed onto the stage. Harsh white lights turn the audience into a faceless dark sea that swims beyond the polished lip of the apron. Music floats up from beneath my feet. The Doll Dance. This is the Doll Dance. I have to push.

I don’t have time to question. My Catalysts are rushing in to surround me, all cradling shapeless bundles as they move through something that vaguely resembles the Doll Dance. I lie down on my back and open my legs.

“The doll is almost here!” Michelle sings from between my knees. Diego giggles, flitting between Jake and me, tapping us in turn.

“Daddy Ballerina, Mommy Ballerina!” He laughs wildly, and taps his own head. “Skinny Ballerina!”

Jake laughs with him, and taps my nose. “Princess Ballerina!” Then he and Diego laugh together, the sound morphing into a shrieking cackle as I feel a sudden emptiness in my belly.

“Baby Ballerina!” Michelle crows.

“Where is she?!” I hear myself cry. “Where is River?”

I can’t find her. I am on my feet, rushing around the stage, searching for the baby that was just torn bloodlessly out of me. The Catalysts plié right and left, shading their eyes as they search the darkness of the house.

“Where is River?” They sing in one voice. “Where is River?”

I can’t find her. I can’t find my baby.

“Oh me, oh my! Oh me, oh my!” The Catalysts jump from first position to second, scrubbing at their eyes.

I leap off the stage, into the house. I know where my baby is. The doors at the back of the house are open, and I can see the swaddled bundle in a cone of light at the end of the aisle. I scoop her up, and I feel my heart sink. The cloying face of a plastic baby doll peers up at me with unblinking eyes of blue glass, chubby plastic cheeks tinged red, lips permanently parted in a toothless, saccharine smile...

I’m going to be sick. No sooner have I realized this than there is a bowl under my jaw, and an unfamiliar pair of arms wrapped around my chest from behind, holding me upright. I want to fight their grip, but painful spasms wrenching through my midsection distract me from any potential escape attempts. A sour-tasting wave of liquid fire bubbles up my throat and sloshes out from between my lips.

“You’re okay, Princess. Just let it all up.”

“J-Jake…?” I croak weakly, barely able to raise my eyes to his face before another acid wave splashes into the bowl.

“Shhhhh. I’m right here. Everything’s okay.”

Everything is clearly not okay. But I don’t have the strength to worry about more than emptying my stomach right now. When that’s done, I sink limply back onto the pillow, shivering as Jake dabs at my forehead with a sponge.

“Here…” I open my eyes as I feel something poking at my lips and find a straw. “Have a little water.”

I obediently close my lips around the straw and take a few cautious sips as I take stock of myself. I hurt. That much I realize right away. My back and between my legs are the worst of it, but most of me aches like I had every muscle in my body clenched at the same time. I know where I am, even before I realize that the unfamiliar arms that held me up belong to a nurse. A few gaps aside, I know what happened before I arrived at the hospital. But there is an image in my mind of a plastic doll swaddled in my arms.

“R-River...Jake, where…?”

“She’s here, Princess.” I hear his voice catch, and I manage to look up at him to see a shaky smile on his lips. “...She’s perfect…”

���C-can I see her?”

“Of course. Doctor says you might even be able to feed her later if you were up to it.”

Jake looks somewhere to his side, and I crane my neck to follow his gaze. I can just about make out the bassinet at the end of the room, and the nurse bending over to carefully collect the yellow-swaddled contents. For a moment, my stomach lurches again. I’m not entirely convinced that the nurse is not about to hand me a plastic doll. But then the bundle squirms and whimpers. The nurse passes the bundle to Jake, who gently places our daughter beside me on the bed, keeping his hands on her for support.

The chubby face that peeks out from a cocoon of yellow blanket and a pink crocheted hat is no plastic doll’s face. She’s been cleaned since she was born, but her little face is still rosy over a warm complexion. Above a pudgy little chin, tiny pink lips are drawn into a pout that shows off their perfect cupid’s bow. Her round little nose wrinkles as if she smells something foul and her eyes are puffy around the edges. But then her eyes open, blue as sapphires, and her gaze cuts through the feverish haze the clouds my head. I carefully place a shaking hand on her chest, stroking her lightly through the blanket.

“Hello, River Skye McKenzie,” I murmur. I feel the corners of my mouth lifting into a feeble smile. “Aren’t you the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen…”

“She’s an angel,” Jake agrees. “Here, take a look at this.” He gently pulls off her little crocheted cap, revealing a fine layer of downy chestnut hair. I bite my lip, feeling tears pooling in my eyes.

“...How did we live so long without her?”

“The same way we lived without each other: incompletely.”

I raise my eyes to his face. Something cold has begun to thread through my veins. “...Jake...is she real?”

Jake’s expression falters just for a moment. “Of course she’s real, Princess.”

“I...I think I was dreaming. ...I found my baby, but she was just a doll…”

Jake’s face softens as he brings up a hand to stroke my hair. “It was just a dream.”

“...I’m afraid of my dreams. I’m afraid to go to sleep again. I’m afraid that when I wake up, she will be gone…”

“I won’t let her disappear.”

“...What if you’re gone, too?”

He presses his lips to my forehead, holding them there for a long moment. Long enough for me to realize how much his breath is shaking. When he pulls back to smile at me, his eyes sparkle.

“Then I’ll fight until I’m at your side again. Isn’t that what we do, Princess? They pull us apart, and we fight like hell until we’re back together?”

Even heady with fever as I still am, I hear the catch of desperation in his voice, the pleading note under his fierce words. He is as scared as I am. He is scared that he is watching me fade. He is scared that he’s watching me die.

...I will live to see the last one die. Unless I die first.

Aleister

How to describe the moment when I see my wife descending Castor’s boarding stairs. I hear myself speak her name, but it comes out as a gasp as I start toward her. The moment her foot hits the tarmac, she breaks into a run, arms outstretched. We meet in a small collision, arms closing around one another in vise-like grips. I feel my throat tighten as I rest my cheek on the top of her head, savoring the familiar texture of her narrow braids on my skin, and the sweet scent of her honeysuckle lotion. It has not been two days since last I saw her, but it feels like a lifetime. From the strength of her grip, I can tell she feels the same.

“...You didn’t bring Reggie…?” she asks after a moment.

“He’s at home with Estela and Quinn. I am fairly certain that looking after him is all that is keeping Estela from getting herself arrested for disorderly conduct by marching down to the police station to threaten those cunts who attacked Alodia and Diego at the abandoned house.”

I feel Grace pause for a moment. “...That’s strong language for you, honey.”

“...Can we agree that I am justified under the circumstances?”

“Absolutely. ...How are they?”

“Diego has a dislocated shoulder, but he should heal. Thus far, it also seems that the baby is well and healthy. Alodia is being treated, but it is simply too soon to know how she will respond.”

“...I think she will be fine,” Grace says decidedly. “She knows how much she’s needed. She won’t let a little infection beat her.”

“I sincerely hope you are right.” I keep an arm over her shoulders as I begin to steer us toward the car. “...I don’t suppose you learned anything of interest from your mother? Anything about where Father was planning to take them, or what he intended to do with them? Even if...when...Alodia recovers, this is far from over.”

“...I did learn a few things,” she confirms, though she waits until we are in the car to continue. “She has reason to believe Rourke has a base in the Greek Islands. Specifically Ithaca.”

I can’t help rolling my eyes. “Of course it would be Ithaca,” I mutter.

“But that’s not all. Aleister, I think Yvonne is alive.”

Jake

The minutes and hours melt into each other while my wife is sick. The world tunnels and fills with static at the edges. All I can focus on is her. My princess. My princess and the little angel in the bassinet at the foot of her bed. I almost never don’t have one of them in my arms. Except when Rebecca or Michelle or my mother force me to get some sleep on the couch. I don’t generally fight them on it. One of the advantages to Alodia being in a maternity suite is that the couch is in the same room, a feature that surely exists for anxious partners waiting out a long labor.

I don’t know exactly when my mother and father arrived with Alodia’s aunt and uncle, Diego’s parents, and Raj. I know it was sometime after Alodia gave River her first feeding. It was mostly successful. Lots of pillows and my hands helped to keep River safe and supported, even with her mother feeling as weak as she is. I helped the nurse bathe her in a process that seemed like a compromise between a sponge bath in bed and a full shower, with Alodia seated on the shower seat while I helped wipe her down and rub dry shampoo into her hair. By the time that was done, the fever seemed to have sapped her strength again because I almost had to carry her back to bed. By the time her bandage had been changed, she’d slipped back into a fitful sleep. She hadn’t awakened yet when the anxious faces of our families appeared in the doorway.

I don’t really like all our folks being here. I don’t like the way Alodia’s aunt and uncle are hovering over her bed like loving parents, kissing her hands and stroking her hair. I like it even less when Diego’s parents do it--especially because I know from Raj that they’ve been decidedly cool to their own son since meeting his husband. I don’t even like the way my own parents are hovering right now, trying to help me with River. I don’t want help with River. Not yet. I don’t really want anyone but me and Alodia touching her right now. Somehow, letting someone else change her diaper or rock her to sleep makes me feel like I’m letting Alodia’s nightmares come true. Like somehow letting someone else touch her will turn her into the doll Alodia dreamed she was.

...I know it’s irrational. Especially because I don’t feel the same fear when one of the Catalysts offers their help. Knowing that it’s irrational doesn’t stop me from feeling the fear. A part of me feels guilty for it. But the fear holds on.

At some point after drifting into a doze on the couch, I hear familiar voices over my head. I’m not sure if I’m mostly awake or if I’m deep asleep and dreaming when I hear them, but I know the voices, and their words are clear.  

“If the worst happens,” Diego says softly, “...will he have it in him to look after her?”

“Of course he will,” Rebecca replies. “He’ll need her more than ever.”

“...I watched my best friend grow up knowing she wasn’t wanted by the people who were raising her. People who took her in because they didn’t want to lose the last piece of her mother that they had. ...I don’t want to watch the same thing happen to her daughter.”

“Diego. Trust me. If the worst happens, River will be what keeps him alive.”

By the time I come fully awake, Diego and Rebecca are gone, replaced by Molly and Rob. Both Alodia and River are asleep. Molly sits at Alodia’s bedside stroking her arm, while Rob stares stoically out the window with his arms folded. Both of them melt into the scenery as I approach my wife and take hold of her hand. No matter how many people are around us, when I hold her hand, it’s just me and her. I sink into the chair, gripping her hand in both of mine and kissing her fingers.

“Stay with me, Princess,” I whisper. My chest is tight. I feel like it’s been tight for ages. I feel like I’ll never breathe free again, but I know I will if only she gets better. “You’re doing great, Alodia. Just hold on. Just keep fighting. Please...I...I can’t lose you again…”

“No one is going to lose Alodia,” Rob mutters. The reminder of his presence sends irritation threading through me, but I let it go.

“She’s a fighter,” Molly agrees. “She always has been.”

“She’s going to bury us all,” Rob adds with conviction. Now I properly grimace. It’s all I can do not to deck him. Instead, I press my lips hard to my wife’s fingertips, screwing my eyes shut as I exhale to a count of ten.

“Do me a favor,” I growl without looking at him. “Never say that in front of me, or her, or any of our friends.”

“...I...what? ...Why?”

“...If you’d been on the island, you’d understand. You just gotta trust me on this one.” I give Alodia’s hand another kiss and stand up, moving to gaze down at my daughter, sleeping peacefully in her bassinet. I reach down to stroke the back of her tiny hand, soft and delicate as a rose petal.

I’ll never leave you, Angel. It’s a silent promise, but I mean it with all my heart. No matter what happens, I’ll always be here for you.

Slowly, though, the cloud of fear and uncertainty hanging over my family begins to dissipate as modern medicine starts to do its job. Alodia’s fever starts to dwindle. And three days after the birth of our child, it breaks.

[darkdevasofdestruction]

Sheepless Sheep Girl ~Yin Zhi x Reader

Yin Zhi, the 3rd Prince, was a mystery for everyone living in the Palace, no matter their age, gender or even if they were his own relatives. He was truly an enigma that, no matter how much you’d try to decipher, you couldn’t. He was unique, a thorough individualist, and all he’d ever want to do is practice archery, study, read diverse literature books and enjoy a secluded life somewhere beautiful, all alone...Or perhaps, with someone by his side to understand him...

But he’s a weirdo, by everyone’s stuck up and closed-minded views, so he doubts he’d ever find anyone to actually get him and who he is.

He’s the 3rd Prince, after all, and since the 1st Prince died young, and the Crown Prince is a fuckass that everyone hates, people look at him to take up the reigns and become the best candidate to lead.

What a joke.

He couldn’t care less about trivial things like these - Being an Emperor is too much hassle than it’s worth. Too many responsibilities, too many people to hear and please, and way too many women and heirs needed...Too much socialisation, too many voices, lies, gossips, snakes and threats to deprive him of the peaceful life he always dreamt of.

Life, however, is an unexpected turn of events, and what was supposed to be just some basic archery training in some far away forest, and somehow, he ended up heavily injured, his horse running away, and he was barely able to keep himself standing.

He was beginning to hate himself for not telling anyone - Not even his eunuch - About his adventurous trip, so nobody would be looking for him any time soon...And maybe, by the time he is found, he will already be animal food, or dead from this wound overbleeding.

Perhaps sleeping at the base of this old oak tree wouldn’t be such a bad idea...

When he next opened his eyes, however, instead of feeling the hard bark of the tree he was leaning on, he felt himself in a weirdly comfortable...Bed? This couldn’t be...How COULD this be?

He shot up in a wild panic, only to feel a pair of hands on his bare, bandaged chest, pushing him gently back down on the bed. It was a beautiful girl with a gentle, yet exhausted complexion, eyes resembling those of a baby fawn, sweet and wet, filled with a myriad of emotions, and her hair looked shiny, long, let down, reaching below the waist, mimicking a gorgeous cascade.

“Please, don’t move too much. Your injuries were pretty grave. I disinfected and stitched them while you were unconscious, dressed them and...You risk ripping them and overbleeding.” she explained, gently brushing her fingers through his hair, getting it away from his face. “Who are you...? And how did you find me?” Yin Zhi asked in a tired, hoarse voice. “I am just a sheep girl. I found you by the Oak tree when I went out looking for mushrooms. I couldn’t possibly let an injured being die out there, helpless, could I?” she spoke with an amused smile...Her voice was so light and warming...What was so different about this woman that made her stand out so much? She’s no noble lady, she’s just some...Sheep girl, living alone, in the middle of the woods. “And how can a Sheep Girl treat such life-threatening wounds anyway?” his sharp eyes peered into hers, analysing her every single move and reaction. “My parents and I used to be the village’s physicians, so any little health issue would come our way. I may be young, but I have enough experience to treat such basic wounds like yours.” she got up, putting some more wood into the heater and stirring into the pot on the oven a few more times, she put stew in a bowl and taking a spoon, came back to sit by his side. “Then why do you live so far away from the village?” he murmured, getting in a sitting position with the help of the girl. “My...My parents died because of a new disease that struck the village. Many died...And while in that terrible state, my parents begged me to experiment on them to find an antidote...Which I did. It’s just...I got blamed for the deaths, so I was shunned. And here I am. Living out here, away from any problem, worry and annoying, stuck up people.” she shrugged simply, clearly used to the idea and the tragedy that befell her. “I see. I’m sorry to hear that.” the prince muttered, not knowing what to say in such a situation. “Don’t be. That’s how life is...Although, sometimes I miss socialising with actual people, not just with sheep.” she chuckled awkwardly, looking away. “It’s a peaceful place you’ve got here. I wish I could live in a secluded place, away from all the nosy and incompetent people out there.” Yin Zhi spoke out, almost without realising. “Would you mind sharing your story with someone you’ll never meet again, stranger whose name I don’t know?” she took the bowl away from him as soon as he finished eating. “Only if you vow to treat me the same as before.” his look changed into one of warning, but she was not intimidated in the least. “I’ve been away from socialising for a long time. Forgive my lack of manners, but I’ll behave with you the same way no matter the status you hold.” she shot right back, which made him smirk in delight. “My name is Yin Zhi, the Emperor’s 3rd Prince. And what is yours, mysterious physician?” he asked, waiting to hear the name of the brilliant woman taking care of him. “Y/N. Nice to meet you, Yin Zhi.”

Due to the gravity of the injuries, he had to stay for two weeks to recover, and in this time, he was able to discover who this girl really was, from her kindness, to her intelligence, her points of view, her choices in books, in literature, how versed she in sciences, in herbalism and many more.

Not to mention, despite his amusement about the 3 animals, grew fond of the family of sheep. Only one ram, one sheep, and a little lamb, all the named after her and her family.  The lamb, especially, was incredibly playful and affectionate with him, and would always try to stay around him, poking his cheeks with her wet nose, jumping on his lap, running around his legs and many more, which, for some reason, amused the man greatly.

He had so much to learn from this lone woman - In fact, so much more than many of the scholars, teachers, physicians and eunuchs in the Palace could offer him - And so, he didn’t think of his hunting accident as a misfortune, but as as grace from fate.

These two weeks in this place were truly all he ever dreamt of, and more, should he not have been in pain from his wounds, but by now, he was fully recovered, and as a thank you, he properly taught her how to use a bow and arrow, to protect herself and her sheep family from any potential predators, and more, he helped her build a better shelter for them.

However, like all beautiful dreams, one must wake up, and thus, he was forced to return to the Palace, with the promise of visiting again, and also, to help her with anything she needed, no matter the cost.

Yin Zhi cursed how dull Palace life was, and truly, he felt more all here, constantly surrounded by thousands of people, than away n the woods, with Y/N, so he did what he always did to escape reality - Succumb himself into studying and reading, and clearly, staying as far away from people as possible.

Days passed, then weeks, months, and his mind kept flying off to that great, peaceful time when he was all alone, just with her, some animals, away into the forest, and he could read at leisure without being interrupted by these annoying pests.

He almost wasn’t sure how much time passed, until he received a letter from his trusted Eunuch, from someone calling themselves “The Sheepless Sheep Girl” and worry started harbouring in his heart, as he began reading her words.

As stated, some thieves came by while she was away, picking berries from the forest, and killed her sheep, destroyed the crops and stole everything she had, and now she’s helpless, scared and has no clue what to do.

Darkness and anger flooded him for the first time in ages, realising that, to save her, he needed to get her into the Palace, maybe saying she was his new Head Maiden... What a difficult situation they both found themselves into.

Well, why should he care what anyone else thinks, anyway? He’s not going to be an Emperor, so he doesn’t need to be surrounded by concubines, consorts and whatever other useless women or different statuses and ranks that they did nothing to earn, so why shouldn’t she just be given the title of Imperial Physician?...HIS Personal, Imperial Physician?

Sure, only men have the privilege of having this title given, but she’s talented, well-versed and knowledgeable, so there’s no reason why she shouldn’t be able to be HIS Physician, right? She already saved him once, anyway. It’s not like the Emperor could deny or complain about it, considering he never asked for anything, and used his own power and knowledge to achieve everything he wanted.

She won’t even have to leave his Palace, if she doesn’t want to. She is a timid little doe who has no idea of Palace mannerisms, or how cruel everyone in this forsaken place is, and truly, the last thing he wants is to break her soul and taint her bright innocence and purity with the evil hanging around this polluted air.

Nonetheless, she needed to be taken care of, and so she will be, under his wing, without anyone interfering.

As soon as he got back to her place, Yin Zhi noticed how the house was in a terrible state, and she...Her face...It was obvious that she was exhausted. She was barely able to keep herself standing, she was weak, and her face was pink from the crying... This deteriorated state of her made his own heart ache, and that’s when he realised that he wanted nothing more than to protect her and her precious smile. He wanted her happy, by his side. It didn’t matter if she loved him or not, he just wanted her to shine brightly again, just as before.

He had his Eunuch find the best maid for her to attend her every need, and he found some petite girl called Shi Lian, with a soft voice, but very friendly, and with that, at least, he was content.

“Thank you...You did more than I asked you to...How can I ever repay you, Your Grace?” Y/N bowed her head down, speaking in a broken voice, almost as if feeling herself unworthy to be looked at by someone like him. “First of all, never call me that again. It’s only my name, for you, understood? Secondly, look at me, just like you used to. I won’t allow anything bad to come upon you ever again, I promise you. You saved me once...Let me save you now, Y/N.” he extended his hand for her to hold, as a way of asking if she trusts him. “...If it’s not asking for too much...Please take care of me, Yin Zhi. I trust you.” she gingerly held his hand in both of hers, raising it to her face, placing a soft kiss as a thank you. He realised that, compared to all the women in the Palace, her hands weren’t as soft and delicate, but more on the rough said, from all the hard work she had to put into taking care of herself. That’s a truly reliable woman, he thought, as he vowed to make sure she’s pampered at all times. “Anything for you.” his voice came barely above a whisper as he kissed her forehead, hoping she wouldn’t hear his heart’s confession...And yet, the soft blush on her face proved otherwise.

With each day passing, he could see her skin glowing, her eyes sparkling with life whenever she’d lay down at the base of the willow next to the pond as she would read one of the books he had in his library, her smile, dazzling as before, whenever some stray cat would get in his Palace garden and she would play with it, feed it, and somehow end up adopting it...Them...For there were many cats now in his garden, but it’s not like he could complain. He wasn’t the one doing the cleaning in his Palace, and he was content enough with seeing her happy.

She would sometimes play the flute while he was reading outside, or would pick up flowers from the field and make flower crowns for her and Shi Lian...And yet, on one occasion, she put one on his head while he was too absorbed in his reading to notice.

She wasn’t afraid to ask him for help to understand things she didn’t know from books he had that she wasn’t familiar with, and somehow, he never felt irritated by her - In fact, he actually felt his heart warm whenever he had to explain things to her - And the same went the other way around, when it came to science.

Not to mention how thrilled she was when she found out she was allowed to be a physician once again, just like long ago, and even more, she was bold enough to throw her arms around him, pulling him into a hug, that shocked him beyond belief.

And so, one day, when he came home, he brought a little gift for her... A little lamb that he named after her, to remind her of her little sheep family from before.

It made Y/N laugh with happy tears in her eyes, as she started playing around and cuddling the little lamb, even going as far as to let the baby lamb sleep in her own bed with her, and truly, Yin Zhi didn’t think it could get any better.

His life was finally beginning to shift in the right direction, the one he’s always dreamt of...Especially after one night, she lead him up the hill to watch the beautiful moon and the fireflies, holding hands as they lay on the soft grass and observing the stars, pointing out constellations, telling little legends, myths and stories about random things. He couldn’t help but admire her beauty highlighted by the silver light of Mother Moon, and how she looked like a dryad in that flowy, light green dress, and the fact that she looked ethereal without having to wear make up truly made it obvious how she was above them all without even trying.

For the first time in his life he felt completely enamoured, his heart was captured by this unique woman and he couldn’t help but put his hands on her delicate cheeks and kiss her pink lips that resembled the petals of the softest, most beautiful rose. He was never interested in love or women, he preferred to enrich his boundaries and knowledge, but this one...This one was truly something else. She was special, and he was making him feel special without even trying.

There was no doubt about it - She was truly the one. 

And he couldn’t be happier.

It felt like he was living in a fairy tale, the Prince and the Princess, having their happily ever after.

But like any fairy tale, there must always be something bad happening to the Princess.

He wasn’t expecting anything like that to happen - He was sure she barely left his Palace and nobody held any grudge against her. It’s not like she was trying to get up the ranks, or get the Emperor’s favour, she was just a simple girl enjoying the simple life he was offering her.

As he got back home, pissed off for having had to meet up with a neighbouring Princess for the 10th time this week, or, rather said, her father alone, for some reason - Princess that the Empress wanted him to marry, he got in the house, expecting to be greeted by his brilliant lover and her little lamb, or her adopted cats and dogs...But he wasn’t. Instead, he was greeted by a trail of blood that led out in the garden, and to his horror, the girl he held so dear to his heart was sprawled on the ground, he arm extended towards the pond water...

He ran to her, held her in his arms, checking for a pulse, that was faint, but at least there, so yelling for his Eunuch to call for the Imperial Physician, he was able to pronounce that she was poisoned, based on the tea served in the Palace’s tea house, and now, the question came - Who poisoned her?

Of course, the main suspect was her Handmaid, poor Shi Lian, but something in his gut told him that this girl was innocent. Perhaps he wanted to trust her innocence, for it resembled that of Y/N, or maybe he just wanted to trust Y/N’s own trust in her.

Every day and every night, he would be restless, unable to sleep, so he would hold her hand, caressing it, kissing it, kissing her forehead, wiping away the sweat from her face, making sure she’s comfortable, despite the state of agony her unconscious self is in.

“Ricin...” Yin Zhi heard a soft, barely audible voice, struggling to mumble coherently. “Ricin?” he asked again, louder and clear, hoping he didn’t mishear or hallucinate. “Nails...Tea...” she continued, as tears kept streaming down her face, as she was finally able to open her eyes, her breath ragged, as she was fighting with her own body to keep herself awake and coherent. “Ricin...Nails...Tea...So the culprit put Ricin poison in your tea...With their nails? Does that mean it was Ricin powder hidden in their nails, so when they went to help prepare the tea, they mixed it in your cup, correct?” he asked, hoping for an affirmative answer, which is confirmed with a slow nod. “Who was it, darling? Do you remember? A name, a gender, some distinguishing appearance traits?” he pressed again, feeling adrenaline surge through his veins. “Princess...Jealous...Yin Zhi...” she started coughing blood again, clinging on his arm to keep herself grounded, as he helped her drink a glass of water. “A jealous Princess...I know just who you are talking to. Don’t worry, darling, I will solve this and make sure she pays for her sins. Nobody dares harm my beloved dove and gets away with this.” it was obvious he was angry, and rightfully so, and yet, she held onto his arm, not wanting him to leave. “Don’t go...Please...” she whispered, looking up at him with tired, fawn eyes, that melted his rage away. “I will be here until you fall asleep, my dear. I promise.” he kissed her softly, and stroked her hair until she fell asleep with a smile on her face.

He had to deal with this bitch Princess, but he couldn’t just rat her out without being petty and have his revenge. He had to get his physician to prove she had ricin powder in her nails. He could only guess it must have been in her pockets, because a sachet would have been too obvious, so with more help from his darling Y/N, he found out she was wearing a yellow and pink dress with only one pocket on the right, so with the help of his spies, he stole that dress, and his physician found the powder right there.

He won, once again.

And now, it was time for the grand finale, before this stupid Princess would leave. He was going to marry Y/N even if it was the last thing he’d ever do in his life, no matter how angry and disapproving his father would be, or how much the Empress would be against it, since the Princess is from her own family.

So, as soon as Y/N was back in full health again, and discussed things with her, so she wouldn’t feel uncomfortable or surprised at what was going to happen, and so, he took her with him in front of the Emperor and the Empress, along with the Princess and her father, to present his case.

“The 3rd Prince summoned us here for a reason, correct? It is not often that you choose to be surrounded by so many people.” the Empress pointed out with a pleased expression, thinking she knew what was going on. “Your Highness, the Empress chose Princess Ruong Xian to be my bride, for she is of noble birth...Her own bloodline. I do not doubt that she is a capable woman with many attributes...One of this attributes being poisoning and deceiving a harmless, innocent woman, because of her burning jealousy. I do not think someone like her should be the wife of the Emperor’s son.” his voice was as cold and harsh as usual, despite his politeness, which created chaos among everyone. “Poison?! Me?! How DARE you accuse me of something so vile? I’m a woman, I do not study plants and poisons, that’s the work of a physician! And what do I have to be jealous of? This ugly, no name who’s nothing more than a hand maid? She has no way of competing with me!” the Princess’ passive voice twisted into a hideous glare, pointing accusatory at the sheep girl who was awkwardly standing right behind him, fidgeting with her fingers and looking down as to not attract too much attention to herself...More than she already did, that is. “My son, that is a grave accusation you are telling us. Knowing you, however, I do believe you have some kind of proof to prove it. I am listening.” the Emperor spoke calmly, knowing very well to trust his intelligent son who never crosses boundaries, breaks rules or does things for the sake of it. “Physician Li, bring forth the dress. Father, this woman I brought home, Y/N, was poisoned recently, and it was proved that the poison was in the tea. Ricin powder. Barely detectable, unless you are incredibly knowledgeable and used to working with plants and medicine, like Y/N, who was brought up in a Physician home, and continued the tradition. The only way Ricin powder could have been put in her tea was through powder brought on her nails, most likely brought in a pocket, for a pouch would be too obvious.” Yin Zhi explained the theory, which made both the Princess and her father yell at him for the disrespect brought. “You have no proof, 3rd Prince! How dare you accuse my daughter of something so evil? You are tarnishing not only our name, but the Empress’ as well!” her father scowled at him, and he could only give him a cocky smirk. “Your Highness, this dress is the one the Princess wore on the day of the poisoning. If we get it inside out, we can still see some powder inside, that on further examining, proved to be ricin powder, which completely proves the theory the Prince explained.” the physician spoke out, showing everyone the proof, and suddenly, the Palace of Mental Cultivation became quiet as a graveyard. “To think that the Empress’ own blood would dare do such criminal acts in my own palace! This woman, Y/N, has been nothing but helpful for the kingdom and our Imperial Physicians, and you dared attempt to kill her? That simply cannot go unpunished! Guards! Take the Princess and her Father to the Hard Labour Camp and give them 50 canes!” the Emperor rose from his throne, his voice loud and angry, not even blinking from the bloodcurling pitched shrieks of the Princess that were imploring the Prince to save her, nor of her father’s. “Yin Zhi! My darling, please, save me! Please, my beloved! You deserve someone pretty! Someone of high rank! Not some filthy shepard girl! Yin Zhi! My Prince! Please, have mercy! Pleaseeee!” she kept shrieking as she was dragged away, only for the Prince to not even spare her another chance. “As sharp and intuitive as always, my son. I’m proud of you and your choices. I am sure you would make for a great Emperor someday...And yet, I know that is not your wish, nor ambition, unfortunately.” the old man’s voice became more fatherly and nostalgic as he looked at his son. “Father, I thank you for your praises, but I am undeserving. I will be forever grateful for you accepting my decisions, and I hope today you will stand by it once again, for I want to marry Y/N. I know she’s of no royal blood, but since I won’t be an Emperor, I believe she would be the best person for this Kingdom. She is kind, incredibly smart, studies all the time, is well-versed in multiple subjects, including science, healing, poetry and music, she is altruistic and helpful to all people, and, as you said, she has been an incredible asset for the Physicians, and was the one to realise it was ricin powder in her tea, even in her delusional fever-induced state. I only ask for your blessings, father, so please, take everything into consideration when you give your answer.” the Prince spoke up in a bold and firm voice, which made the girl standing next to him blush furiously, as she wasn’t used to so many compliments, as Yin Zhi was one to show his affections indirectly, most of the time, not through words, but with actions. “I see...I can see you are smitten with this girl, and rightfully so. I believe she truly is the perfect choice for you, but with her status, she cannot marry a prince.” the Emperor began, making his son frown, only for the man to continue speaking right away. “That is why, for the marriage to take place, I shall give Y/N the title of Lady Shuyu, the title given to Wise and Virtuous women of the Palace, and I will officially give her the post of the Chief Imperial Physician, specifically your personal Physician, my son. Is that to your liking?” the Emperor’s eyes sparkled with amusement as he saw both his son and the girl next to him looking at him with shock in their eyes. “Thank you so much for allowing our love to continue, Your Highness. You are most merciful and benevolent.” the girl immediately knelt, obviously bewildered at what just happened. “Thank you, Father. You have our eternal gratitude.” he couldn’t speak much from the shock, as he also knelt as a thank you. “You have my blessings, my children. You deserve to be happy.” he smiled kindly, seeing as the left the Palace, holding hands.

Out of the Palace, the girl jumped in his arms, as he held her tightly, kissing the top of her head, finally feeling content and at peace with what was going on. They could finally live together, without anyone daring to utter a word against her, or try to sabotage her. Their life together in partial solitude could finally be a dream come true, as they could have a little house somewhere in the woods, back there where she used to live, if they ever want to escape this royal chaos they had to live in, and even better, they could live with all the pets they wanted, go out together in the dark, watch the fireflies, go for a swim in the lake, read together, practice archery together, all while facing no scrutiny or complaint.

They could finally live the dream life their heart yearned for all this time.

[retroateez]

Prophecy - Chapter Eleven

Prophecy Masterlist wc;3197

Three days had passed in Wooyoung's company.

And you had to admit, your affections for the Elven mage were growing. Quickly.

The past evenings had consisted mainly of Wooyoung and Yeosang plotting in the tower, while you sat idley by and attempted to help to no avail. It was really beginning to frustrate you now; how the mage would constantly remind you how it was your fault, yet he wouldn't let you help them.

They had both insisted it was 'too dangerous for a young girl to get involved in', as if anything about your lifestyle was remotely safe.

You had argued with Yeosang on the second evening, demanding that they let you get involved, that you might be able to provide something useful. But they had once again dismissed you, telling you that even if they did tell you, you wouldn't understand it anyway.

So you spent your evenings outside, plucking flowers and knotting them together until the sun disappears and the petals become as dark as Wooyoung's hair.

You sigh and throw yourself back down onto the grass, exhaling heavily in irritation.

All you wanted to do was help, to suggest something that could be important. And the fact they won't let you just because you're a girl was ridiculous. If they blamed it on the fact they were more educated on the stars or whatever, you'd probably understand more. But because you're not a male?

Ludicrous.

You lay there, staring up at the sky and stewing in your emotions until finally, your aggravation finally gets the best of you, and you fly upright, charging up the stairs of the tower and bursting into Wooyoung's room, where you find the mage and the astrologer deep in discussion.

"I want to help." you declare, hands on your hips as you watch Yeosang roll his eyes at you.

"Iris, we told yo-"

"I don't care, Yeosang." you snap, Wooyoung's eyes widening a little in shock. "I'm tired of you pushing me aside! I want to help you. Isn't this my fault in the first place?"

"Well yes bu-"

"Then let me help, for goodness sake!"

Yeosang stands frozen, taken aback by your sudden outburst. Were you really that mad at him?

"Okay, fine. You can help." Wooyoung shrugs.

"Wooy-"

"What? She wants to help, let her help."

Wooyoung motions you over to the table littered with parchments, while Yeosang recovers from being interrupted once again. If the mage had known how adamant you were on assisting them, he would've let you.

He had promised himself, the day he found you half-dead on the beach and decided to take you under his wing, that he would do his best to protect you, even if it killed him. He simply couldn't live with himself if he had yet more blood on his hands. But he knew that you were a force to be reckoned with, determined as you were stubborn. Maybe keeping you in the dark would have worse concequences than letting you help.

Yeosang joins the two of you at the table, opting to stay silent as Wooyoung gathers together the diagrams and papers they had been deciphering for hours.

"Yeosang and I have been studying all relevant constellations from the important dates noted in the prophecy," Wooyoung begins, his serious expression constrasted by the way his amethyst eyes light up with passion whenever he talks about the stars. "And the first mentioned date, many, many moons ago, is the first time the Monster in the prophecy attempts to destroy the kingdom."

"Monster?" you echo. "I thought it was just a man?"

"The writings describe him in many ways; monster, beast, man." Yeosang explains. "There's hardly a difference between them."

"Constellation wise," the elf continues. "the single most prevalent form is that of Ara. You are familiar, yes?"

Wooyoung takes your wide-eyed silence in the negative.

"Ara is a constellation named after the altar where the gods formed an alliance before entering war with the Titans."

"Okay.." you trail off, not quite sure how that relates to any of your situation. "And what does that mean for us?"

Wooyoung bites his lip, glancing towards Yeosang before settling his gaze back on you.

"It could possibly indicate a war between Ateez and another kingdom. For what reason, I'm yet to discover."

"A war!?" you shriek, and both Yeosang and Wooyoung place a hand on each of your shoulders to calm you down.

"It's not certain!" Wooyoung tries to reassure you, but he falls on deaf ears.

"I can't fight in a war!" you cry. "I don't know any combat, I don't know any magic! I'm going to die!"

Yeosang grabs you tightly at arms length, leaning down a little to match your line of sight.

"You won't die in a war, Iris!" Yeosang explodes, ignoring the concern on the elven man's face. "We won't let you, I won't let you. Understand?"

You nod, Yeosang's direct (and slightly harshly toned) claim settling your nerves for the time being. Perhaps it's time to pester him again about teaching you some magic.

Yeosang redirects your attention back to the astrologer, who is holding a new set of pictures and messy scrawlings.

"The second constellation I noted was that of Cetus, which was present on a different occasion where the monsterous being turned up to wreak havoc on Ateez. Cetus was also present recently, specifically on the date where you washed up on Yeosang's beach after a nasty storm."

"And what does Cetus have to do with the storm?" you ask.

"In mythology, Cetus was some kind of sea monster," Wooyoung explains, and you have to hide your awe at how much knowledge one person could have. "Typically described as a serpent, whale, shark, what-have-you, Cetus was sent by Poseidon to punish Queen Cassiopeia and her daughter Andromeda for boasting that they were far more beautiful than the Nereids, or sea nymphs."

"So, we think there's a high chance that a sea monster of our own was released during the storm we had not so long ago." Yeosang informs you, you heart sinking as the danger only rises.

"A war and a sea monster?" your voice increases in pitch, your panic once again growing rapidly.

"The monster is probably dead," Wooyoung reasons. "The storm threw you about as it was, it's a miracle you survived, to be honest."

Not wanting to dwell on the fact the astrologer just told you that you shouldn't be alive, you ask him if there's any other constellations of any significance.

"On the same day as the storm, not far from Cetus, I just managed to make out the faintest Libra, just to the north of it. As a result, I took a look at when Libra is next supposed to shine the brightest, and it's predicted to be relatively soon. Within the next month or so."

"That's great," you reply sarcastically. "But what does Libra mean? We aren't all star experts, you know."

Wooyoung blushes deeply, crimson burning his ears as he smiles sheepishly at you.

"Libra represents the scales held by Dike (dai-ki), the goddess of justice and moral order. It could indicate some injustice that will occur between then and now, or something similar. Of course, none of this is absolutely guranteed," Wooyoung reminds you. "I simply read the stars, take their meaning and theorise about what they may mean to us."

"Well, your theories seem pretty realistic to me." you mutter mockingly. "I'm not buying any of this nonsense."

"I haven't been wrong about a single hypothesis yet." Wooyoung's tone turns cold, and his gaze on you narrows. He understands that this might be overwhelming, but it doesn't give you the right to insult his life's work. He devotes every waking moment to this, and he will not let some girl diminish everything he's built up. And sure, he's beginning to warm up to you, finding the way you gently pluck the flowers in his garden and fashion jewellery out of them rather endearing. He'd never admit that to you, or to himself, but slandering the only constant in his life? He won't allow it.

"Besides," he adds on. "You insisted on getting involved, so show some respect, or get out of my house." Wooyoung snarls, violet eyes radiating venomously as he glowers angrily at you.

You shift your stare down to the ground, guilt and embarrasment washing over you like a harsh ocean wave.

"I'm sorry." you squeak, not daring to look up into his piercing, purple eyes.

"I also decided to check the constellations from the night you both arrived." Wooyoung says tightly, dismissing your brief argument and continuing on as smoothly as he good. "The only one that stood out to me was Ursa Major, although I am still unsure of what it means, if anything at all."

"What's Ursa Major?" you question.

"The Big Bear," the astrologer answers immediately. "I doubt either of you are secretly bears, so I'm assuming it has zero relevance."

"I heard a bear at the inn we stayed at the night before we arrived here." You blurt out hurridly, not catching the way Yeosang's eyes roll back into this skull. "Then I dreamt that the bear was attacked... I was worried he died."

"And I told you it was exactly that," Yeosang interrupts you with a huff. "A dream."

Wooyoung glances between the two of you, pouting and scratching the pointed tip of his ear in thought.

"Have you ever considered visiting an oneiromancer?" Wooyoung asks seriously, breaking the silence and causing Yeosang to scoff.

"Oneiromancy is a myth," the mage scowls. "Just a bunch of made-up bullshit in an attempt to earn some coin."

"Is anybody going to explain to me what ironmancy is?" you speak up, crossing your arms in annoyance; why do they always have to talk about subjects you don't understand?

"Oneiromancy (on-eye-ro-man-see)," Wooyoung corrects your pronounciation, stifling a small smile. "Is a form of divination using dreams to predict the future. The divination I do uses the stars, Oneiromancers interpret your dreams."

"So, my dream might actually come true?" you gasp, your eyes flying wide open.

"No." Yeosang growls.

"What's your beef with dream interpreters?" The elf teases the mage, who is leering at him with irritance.

"Nothing." Yeosang replies sternly. "I just think it's a bunch of bullshit."

"One could say the same about your strange plant addiction."

"It's not an addiction! I require an extremely extensive knowledge in order to carry on my work!"

"That sounds like something somebody with an addiction to plants would say."

"Listen here, elf-"

"Uh, guys? I hate to break up your lover's quarrel but... who are they?" you put their arguing to an abrupt halt, collecting their attention to where you're standing before the giant window in Wooyoung's tower.

There's a faint glow, just over the hills behind the astrologer's home. It burns a radiant orange, and all three of you know that it's definitely not the sunset.

"Shit." Wooyoung curses aloud. "They found me."

"Who are they?"

"Bad people, Iris." Yeosang grabs you and yanks you away from the window, motioning to the paper strewn throughout the room. "Pick up what you can, we'll need almost all of it."

The next few minutes are spent frantically stuffing loose parchments into pockets, bags, anything the three of you can find that you can carry. You grab handfuls of diagrams and shove them into the pockets of your trousers, even rolling a few up and tucking them into the soles of your boots.

By the time you've gathered as much of the work you can, you quickly glance out the window to scope out where the bad people are. Every single one of your organs drops to the floor, as you notice the gang of torch-wielders are marching up Wooyoung's front garden, trampling and burning the flowers and ferns you played in just hours before.

"We need to leave. Now."

You quickly scan the room, eyes darting left and right to try and spot something you might've missed. You see it abandoned on Wooyoung's bed, and you dart out rapidly to retrieve it. Clutching it against your chest, you hear the thunderous stamping of the mob charging up the stairs, mirroring the pounding of your heart against your ribcage.

Yeosang bundles you and Wooyoung in his arms, gripping you both tightly as he breathes in deeply. Your nose is pressed against the elf's chest, and in any other situation you would be blushing furiously. But right now, you're terrified for your life. For Yeosang's life, for Wooyoung's life. And in any other situation you would've slapped the elf for the way his arm winds around your waist to shuffle you into their man-made cage. But ironically, you feel safer than you've ever felt in your entire life.

"Close your eyes," Yeosang mumbles. "It's gonna be a harsh landing."

You and Wooyoung screw your eyes shut tightly, and you bunch his shirt up in your hands so there's zero chance of you getting separated.

There's no human words you can summon to describe how it feels to teleport. Both feeling as light a feather, but also feeling like iron weights have been fused to your ankles. You're both present and absent at the same time. Simultaneously existing, yet one inch, one misstep away from disappearing forever. It both passes in a second, and drags on for eternity. Your mere consciousness physically cannot comprehend such an experience.

What you can describe however, is the instant pain that shoots through your body upon impact. Yeosang's teleportation hurling you onto the ground, your arm trapped behind you, bent at an awkward angle, while both you and your poor arm are crushed by Wooyoung's entire frame landing on top of you.

,You could describe it very well, given the chance, but you think a simple 'owch.' will suffice.

"Wooyoung," you grunt and attempt to push him off you using your free hand. "Get off me."

He apologises quickly, rolling onto the grass and standing up. He offers a hand out to you which you accept, brushing the dirt off your clothes. Looking around you, you realise you're in a very familiar garden.

"Hey, Yeosang! We're hom-"

The smell of burning smoke and the sound of crackling flames hits you all in one go, and you're scared to turn around.

"Oh my god..." You hear Wooyoung whisper behind you, and the dread weighs down on you like a tonne of bricks.

Slowly, you turn around and the sight before you twists your stomach into knots.

Yeosang's home- your home- is entirely consumed by raging fire. The blaze has crept up the trunk of the tree, destroying the heart of the house directly. The flames lick at the walls and have already destroyed the majority of the roof. You can see into Yeosang's study, the aqua flourescent room now glowing a fiery orange, plunging the once ocean-like room into the deepest depths of hell.

Yeosang himself is stood in front of you, just off to the side, and looking at his eyes you can see the inferno reflecting in his tears. You've never seen anyone so broken.

"Yeosang, I'm so sorry-" Wooyoung begins to apologise, but the mage cuts him off before he can finish.

"It wasn't them," he cries, voice hoarse and cracking with despair and rage. "It- It wasn't the same people after you."

"Then who was it?" you wonder quietly.

But neither Wooyoung or Yeosang get to answer your question, as the culprits make themselves known. Barreling through the woods surrounding the house, swords drawn, grinning evilly at you. They form a circle around you, forcing the three of your backs to collide as you're stood defenseless.

"Well, well, well." One of them sneers. "Look what the cat dragged in." He slowly walks around you, smirking smugly at the way he's trapped you all. He's got dark, black hair, almost as long as Wooyoung's but styled much more neatly. Parted in the middle and flowing down into soft waves. You'd compare him visually to an angel, but underneath his innocent exterior lies something much, much more sinister.

"What are you doing here, J-"

"Don't even think about speaking my name, mage." The man seethes. "Besides, it's Commander to you."

"Alright, Commander," Yeosang finds the energy within him to mock the stranger, and you can't help but giggle. "Why are you here?"

"You see, it has been brought to my attention that there was magic present in these neck of the woods," The stranger's grin widens wickedly, eyeing the way Yeosang's jaw tightens with fury. "And I'm sure you agree, that simply will not do."

"So your solution was to burn a man's house down?!" Wooyoung bursts angrily, flinching a little when the man's gaze burns into his own.

"Oh? What's this?" He approaches Wooyoung in a fascinated trance, tilting his head slightly as he examines the elven features. He places the tip of his sword against Wooyoung's jaw, exerting just enough pressure to force his head to the side and exposing pointed ears that were raging red in humiliation. "An elf?" His voice raises an octace from excitement, something that chills you to the bone.

"I can do so much worse than burn a man's house down." The stranger's previous, eerily calm demeanour is gone, as he dangerously leans in to Wooyoung's face, teeth gritted and black eyes pulsing with hatred. "Believe me."

You're trembling with fear, the panic running through you that this could be the end of the road for you. This unknown villian turning up out of the blue with his gang of stupid merry men might kill you right this very second and snap shut the book containing the story that is your life. This could be your destined demise.

Yeosang though, has other plans.

In your frightened inner rambling, you don't notice his hand tighten around yours from behind your back. And from your position you certainly don't notice the way brilliant white bolts flash around his pupils, or the yellow sparks that shoot through his arms and neck like lightning during a storm.

"I've had enough of indulging your questions." The stranger sniffs, backing away from Wooyoung with a final, repulsed leer.

"Boys," he meanders back over to where he climbed out of the thicket, holstering his sword at the hip and looking dead into your eyes with a bored expression. "Kill them."

The band of men (you guess there's around eleven of them, but with the anxiety settling in, you could be seeing double) close in on the three of you, like a pack of ravenous wolves stealthily hunting down a tiny, vulnerable rabbit.

You feel the wind rush past your face, the down-swing of a sharp sword being aimed at your face, but it doesn't make contact with you.

Instead, you're momentarily weightless, floating through the stars, the planets and the worlds between you and the furthest reaches of the galaxy.

In the same breath, you make contact with a hard, wooden floor, groaning in pain as the three of you land in a painful, crumpled heap. Nursing your head, you survey the room, jumping out of your skin when a shriek pierces your ears.

"How many times do I have to tell you people to knock?!"

Chapter Twelve

hello,, i just wanted to note that even though i did research for this, i’m nowhere near an expert so, if you happen to work at nasa or something and everything i’ve said is incorrect, no it isn’t <3

[smoaking-greenarrow]

Number 5 or 8? MaAAAAAAAAAybe for the Argus agents?!

Arrow Out of Context Part 4: #5 - “That has always been the way with us, Felicity. You are the one who brings the light.”

Not an ARGUS agents fic unfortunately, but I hope y'all enjoy!

Read on AO3.

She didn’t just screw up.

She hacked into a cyber terrorist’s database. And gotten caught.

Part of her had just wanted to know if she could find Helix’s existence. A bigger part of her needed to know if the group was as powerful as some of her inner cyber circles said they were.

Felicity had a reason to look into them. Her mistake was that she didn’t tell John and Oliver she was doing it. Her other mistake was underestimating Helix’s operation.

When she stumbled onto their vast knowledge of classified information, she wanted to shut them down quickly. Their collection of government secrets spanning across the world was dangerous. And there was no way it could be used for anything good. It was a weapon. As soon as Felicity realized how serious of a threat Helix was, she knew that it was up to her to prevent them from causing global warfare.

And she was afraid that if she got out of their database, she wouldn’t be able to find a way back in to stop them.

Felicity didn't see any other choice but to strike while she had the chance.

Of course, Helix was prepared. They probably expected someone of her talent to come sniffing around their work, but she guessed that they were equipped for the likes of the CIA or ARGUS...not her. Felicity tried to ambush them but they were already lying in wait. And in retaliation, Helix virtually flooded her computers, causing everything in her beloved Arrow Cave to crash. They left her with nothing but a black screen and a warning. A flashing skull and crossbones with a threat underneath:

Stop now, Felicity Smoak. Or you will die.

The words on the monitor made her freeze, the glow from the screen was the only light in the room. And since she had the worst luck on the planet, that was exactly what Oliver and Dig saw when they came running down the stairs to see what happened.

The looks on Oliver and John’s faces were severe as soon as they read the not-so-subtle-at-all threat on her screen. “What the hell is that?” Oliver demanded.

Felicity had no choice but to explain what happened, how quickly it all escalated. And the whole time, the ominous warning lit their features.

Stop now, Felicity Smoak. Or you will die.

Oliver immediately demanded that they bring her somewhere safe.

Felicity refused.

Diggle tried asking nicely.

Felicity still said no.

And then Oliver just ignored her entirely, instructing John to set it up. While their friend agreed, hesitantly, and went upstairs to make a call. Then Oliver turned to Felicity, his eyes on fire. "You're going to go home and pack a bag. And then you and I are leaving. One hour, Felicity."

His growly voice didn’t scare her anymore. Neither did his death glares. He raised an eyebrow, daring her to argue. But Felicity gave him a short nod of agreement. She could hear fear in his voice, buried beneath his anger. And that was the only reason she said yes. Well, and because...he had said the two of them.

Felicity was surprised that Oliver insisted on staying the night at the safehouse (one night, until they could figure out what was going on). And she was even more surprised when he met her and John at her townhouse, carrying an overnight bag in one hand.

He was actually going to come.

As soon as they got to the safehouse, a cabin on the outskirts of town, Felicity found the nearest bathroom and locked herself inside, needing some time to herself.

To give herself that time, without having Oliver knock on the door to check on her, she turned the shower on, got undressed, and stepped in. It wasn’t like Oliver wanted to talk anyway. He had barely said a word to her the whole ride to the cabin. And Felicity was starting to realize that he was angry at her. Not that she could blame him...she was pretty angry at herself for going after Helix, guns blazing, without really knowing what or who she was dealing with.

In hindsight, it wasn't the right move. But at the time, it was the only move.

Despite the cold shoulder Oliver was giving her, he didn't stay away for very long. Once she was finished with her shower, Felicity opened the door to let some air in. And it was a matter of minutes before he turned up in the doorway, shuffling his feet.

“How are you feeling?” Oliver asked.

Felicity shook her head, squeezing the towel around her hair to wring the water out. She glanced away from the bathroom mirror to look at him where he leaned against the door. “Terrible. This is all my fault, and I’m just...embarrassed I guess.”

Oliver hesitated, biting his lip as he watched her. “You have nothing to be embarrassed about.”

“I’m still sorry.” Felicity could feel her eyes pricking with tears. She thought she’d gotten all of those out safely under the hot water...but now more tears were threatening to fall. Right in front of Oliver. Of all the people she never wanted to see her cry...

“I’m sorry,” Felicity mumbled again. “I feel like I’m always getting you into trouble that you didn’t ask for. Count Vertigo, and the Clock King, and all that stuff with Barry Allen… And now after everything with Slade,” she sighed. “I know you’re trying to be better. A hero in the light...and I’m so sorry if I’m not making that easy for you. This is a mess. My stupid mess. And you shouldn’t have to be here helping me clean it up.”

“Hey,” Oliver watched her, his face clear of the anger she’d seen back at the bunker. “Are you kidding?”

She gaped at him, and he shook his head.

“It’s not like that at all,” Oliver whispered. “You always make things easier for me. I...I need you, so you don’t ever have to apologize if you need me. That has always been the way with us, Felicity. You are the one who brings the light.”

She closed her eyes, shaking her head, shaking the comfort that he was offering out of her mind. “You don’t have to be nice to me,” Felicity huffed.

When she opened her eyes again, Oliver was a step closer. And suddenly, the moment felt incredibly intimate.

He had told her that he loved her.

Granted, it was only meant to trick Slade. But that didn’t stop Felicity from replaying that moment over and over in her head since it happened. Those soft words. The way he was looking at her when he said them, like he really was professing his love for her. It made her forget where they were and what the plan was. It made her forget her own name.

And she’d been stewing over that night for weeks now, while they carefully danced around each other and avoided talking about it.

As Oliver stepped into the bathroom with her, the steam from her shower still circling the air, he had that same look in his eyes. Like he wanted her to understand things that he wasn’t ready to say.

“Of course I’m going to be nice to you, Felicity.” Oliver stopped, keeping her at arm’s length. “You’re my friend. You’ve been nothing but nice to me. Most of the time...except for when you broke my coffee maker.” He gave her a small smile, lifting his shoulder as he said, “if you’re expecting me to be a jerk to you, you’re going to be disappointed.”

“I screwed up,” Felicity glanced away. Not even the rare occasion of Oliver making jokes could make her feel better at that moment. Taking a deep breath, Felicity tipped her head back to look at Oliver, not realizing how much she needed him until he was there. “I screwed up bad.”

Silently, Oliver closed the distance between them, pulling her into a hug as he tucked her head beneath his chin. “We can fix it.”

Felicity squeezed her eyes shut, grateful that he didn’t try to tell her she didn’t mess up tonight. Didn’t try to bullshit her. “I will,” she croaked back.

His hug was warm, if not a little stiff. Comforting, and familiar even though it wasn’t often that he touched her like this. And even less often that he was the one to initiate it. But god, it felt good to have his arms around her. “Let me help you this time, Felicity.” Oliver mumbled, holding her tighter.

She leaned back, looking up to see his eyes. He was an impossible man to read. But if there were any answers to find about how he was feeling, her best chance was to look for it in his eyes.

“Okay,” she whispered, giving him a nod.

His fingers combed gently through her hair, pushing a wet strand away from her forehead. The touch seemed so natural, like he didn’t even realize he was doing it. Felicity felt a zing of electricity run straight from his fingertip to her core. “I should finish up,” she squeaked, clearing her throat as she quickly retreated.

“Right,” Oliver answered, his hands pausing in the air where he’d been touching her face. He dropped them. “I’ll make some tea...and we can talk about what to do next.”

She nodded once.

Oliver stopped in the doorway again, turning back to her with his lips pursed. “Unless you're tired. Then maybe you should get some rest, and um...we can figure all of this out in the morning."

She was, actually. Incredibly tired. Exhausted. But this was her mess. And she’d damn well be getting them out of it as soon as possible.

After pulling a sweatshirt over her head and braiding her wet hair, Felicity went downstairs, taking in more of the quaint cabin. It seemed like a good place to hide, but it also felt homey somehow.

Following the sound of a teapot whistling, she made her way into the kitchen. Oliver was standing by the sink, removing the kettle from the stove-top and pouring the hot water into two waiting mugs. Felicity observed him, a little bit in awe to see him doing such a mundane, normal task.

She still wasn’t quite used to seeing Oliver outside of the foundry. Or Queen Consolidated. Even going to Big Belly Burger with him and watching him eat a cheeseburger felt strange to her sometimes. But here he was; the vigilante that was currently making her a cup of tea in the middle of a kitchen that, if she really wanted to daydream, could look like home if she didn’t know any better.

Without a word, Oliver glanced over his shoulder and looked right at her, raising the tea in offering. Because of course he knew she’d been standing there watching him.

Felicity blushed, walking across the room on bare feet to take the mug. Her fingers slid across his, but she told herself it was the heat from her drink that made her shiver, making every inch of her feel cold except for where his hand touched hers.

“Thank you,” Felicity said quietly.

Oliver nodded once in response. Then he glanced down, his gaze settling on her feet. It was barely a moment of attention, but she saw the way his eyes flickered down her body, roaming over her bare legs in her pajama shorts.

Something felt different; either the completely new place, or what happened with Helix, or whatever was going on with him. His eyes traveled back up to meet hers, and Felicity was certain that the sparks she felt flying between them were not one-sided.

He didn’t say anything, so she stayed silent, too. Not wanting to make things worse by saying something foolish, Felicity cleared her throat and stepped around him, effectively squashing those sparks. Instead, she went straight for her laptop he’d left on the counter.

It was crazy how aware of his every move she was. Felicity didn’t have to turn around to know that Oliver was trailing behind her. As she sat down and got to work, she didn’t have to look up to know that he was hovering. It wasn’t all that different than their time in the Arrow Cave. In seconds, Oliver was behind her shoulder, leaning in to get a better view of her screen. “What are you doing?” He asked.

Her fingers stalled for a moment, feeling his breath in her hair. She fought back a shiver. “Finding Helix.”

“Felicity—”

“Don’t worry,” she cut him off. “I’m being careful. They won’t see me coming this time. I’m prepared.”

To his credit, Oliver dropped it. But he didn’t move. Most of the time, whenever he helicopter mom-ed her while she worked, Felicity would get annoyed. Soon after that, she’d be ordering him to stop cramping her style. But she didn’t do that.

After the night they’d had, Felicity didn’t mind him being so close. In fact, she wouldn’t mind if he got a little closer.

“I’m in,” Felicity breathed just as her screen filled with Helix’s security codes, granting her access, the door wide open. She smiled to herself, pleased with her little Trojan of a hack that allowed her to sneak past Helix’s defenses as if she was one of them. All she had to do was download a virus to wipe their system, and it'd be game over for Helix. “Hey, maybe we’ll be out of here sooner than we—”

The laptop went black. Then it crackled with white noise. And a moment later, the view on the screen made her gasp.

“What the hell is this?” She choked.

It was her townhouse. Lights off. Curtains drawn shut. Just as she’d left it a couple of hours ago. The video appeared to be taken from across the street. And there was a timestamp at the corner of the screen, telling them that they were watching it in real time.

Her eyes flew to Oliver, needing something from him as her heart sank to her stomach. He continued to stare at the screen, his mouth a hard line and his eyes on fire with a rage he reserved for the criminals the Arrow faced.

On the screen, whoever was filming raised their hand, covered by a black glove, and waved.

Felicity whimpered, feeling sick to her stomach at the thought that she could have been home. If she’d dug her heels in hard enough, Oliver and John would have backed down. They wouldn’t have forced her to leave. And right now, she could have been alone in her townhouse, oblivious to the Helix creep sitting outside.

With a violent growl, Oliver reached over her shoulder and slammed her laptop shut.

She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. It’d only been two hours ago that they threatened her life. Now Helix knew where she lived. For maybe the first time in her life, Felicity was speechless.

The moment that she realized her hands were shaking in her lap, Oliver had them. She glanced up, finding him in front of her now. He was on his knees, his fingers gripping hers. His lips were moving, but she couldn’t hear a word he was saying.

Stop now, Felicity Smoak. Or you will die.

Helix’s threat rang in her mind. That hand from the video, waving at her, knowing she was watching. Taunting her.

Suddenly, she felt a pair of hands on her face, and Felicity’s instincts had her flinching. The hands tightened, lifting her face until she was looking up at a pair of very blue, very familiar eyes. Eyes that gave her way more comfort than they had a right to. “Breathe, Felicity,” he was saying.

She sucked in a deep breath, the air burning her lungs and making her realize how long she’d been holding it.

Oliver’s hands remained firm, cradling her head, grounding her. He took a breath in, urging her to take her own. And then he let it out slowly, and Felicity silently did the same. “That’s my house, Oliver...who are these people?”

He shook his head, just as lost for answers as she was. “It’s okay, you’re safe. There’s nothing for them to find at your place. They don’t know where you are.” His eyes flickered over her face, and he sighed. “You’re safe. I’m here…”

For a moment, it comforted her.

“But they know where I live. How am I supposed to go back tomorrow? What else do they know about me? What if it leads them to you and they find out who you are and how I’ve been helping you and—”

“Felicity,” he shook his head and she pinched her lips shut. “Don’t worry about that right now. They’re just trying to scare you.”

“Yeah,” she huffed. “Well, it’s working. Consider me thoroughly freaked out. What if I’d been home, Oliver? I almost fought you on this safehouse idea and then I’d be...who knows, I mean, who knows what Helix is capable of? I didn’t think they were killers, but I didn’t peg them as stalkers who antagonize people either and here we are. I don’t know enough about them and now, god only knows what they have on me. Or you. Or anyone in my life."

Stop now, Felicity Smoak. Or you will die.

"They were outside my house. That’s thirty different kinds of terrifying because they totally could have killed me tonight and I would have been that dumb girl who ignored a literal death threat and went home alone like a dumb—”

This time, he cut her off by pushing off his knees, leaning in. Just as she let out a squeak of surprise, Oliver was kissing her.

His lips were warm and soft, a hint of honey from his tea...and it was even better than she dreamed it would be.

Despite everything, Felicity’s mind drew completely blank, feeling nothing but the bliss of Oliver’s mouth pressed against hers, his hands holding her face between them as he deepened it.

It was Oliver.

Her body responded, pressing closer. Her hands moved up his chest, grabbing at his shirt, and her mouth opened for him. He tested the waters, his tongue meeting Felicity's in a slow, heated dance.

It was intense. Affectionate. And it left them both breathless.

So close to the cliff of getting carried away, Oliver pulled back, stopping them before they jumped. Before all sense of reason went flying over the edge along with them. Although Felicity knew in her heart that he didn’t want to stop any more than she did.

He looked her in the eyes, his breath heavy. “You bring the light,” Oliver whispered, raising his shoulder. An innocent truth that he left hanging in front of her. “You're the light, Felicity... Don’t you know that? And I will never, ever, let anyone hurt you.”

[fanciful-of-life]

Rubber Ducky You’re The One

Bobby stood at the kitchen counter cutting up the vegetables for the stew to simmer for the dinner he was making that night.The December Fall Season had vastly approached the Los Angeles area and it was a particularly chilly day.

It fit the mood of the firehouse.

Hen, although under mandatory investigation because of the parents of the young girl in the car wanted one, was not her usual sunny self but still able to take shifts. She may put up an armor of unbreakable badassery but on the inside she is just as fragile as any other caring human. It was an accident. Green light or not. Unfortunately not everyone understands the law of clearing the way for emergency vehicles. Either that or they’re just not listening out for them. She had her fire fam to lean on, most of all Athena. Karen was trying but she still had her own depression to work through. He wasn’t worried as much about her though. Although he cared for all his subordinates the same, he knew she would pull through because that was what Hen does because she learned a long time ago it’s what she had to do to keep surviving. He did have soft spots for certain ones though. Hen being Athena’s long time friend being one of the reasons she was one of his.

Chim, bless him, was doing his best to up his regular Chimness for her.

Buck, it was the the kid he was worried about the most though. He has been way too quiet the past month. Unnaturally quiet for Buck. He’s been there for Hen. Supporting her, talking her back behind the wheel of the ambulance, sitting in the passenger seat as he goes on non-emergency test drives with her.

It had finally come to a head when “The stubborn little shit” to quote Hen, said he’d be happy to drive as Buck got behind the wheel ahead of Chimney when the call siren blared. Hen’s reply of “Like hell are you driving my baby” ended with him riding in his usual spot of the front passenger seat with her instead of the truck had done it as she told Buck in Chimney’s words “You’re an annoying little ass.”

It was that moment Bobby realized what Buck actually brought to the team. Eddie had joked in the truck Bobby’s dad was showing, not even realizing he had a proud dopey smile on his face before schooling his features and going back into Captain mode but Eddie smiled at him saying he was proud of Buck, too.

Bobby had many realizations about Buck this past month.

When he turned around after they pronounced the girl dead, with Athena holding onto Hen as her wails made a symphony of grief in the wind, he saw his eyes. Haunted. Like he knew Hen would never be the same. He’d seen those eyes in the mirror before but never on the kid. That was the moment he learned more about Evan Buckley than he had in the two and a half years he’d been working with him. Even after the lawsuit and a morning in the ER before going to breakfast. It was a moment Buck let his guard down and Bobby learned what a good actor Buck truly is.

All three were surrounding the kitchen island as he chopped. Buck even helping peel and cut potatoes. Bobby learned another thing about Buck in that moment as he snuck a peak as he used the peeler at breakneck speed. Buck was letting his guard down and forgetting to act the part Bobby finally figured out he created.

The look on Maddie’s face at Thanksgiving when Buck jokingly called Athena Mama Nash made Bobby pause thinking maybe it wasn’t really the joke Buck was trying to make it out to be.

Evan Buckley knew his way around a kitchen. There was a story there. One Buck had not and maybe would never share like he had the bartender and Navy Seals.

He suddenly felt a sense of déjà vu. When two of the same three were surrounding the kitchen island but that time it was Buck they were concerned about. This time he knew it was Eddie that was on Buck’s mind.

Eddie wasn’t in just yet, his counseling session scheduled for this morning. After their talk Bobby offered him the day off but he refused. He needed to work. In that moment he sounded just like another certain one of his boys. Bobby started sautéing the meat in the crock pot and without hesitation Buck tossed in some flour.

Now Bobby was really worried. He never taught Buck this recipe. He was starting to wonder if the “cooking lessons” Buck wanted a few years ago was just really the need of some one on one time. He was also starting to wonder after that conversation in the ER about Buck feeling like his firefighter uniform was a costume that made him feel like he was making a difference was a cry much like Eddie’s. When was the kid going to finally figure it out? Bobby had told him he didn’t need a costume to be a hero, two people were alive because of him. The idea that Buck single handily helped keep so many people alive during a tsunami. Bobby couldn’t have been prouder. Which lead to the fiasco of a dinner after Buck made Fire Marshall, deciding light duty was better than no duty.

He knew he shouldn’t have lied to Buck. The department had cleared him to return but it was Bobby himself that suggested light duty. The picture of Buck lying under a fire truck giving him nightmares. After seeing him on the crutches in the cast the day of Eddie’s party he felt the guilt punch his gut, Buck had been a liability to his past which lead him to say to hell with it, life is is too short, and going home to Athena to get married right then. He also swore Buck wouldn’t be another liability because of him.

Bobby had been waiting for it for a month now. Knew it was coming. Chim had already mentioned it to him on many occasions. He had seen the looks Buck would throw towards Eddie. Even before Bobby found out about the street fighting and their talk.

“Something is going on with Eddie.”

And there it was, finally.

Buck was taking his frustrations out on the potatoes. Which impressed Bobby how perfectly cubed they were and maybe scared him a bit at the speed the knife was going. Trust. Bobby maybe worried but he had to show trust to rebuild trust lost. Plus, the kid knew how to hold a knife the right way. By the end of the blade where it connects to the handle with his thumb, fore and middle finger grasping it and not wrapping his hand around the handle itself for better control. He never showed him that. Or how to keep his fingers bent on the other hand to use as a guide.

Yeah, the kid did some time in a kitchen. Buck was still a wet behind the ears twenty something when he came to the 118 that let his emotions get the best of him, or so Bobby thought. That was what made Buck, Buck.

Bobby should have known better to think that the kid was just ego tripping and on a mission of self destruction. Known the moment Buck’s fist hit the table that he had made a grave error. The memory of Buck’s face when he helped him with his tie before his date with Abby. Like nobody had taken the time to ever show him they cared.

Maddie had lost touch with her brother, that much he knew. They barely spoken for long periods of time. Chimney let him in on that Buckley family acknowledgement. Maddie had been mum so far on any other family knowledge. Part of it had been Doug. Part of it had been Maddie leaving when Buck was still a young teenager. He could fit the pieces together. He knew enough people with shit dads. Like Eddie had told him. He didn’t feel like he was enough. How did he miss that with Buck when he himself had gone through the same thing?

That’s the thing with trauma though, isn’t it? Everyone’s is different but in the end the results are the same. It’s why Buck “the little shit” got Hen back behind the wheel. No matter how many talks she had with Athena, trauma causes scars. Buck didn’t want Hen anymore scar tissue than she already had.

Bobby wished he had thought about that the day he talked to Buck in the hospital and how much scar tissue had been added from his actions. Buck may have the dumb act down to a “T” but Bobby wonders sometimes if the kid isn’t smarter than he is.

Much like that conversation he had with the three about Buck that warm day, with him staring Eddie in the eyes that time. This time it was Buck looking at him like he had all the answers. When did he miss that? Too caught up feeling betrayed. When did he miss the fact Buck saw him as the dad he should have had?

“Eddie has us and he has people that care about him enough to help him understand they care.”

Buck looked down for a moment, then back up at Bobby. Nodding his head that he got the message. It was Buck’s turn to push this time.

A week later Eddie walked into the station. He’s had two sessions a week with the counselor and goes every other day to talk to the priest Bobby introduced him to the day they talked. Sitting his duffle down he sees a rubber duck, the kind a kid would play with in the bath tub on the top shelf of his locker by his helmet.

Letting out a chuckle and finding himself smiling, he picks it up sitting on the bench as he tosses it from hand to hand.

“Well, that’s something I haven’t seen in weeks.” His smile grows wider as the one person he knew would leave a gift like this voice comes from behind him.

Straddling the bench he half turns to look at Buck, already in uniform, hands in his pockets. Eyes surveying his face, what skin he could see, his knuckles, noticing he can turn but mostly Eddie’s movements. Eddie’s long sleeve henley and jeans covering his arms and legs.

“Christopher is going to Love this.” Eddie says standing back up he gently sits the rubber duck back by his helmet as he takes off his shirt. He can feel Buck’s eyes on his back, it clicked with Eddie then. Buck was looking for bruises.

“It’s not for Christopher.”

Eddie pauses with the shirt covering his face and a muffled “What?”

Taking the shirt off, Buck does a quick survey of Eddie’s chest as he does so before slipping on his button up.

“It’s for you.”

Eddie is used to changing in front of Buck and he knows something is up so he kicks off his sneakers and drops his jeans, showing no bruises on his legs.

Pulling on his pants Eddie buckles his belt asking “And just why do I need a rubber duck? I’m a little old for bath play time.” Okay, that sounded a bit more suggestive than he meant.

Buck smirks “Who could possibly be in a bad mood when holding a rubber ducky? Rubber Ducky, you’re the one.” Buck sings the last part. Fairly well to Eddie’s surprise.

Eddie is back in the bench tying his boots when he pauses. “Bobby?”

“No. Whatever you confided in him he didn’t share. I know signs of fighting when I see them. Plus, the bruised ribs at Halloween.”

“How did you know? I made sure not to change in front of anyone.”

“You pulled away.” Buck sat down next to Eddie. “I was hoping you would tell me yourself about the street fighting. I kept dropping hints with everyone. Saying I think something is going on with you, hoping it would get back to you and you would come talk to me. I didn’t realize how much I screwed that up, even if you forgave me. You used to tell me everything.”

“How could you tell I was street fighting?”

“I’m observant.”

“Evan….”

“I know what street fighting looks like.”

“Evan Buckley.”

“I wanted to be a pediatrician. I got into the pre-med program at Pen State. Full scholarship. It was my out from home. I love kids. Wanted to help them. While other kids partied I read every medical book and journal I could get my hands on. I had to hide them though.”

“Buck why are you sitting in a fire station instead of being in a residency program?”

“I used to be really skinny. Wasn’t very athletic. Played the guitar and piano. I was hoping I could give Chris lessons. He should’ve have limits. He told me on the pier the day of the tsunami he wanted to be a firefighter. I know you hated me during the lawsuit but I swore to myself even if he were only a Fire Marshall I would move heaven and hell to get him on the LAFD if he still wanted that. I’d support him in anything, you know that right?”

“I know and those music lessons, that sounds like a good idea.”

“Piano. He’d be good at the piano.”

“Okay and why do I have a feeling you already bought him one for Christmas?”

“Because much like I know you, you know me.”

A moment of silence.

“I was jealous. Of Shannon. One day she just appeared and you were back with her. Even though I was holding onto Abby when I knew I shouldn’t have been. That need to not let things go. To hold onto something. Hope for something, even if it isn’t there. I even started dating Ali to get my mind off you with Shannon. When she asked you for the divorce and you called me that night wanting to meet up I was a selfish prick that was glad she was going to be out of yours and Christopher’s lives. Real asshole move. Then I saw her on the ground at the accident sight and I knew what it would do to you. I’m not in a residency program because my dad found the Pen State letter. Laughed at me. Told me I was an idiot to think I could ever make it as a doctor. Being first in my class, skipping a grade. Still wasn’t good enough for him to stop calling me worthless every night at dinner.”

Eddie looked at Buck’s profile thinking about the lawsuit. How on Halloween he told Buck he made Cap out to be the bad guy when in Buck’s mind it was reliving a father figure telling him he was too worthless to be a firefighter. Those emotions of his getting in the way of rationality. Reality was Eddie ended up doing the same thing. Just in a different way.

He listened on as Buck started up again. “I had this one friend, Jefferey, Jeff. He got me. My dreams. My mind. Everything. Maddie had stopped checking in as much by then. I already knew what Doug was doing to her. I wanted to protect her from him but my skinny ass couldn’t even protect myself. One night Jeff came over to study and he kissed me. I liked it. Of course that was when my dad decided to come into my room. He threw Jeff out. Forbade me to see him. Took me to church to “pray the gay away” why I do go now, haven’t stepped in one in years. They sent me to a “special” summer camp. Convinced me I was screwed up. So, I started to sleep around with any girl that would put out. Until Abby. After my father burned the scholarship letter from Pen State I just said screw it. Got odd jobs when I was supposed to be in school clubs. I graduated. Packed my bags and the day I turned eighteen I took the cash I had saved up and left while my parents were at work. You see Eddie. I get it. That feeling of not being enough. I wasn’t enough for med school. My parents. Even Abby, I know she loved me but I wasn’t enough for her to stay. Enough for Ali to get why being a firefighter is important. I wasn’t enough for the Navy Seals. Top in my class except my emotions kept getting in the way. I know about street fighting because when you’re a bartender in South America you see shit. The guy in charge helped me learn to fight but he never put me in the ring. Told me I reminded him of his son. He died before I left. The only time I stepped foot in a church. One of the fighters decided he wanted to be in charge and killed him. So, yeah I was worried shitless about you. When I got back to the states, I was in Texas, helped out a fire company one day. The Captain of the squad told me I had a gift. Somehow I ended up here. Went to the academy. Came to the 118 acting like a dumb jock. Then all the sudden I wasn’t enough for the 118 anymore. I heard Bosko call you Diaz, saw her name taped over mine. Then I was at dinner with Cap and Athena but in my head my dad was sitting there and I was a teenager again. You don’t have to tell me you started fighting because you didn’t feel like enough, Eddie because I know you.”

It was then the call siren rang. Eddie stood up grabbing his gear as Buck did the same. When he turned around he saw a stoned face Bobby watching Buck’s back. Bobby shook his head no at Eddie, turning around to get in the truck.

It was the standard car accident. Bobby worried about Hen but Buck was already on it being an annoying little brat around Hen. He was distracting her. Both drivers made it out alive, although the one at fault was a complete ass. The other being transported to the hospital with Hen asking Chimney how he could want to be related to Buck on purpose one day. Bobby and Chim exchanging knowing looks.

When they got back to the station Bobby went to check the stew while Buck and Eddie put away their gear. Eddie was having that craving to fight. He would have to visit the church this afternoon. Then he saw it, sitting on the top shelf. The rubber duck and he could feel himself smiling. The craving disappearing. Rubber Ducky you’re the one suddenly jingling in his head.

Buck had told him he was enough.

“So, does that make you Burt and me Ernie?” Eddie asks him.

“Dork.”

“Come over for pizza. We can pick out a place to put that piano you bought my kid without asking.”

“Like you would have said no.” Buck huffed.

Bumping shoulders with the rubber duck in Eddie’s hand, he felt a warmth in his chest. Buck made him feel like enough. His counselor had called him out on it once but he changed the subject.

Now it was his turn to return the favor.

Buck was more than enough for him.

And when they started calling each other Burt and Ernie on occasion, nobody really questioned it.

[retrocelly]

Crash (Brock Boeser)

Requested: yep!

Warning: a car crash, some minor injuries, and a severe lack of knowledge about medical stuff

It took 45 minutes for Brock to get home after you saw the photos. Well, after your friend texted you “look at Brock’s most recent tagged pic. I can cut his balls off if you want.” You tapped quickly over to his Instagram, swiping to his tagged and clicking on the newest one. It was a picture of him with a fan - which shouldn’t have raised any red flags. But then you noticed his hand latched around her waist, his fingers against her bare midriff and your cheeks grew hot. Calm down, you told yourself, it’s just a photo with a fan; Brock probably didn’t even realize. Then you swiped. You swiped and saw a much more candid picture: your boyfriend’s arm still around the girl’s waist, but he was leaned back a bit more and they were looking at each other - laughing. The photo closely resembled the one you had as your phone background and now your heart was beating out of your chest. The caption read “got to meet my favorite player today. thanks for being such a gentleman ;) good luck tonight” And that was all it took for your understanding to boil over.

Taking a photo or two with a fan wasn’t what you cared about. In fact, you’d always encouraged Brock to pose for more pictures. You drew the line at him standing too closely, his arm too comfortable around another woman’s waist, her caption too reminiscent of an inside joke that you weren’t in on. It didn’t help that the girl was gorgeous; with perfectly done beachy-curls in her hair and a button-nose that looked like it was sculpted by Bella Hadid’s surgeon. You even found yourself feeling jealous of the ab definition that was noticeable when the girl laughed.

You stared at the photos for 45 minutes. Read all of the comments from the girl’s friends about how gorgeous she looked and even one about how she and Brock would make a cute couple. For 45 minutes, you felt sick to your stomach as you let your anger stew. For 45 minutes, you tried to justify each aspect of the photos only to grow more confused by them. For 45 minutes, you debated calling Brock and asking about them. But you didn’t. And after 45 minutes of sitting alone in your own frustration, you had lost all of your patience.

He’d walked into the condo in with a smile on his face, presumably from a good lunch out with Bo, but your jealousy was trying to convince you that it was because of his new friend. Brock’s face fell when he noticed your posture: arms crossed and lips pursed, glaring in his direction. He’d given you a nod, the kind that meant “tell me what I did wrong.” You didn’t need to speak - simply handing over your phone and allowing him to see the post. Brock let out a light scoff with a shake of his head as he slid your phone onto the coffee table.

“That’s what you’re upset about?” He asked, kneeling down so you were eye-level.

When you didn’t respond, Brock had his answer. He told you that the photos didn’t mean anything - that he couldn’t even remember the girl’s name. He assured you that he hadn’t intended for them to appear so intimate and that if he’d realized how couple-y they would turn out, he would’ve never even taken the pictures in the first place. But that made you even more mad, and so now you were in a screaming match with your boyfriend about why he decided to put his arm around her waist and whether or not he found her attractive.

The anger had brought out your insecurities and, although you were ashamed of it, you couldn’t help the nagging sensation that he did look good with the girl - that they did look like a couple.

It was 15 minutes later when Brock stormed out - muttering about how he needed to get to the rink for the game. You could tell that he was upset by your implication. Brock was, above anything else, a loyal friend and partner. He would never consider cheating on you - not even when he was piss-drunk. You knew that he was hurt by what you’d said, but it was the weaker part of yourself that fueled the argument in the first place. The insecure, paranoid part of yourself that knew Brock deserved better. The part of yourself that worried he would find better and that when he did, you’d be nothing but a memory to him.

Immediately after he’d left, your anger dissipated and regret set in. You had overreacted to say the least, fueled by your own mind and it’s tendency to speculate. Not even an hour later, your phone buzzed from the coffee table. You picked it up, tears immediately filling your eyes at the notification. Brock had texted you, in typical Brock fashion, “I hope you know I’d never do anything to hurt you. I’m sorry. I hope I’ll see you at the game tonight, love you.”

Your heart broke at the message, the feeling of regret multiplying ten times over and settling in the pit of your stomach. You knew that you had to apologize to your boyfriend, and you had to do it as soon as possible. You figured if you left now, you’d be able to make it to the arena in enough time to talk to Brock before the second period started. So, you quickly ran to your room, throwing on your lucky Boeser jersey (a green one - with his old team name and the number 16 on it) and headed out the door.

As you got into your car, you were buzzing. You could hear your heartbeat loudly in your ears and your hands were shaking slightly. Your driving had never been perfect, but it was even worse now. You consistently sped down the familiar route to the arena, even running a stop sign in your haste. You were nearing your destination, your foot easing off of the gas as your breathing settled slightly. But then, just as you were pulling through the final intersection, you heard the screeching of rubber against road, and then the scraping and crashing of metal. You could feel your car slam sideways, and then onto its side as the large truck collided with you.

•••

Brock came off the ice from his first shift of the second, getting ready to settle on the bench when his coach called him over. He knew that he’d been playing poorly, with his mind still on you and the fight you’d had, but he didn’t think that it was bad enough to warrant a mid-game lecture.

His coach leaned into him, a sorrowful look on his face, and he told Brock that that you’d been in a car crash; that your car had flipped and you were in the hospital. They’d called a car for Brock and it was waiting just outside.

Brock’s blood ran cold. He stood frozen for a moment, trying to decide if this was some cruel joke. But the looks on the faces of the men around him were enough to tell him otherwise. Without another thought, he ran down the tunnel, dropping his stick and gloves carelessly on the floor. He moved as quickly as his legs would take him to the car outside, his mind racing with worst-case possibilities.

As he sat in the back seat of the Uber, or Lyft, or whatever it was, Brock thought he might just pass out. He noticed the driver had to take a detour - he tried not to look down the road, but Brock could see the lights from the police cars and he almost had to tell the driver to pull over so he could throw up.

The only thing that was bringing Brock comfort was the fact that your were in the hospital. You were alive and being cared for by professionals. But just because you weren’t dead didn’t mean you were okay. Brock worried that you would be in a coma, that you may be alive but that he would never see you open your eyes or hear your voice again. That the last you had seen him was when he was leaving you in anger. He worried that maybe you’d be paralyzed or have a severe head injury. All he could do was pray that you’d be okay.

Brock couldn’t think straight on the ride to the hospital. All he could think about was how dearly he loved you and how much he needed you. Even when you were laying right next to him, he would feel physically ill with how much he missed you - with how much you meant to him. He didn’t know if he could live without you. Just as Brock felt himself start to hyperventilate, the driver pulled up to the hospital.

Brock jumped out of the car, running inside and asking the receptionist for your name. He ignored the odd look she gave him - remembering that he was in full game-day gear. Once he knew where you were, he didn’t hear anything else the woman had to say (although he thinks that part of it might have been a warning that only family is allowed to visit at these hours - but Brock didn’t care, he was your family).

When he walked into your room, Brock’s breath was knocked out of him. You were laying in the bed, curled onto your side, asleep. Brock could see the few cuts that littered your face and arms, and his heart clenched at the sight of a large bruise forming along your temple. He took note of the various needles in your arms and the sound of the monitors you were hooked up to. As he stood frozen in the doorway, he could feel someone walk up to him. Brock turned to see a short woman in a white coat.

“Are you family?” The woman asked, “these visiting hours are reserved for close family only.”

Brock nodded dumbly, speaking through a dry mouth and heavy tongue that he was your boyfriend.

The woman gave him a sympathetic smile as she introduced herself as the doctor that’d been tending to you. She then explained your condition to him. You had a mild concussion, which was a miracle, and a couple of bruised ribs. You had fallen asleep due to the morphine and anti-nausea medication that you’d been given. She advised that Brock let you sleep, but that he was allowed to sit with you while you slept. The doctor also told him that they would finalize your discharge paperwork once you were awake and another check-up could be completed.

Brock couldn’t believe how lucky you’d been and as he walked over to you, all of his emotions bubbled over and he started to cry. He sat in the chair next to your bed, running a hand gently over your hair as he fought off full sobs. He’d been so consumed with his own thoughts that Brock didn’t realize his presence had woken you up.

You looked up at him, his eyes clenched shut as he brought his free hand up to wipe his tears. Slowly, you moved a hand up to grab his wrist, ignoring the slight ache in your abdomen from the movement. Brock’s eyes shot open at the feeing, his gaze immediately meeting yours.

He moved quickly then, his hands moving to either side of your face, his thumbs swiping soothingly along your cheeks.

“Oh god, you’re okay. Thank god you’re okay.”

You wrapped your arms around him, and he easily lifted you so that he could reciprocate. Brock needed to have his arms around you in that moment - to really be sure that you were there with him.

“I’m so sorry-” you’d started, but Brock cut you off with a soft “shh” as he buried his head into your shoulder.

He held you for as long as you would let him, until your ribs started to hurt and he gently lowered you back against the pillows beneath you. Brock then laid a kiss to your forehead before leaning back into his chair.

“When they told me what happened I was so worried I’d lost you. I almost collapsed right then and there.”

Brock let out a slight chuckle as he spoke through his tears and you reached out to hold his hand.

“Well, I’m still here, B. It’s gonna take a lot more than a big truck to kill me.”

Brock got serious, then, his eyebrows furrowing as he stared down at you.

“I could kill him, y’know - that guy that hit you. I don’t think I’ve ever hated someone so much before.”

“It’s okay, Brock, accidents happen. Besides, I was trying to drive to the arena so fast that I almost caused a couple myself.”

Your boyfriend didn’t seem to appreciate your attempt at lightening the mood, and you could feel that same lump in your throat that you’d had before you got in your car in the first place.

“I was trying to get to you to apologize in person,” you muttered, looking down to where your hand was linked with his. “I never should’ve gone off on you about that stupid picture. It wasn’t a big deal, but I was just so jealous and I couldn’t help it.”

Brock squeezed your hand, causing you to look up at him.

“I already forgave you, y/n. I can see how those pictures looked and I understand why you were upset, but you have nothing to be jealous about. You’re the woman that I want to spend the rest of my life with - I could never even think of being with someone else. I’ll try to be more careful when I take pictures and stuff. I’m sorry, baby, I love you so much.”

Your heart swelled as you looked at the man above you. The sincerity in his blue eyes was enough to make you fall in love all over again.

“I love you so much, too, Brock.”

He leaned down, giving you a chaste kiss. As he pulled away, he planted another peck to your cheek, then to your other one, and then all over your face until you were a giggling mess. When he finally sat back up, his tears had all dried and a smile now crossed his features.

“Now we just need to get you back home so I can take care of you, and we’ll all be okay again.”

A/N: I’m not totally in love with this one, but you guys deserve some actual writing from me. hope you liked it!

[thecosmicsen]

january 12 1966.

!!  trigger warnings: emotional abuse  !!

the tip of his tongue pokes out as he meticulously sweeps off the last morsel of splattered sauce off the bookshelf surface.  Taesoo had yet another tantrum over an issue that Jaewoo cannot recall now.  what he does remember is how his twin brother had gotten so emotionally aggravated to the point that he had moved Jaewoo to tears,  the tears pricking and burning his eyelids with the familiar sensation of yet another guilt-ridden night waiting in-store for him when he is to lay his head down at night.  to come to think of it,  what had Taesoo gotten so worked up about  ?  all he can remember is that it is his own fault for not looking after him properly which is why he can admit with humiliation that he is everything that his brother holds him accountable for.  but did he really have to waste food and send everything flying to get his point across  ?  

Jaewoo pauses his furious scrubbing with a forlorn sigh to mull over this point.  does he have enough pocket money to buy extra cabbage tomorrow morning  ?  he might be able to buy some in time before the twins are set to leave for middle school.  maybe he can create a make up lunch box for Taesoo in time.  that sometimes works in favour of earning his forgiveness.  but for now,  he can simply air dry the books partially soiled with the resentful douse of his brother’s fury.  he is so caught up in ensuring that the house is spotless that he doesn’t notice his mother returning from work.  it isn’t good that I’m always cleaning after his messes.  he usually helps me clean his mess afterwards.  did I really mess up that badly that he won’t even help me now  ?  maybe I don’t deserve talking to him because of that.  but why am I the one cleaning again  ?

“  Jaewoo, ”  his mother interrupts his spiralling pessimism with her sharp voice smoothly cutting through the buzz of his frantic thoughts.  “  what is there to eat  ?  ”

“  yes mama  ?  ”  he immediately whirls around,  eyes round as globes as her words sink in.  “  welcome back home  !  uh . . .  um . . .  I can warm up the stew for you.  I made that today.  I can warm up yesterday’s leftovers too or do you want me to make you something else  ?  ”

“  no no,  that’s fine.  warm up the leftovers.  ”  she firmly shakes her head as she peels off the multiple layers of outer winter clothing,  a tuckered sigh escaping from her lips.  Jaewoo instantly picks up on this,  making sure to offer to massage her legs later on after dinner before he heads off to obediently warm up her dinner. 

there is a tightening ache in his chest that randomly robs him of his breath,  the anxiety surging through his veins as he ardently prays to whatever god is listening to him that his mother will not catch a spot of spilled stew that he had missed in his thorough cleaning up.  his mother doesn’t take too kindly to news of the twins quibbling and the bulk of the need to pick up the heavy responsibility always falls back on the eldest son.  once again,  he slips into his pattern of fretting and then fretting over not doing a good enough job of the current task at hand which is preparing his mother’s dinner.  

miraculously,  her usually shrewd observation doesn’t catch a glimpse of any mess as she heads to quickly refresh herself before dinner.  heaving a huge sigh of relief,  Jaewoo turns back back to reheating the stew on the stovetop and vigorously cleaning the tabletop for the nth time for his mother to dine at.  when she finally reemerges,  he already has her table fully set up and piping hot food awaiting her since Jaewoo is more than accustomed to her routine after her nursing shifts,  as irregular as they may appear to be.  as she begins to eat,  he turns back to the stove to boil water for tea whilst also washing up on the two remaining leftover bowls previously upturned by Taesoo.  he is so engrossed in his domestic chores that he initially doesn’t notice his mother calling his name again.

“  Jaewoo,  are you done with the tea yet  ? ”  she inquires and he doesn’t sense any irate antagonism from her so his shoulders relax slightly.  as he nods,  she mirrors his movements too before firmly instructing.  “  okay,  good.  come here.  ”

half hesitant but half eager to see what she wants,  he pads up to her.  “  y-yes mama  ?  ”

“  put your head here.  ”  she pats on her lap after setting her spoon down,  waiting for him expectantly.  pleasantly surprised,  he listens to her right away although he attempts not to bother her with the full weight of his head on her lap,  the rest of his body flopped out across on the floor.  with a small chuckle,  she insistently presses down on his forehead to ease the full weight of his head on her before gently running her fingers through his locks of hair.  “  good boy.  you can always be such a good boy.  I like it when you behave well. ”

a part of him wants to burst into tears and have his heart singing for joy to finally have some sort of recognition for all of his hard work and efforts to maintain the house and look after his family.  yet the other nefarious part of him wants to wholly reject that and weep tears of complete anguish when he has been such a bad brother and a bad son by arguing with his younger brother just a mere hour ago.  either way,  emotional tears pool at the corner of his eyes and he audibly sniffs,  vainly attempting to blink the tears shut away.  unsuccessfully,  a few trickles escape and dribble down in tiny sploshes to the floor.  he can hear his mother sigh again.  

“  why are you crying  ?  I know you can be a good boy but I need you to try better when it comes to your younger brother.  Taesoo has been affected by your father’s death but you fighting with him doesn’t help.  it makes things worse instead.  I really wish you would stop fighting with him,  Jaewoo-ya.  ”  her words are cutting but her fingers work to continue massaging his scalp,  alternating to stroke through his hair.  

as for Jaewoo himself,  his arms are loosely crossed on his chest,  his lips pressed tightly shut to hold in any loud sob that may betray his raging emotional battle.  he tries he tries he tries but Taesoo gets upset over the most random and inconsequential things.  he doesn’t want to listen,  he doesn’t want to compromise.  he just tells Jaewoo how bad he is for treating him the way he does.  the problem is,  he always tries his best to treat him well.  what is he still doing wrong  ?  what is wrong with him  ?  

“  don’t cry.  you’re the man of the house.  ”  his mother continues,  stern in her lecture but touch still soft.  “  but you’ve been a good boy.  I like the stew you made today and you cleaned up well today.  good job.  I’ll give you a massage for a little while and then we can drink tea,  okay ?  ”

“  okay.  I’ll try my best mama.  ”  is all he can manage to croak out,  his voice thick with emotions as he tries to suppress the overflowing guilt that it should be his mother getting a massage from him right now not vice versa but who is he to reject his mother openly showing him some positive attention  ?  comforted with this newfound knowledge,  he can loosen up his shoulders that had an unknown subconscious tension pent up in them.  

for once,  his body doesn’t pick up on the calculating gaze of his twin brother peeping out through the small crack of their shared bedroom door that overlooks the rare scene of the twin’s mother dousing Jaewoo with physical affection.  

[orlha]

Kakashi/Sakura - Romantic ♡ 3. Where character B is their soulmate Please♡♡♡

Notes: SOOOO This is supposed to be a drabble. But heeeey SURPRISE it’s not? Hope you like it anyway, I might add that it’s not terribly fluffy either.

—

Civiliansconsidered themselves adults when they received their soulmarks at eighteen.Shinobis didn’t care too much about their soulmarks or tried not to at least.Not all soulmates meet, and if they do, not all of them meet on friendlyterms.  

Kakashiknew that the chance of having an out-village soulmate was rare, yet he hadseen how Rin had reacted when Obito died, seen how his father had chosen deathover him, seen Sensei picked death over living without Kushina. His soulmarkappears, “No, you stupid man. You are not dying under my watch!” curvingdown his palm. Cursive and almost unreadable words. 

Inanother world without shinobis, without pain and the ever-hanging death,Kakashi thinks he might have been loved and loved back. But he’s not in anotherworld. He’s here, where the people closest to him have chosen to die, wherethey had died leaving him alone. 

Gaiassures him that soulmates always meet each other. It’s fate and no matter howfar he runs, he’ll always come back to the same fork. It leaves a bitter tastein Kakashi’s mouth. He doesn’t someone, doesn’t want someone else to die onhim. Gai… Gai is the only one he trusts not to die on him. Too much energy andoptimism, too much youth. 

So hedistances himself. 

FromTenzo who pursued his friendship, from Asuma who tried to rekindle their‘broship’ after his long absence, from Team seven who was a mockery of what hisown team had been. 

Hebarely trains his genin, barely cares when Naruto was apprenticed to Jiraiya orwhen Sakura is apprenticed to Tsunade. They were barely his students. 

Yethere they are again. Tsunade refusing to let him fade into anbu, forcing him toreform his team. 

Hehates it, hates how people push him, with supposedly comforting words that hissoulmate was out there somewhere.  

Hedoesn’t care. He tells himself that every time. His soulmate is probably dead,or out-village and he doesn’t care. 

Theyare all lies. 

Becausehe does. 

He’sjust abandoned. 

—  

Inspite of people’s popular beliefs, Sakura worked hard to get top kunoichi. Sheknew it wouldn’t matter in the long run. Academy scores didn’t matter in thereal world, but that was all she had to prove to her next superiors that shewas competent. Never mind that she didn’t have a senior shinobi to train herlike all the clan kinds, never mind that some days her parents ‘forgot’ to feedher.  

Sakurais good. 

She hasto be. 

She’snot like Ino who had parents to fall back on after graduating. Sakura had neverhad that kind of affection. She imagines that when she gets her soulmark, meetsher soulmate that they would fall passionately in love. She’d be tucked intohis arms, she would be loved. 

It’sthese thoughts that keep Sakura going even when her jounin sensei turns out tobe a distant and barely teaching them anything beyond referencing books to readon.  

Sakurareads these books voraciously. No one is going to help her if she doesn’t helpherself. She summons her own courage to request for an apprenticeship with Tsunadeand spends her next few years proving herself that she is competent, that sheis worth teaching. 

Becauseno one else cares if she doesn’t.  

—  

Shishousends her on a mission with her former Team Seven just near her birthday. Anddespite it being a fairly low ranked mission for shinobis of their status,Sakura thinks that Shishou hadn’t counted for the Team Seven luck. 

Whatshould have been an almost idyllic mission turns into a shitfest. Turns out theperson they were escorting was some long-lost prince who now inherited thekingdom and by mandate was returning to ascend the throne and the councillorwho had looked after the kingdom for twenty years was disgruntled enough tosend Iwa-nins to kill him.

That’s not important. 

Sakurawas busy fighting off Iwa-nins and their stupid explosive jutsu when Kakashitakes an almost fatal hit for Yamato. Quickly, with Sai’s help, she disengagesand flickers to Kakashi, hauling him to the side where Naruto’s clonessurrounded them in a protective circle. 

“No,just leave me,” Kakashi says even as she fights to manually pump his blood andheal that hole in his torso.  

“No,you stupid man. You are not dying under my watch!” she snarls. She presses on,leaving Naruto to deal with anyone attempting to interrupt her and divesin.  

It’smaybe minutes or hours later when she wakes from her healing trance,disoriented by the lack of veins and cells in her vision. A hand helps her up. 

“Kaka-senseiwill be fine.” Hands press food into her hands as soon as she’s seated by thefire. 

She blinks.  

Thestars above have bloomed across the dark twilight sky, the Iaw-nin bodies hadbeen burnt or sealed away, a small smokeless campfire had already been startedand Kakashi was tucked under a blanket next to Yamato, his half-lidded eyewatching her. 

Shedoesn’t care if she saved Kakashi against his will. Only stupid man does stupidthings like that. He can hate her for all she cares. He wouldn’t be the firstor the last to do so. Sakura forces herself to eat the stew Sai had given her.Tomorrow she’ll need to check on him and considering how he chose to dieinstead of being healed, she already knows it’d be a fight. 

To hersurprise, Kakashi doesn’t put up a fight the next day. He lets her press hermedical chakra in, check his torso and even his eyes.  

Andwhen everything checks out, Naruto heaves their long-lost prince onto his backand starts the trip to the Kingdom of Stars. Now that they’re aware of actualthreats, they’re more cautious about leaving traces behind.  

Sakuratries not to recall the way Kakashi refused to let her heal him. So it seemsthat her choice of people to have crushes on always are people who areemotionally unavailable. She’s been down that way once, abandoned at thevillage gates. It wouldn’t surprise her if her soulmate would be equallyuninterested in her.  

Themission ends successfully, and they’re invited to stay in the palace for a fewdays. The Kingdom of Stars is gorgeous. Unlike the Kingdom of Moon, the mostpicturesque thing about the Kingdom of Stars is their sky. The trail ofnorthern lights dancing across the sky, beset with shimmering stars.  

Sakurastares out into the sky, the light wisp of smoke escaping her mouth as shebreathes. It’s a place she wouldn’t mind retiring to. The placid lifestyle ofthe people here, their earnest laughter.  She thinks she could be happyhere. 

Probablynot.  

She hadfinally gotten her soulmark during the mission. It’s across her hip and shedoesn’t care what it says anymore. It’s stupid yearning for something she’llnever get or even brooding over it. When this mission is over, she’ll go backto the hospital where no one cares, back to her one room apartment.  

Sakuraisn’t meant for happiness or love. 

“Sakura?” 

She’sso lost in her thoughts that his voice almost startles her off the roof.Kakashi grabs her, his hand lingers on her arm before he sticks it back intohis pockets. His shoulders are slumped, radiating the feeling of exhaustion. 

“Areyou okay?” The weapons that the Iwa-nin weren’t likely to be poisoned. She wouldhave noticed if it were, but there’s always the chance for human error. Sheputs a hand on his, double checking his system for any infection or poison. 

That’sweird, his hands are bare. Kakashi always wears his gloves. 

Sheturns his hand and gasps. There are thick calluses across his palm, especiallyon the fingertips and across the palm, almost down to his wrist is undeniablyher handwriting.  

“No,you stupid man. You are not dying under my watch!” it says.  

Sheslowly looks up at him. His mismatched eyes look back at her nervously.  

“Ibelieve these are your words,” he says carefully.  

Sakuracan hear her blood pounding in her ears, the colour in her face bleeding out asshe processed the situation. She pulls her shirt up, wrenching part of herpants down. Splayed across her hip, the narrow but neat writing are the words “no,just leave me.” 

“Those…are definitely my words and handwriting.” His hand curls up to grip hers.  

Shebarks a mirthless laugh and shakes his hand off, stepping back several steps.“So…” she starts in a quivering voice and hates herself for the weakness. “…I’m marked with your suicidal words.” 

Sheturns away and the frustration of the entire situation, the helplessness feltso overwhelming that she couldn’t stop tears from gathering in her eyes. 

She wasright.  

Thepeople always had crushes on were emotionally unavailable and that apparentlyincluded her soulmate, the man she had a crush on for the last two years. Also,the man who is suicidal and had such a blatant disregard that shishou forcedthem to have a medic at all times. 

Underall her doubts and sarcasm, Sakura had hoped that her soulmate would be someonewho loved her, where she could finally be love and be loved in return. 

“I’mnot…” he murmurs behind her. “…suicidal…” 

Hereaches out to clasp her shoulder.  “Sakura…” 

“Don’tworry, I’ll be fine even if you leave,” she tells him. She had seen shinobislike Kakashi. She knows what would happen. She won’t cry over this, or so shetells herself as she ignores the tight clenching in her chest.  

Becauseno one would care if she isn’t alright and her parents would be smug in theknowledge that they were right; that even her soulmate didn’t want her. 

“Let metry, please.” His fingers tightened and she looks up at him. Hissharingan still spinning slowly, his hair almost fey in the dimmoonlight.  

Shepulls a shuddering breath from her lungs, schooling the trembling in herhands.  

“Youdidn’t care to teach any of us anything. Didn’t care who I went to or if I hadto go to genin corps. Why? Why should I?” 

“I’mnot suicidal. I just… There’s a point where you don’t care because you’ve beenabandoned by everyone that loved you and I know I fucked up, but please.”His eyes are desperate. 

“Atleast you’ve been loved,” she says, scrubbing the tears furiously away with hersleeve. “I’ve never even once!” 

“Thenlet us try. We’re soulmates right? There has to be a reason for it…” he says.His tone full of self-deprecation. “Gai said that its fate and that no matterhow far we try to run from it, if it’s fate, we’ll come back to the same fork.So since we’re at the fork now. It’s better to try. I… I am still terrified ofmaking have new people join my ring of important people…” 

Herlips twist and Sakura laughs a wet laugh.  

“Andprove them wrong?” she asks. “All the people who said that no one would loveyou.” 

“I’ll standback and watch you crush them?” He thumbs her tears away. 

“Okay.”She presses her face into his palm, his eyes softening. 

—  

Andperhaps no one believed it would last. Some soulmates die young together, somesoulmates never quite work out. 

Betweentheir multitude of issues and age gap, no one believed Kakashi and Sakurawould.  

Butthey did. 

Curledup in each other’s arms, under the tall Sakura tree, watching the petals fallaround them, they finally found the happiness, peace and love they had longedfor.  

Untilthey were old and wrinkled, grey and aged.  

Kakashipresses a kiss into her greying hair and thinks of the northern lightsreflected in her pink hair then and he would have it no other way.

—

Prompts are still open all the way until New Year’s Eve if you want to send any in :)

Tumblr prompts list: here

[i-love-charles]

[the final chapter of my alternative endings series, the chapters for Arthur is here and Javier is here, sorry it took so long @cupcakecontour I hope you enjoy].

Deers For Sport

Notes: Fluff, Comfort, Panic Attack, Slight Trauma, Charles Smith + Female Reader, Mini-Fic, Prompt, Request

Wordcount: 1,578

His eyes followed your every move as you worked. Each bounce of your feathery hair, the rhythm of your delicate fingers, the swaying of your rounded hips with each step you took towards him. His heart pounded a panicked beat from beneath his prickled skin as you approached, bowl of hot stew perched across your palm, a freshly brewed coffee mug in the other.

He smiled sincerely as you placed the bowl on his lap, returning the genuine smile before sauntering off to serve the others as they completed their mundane chores - always thinking about others: a trait that he had always admired deeply about you, among a catalogue of many others.

Throughout all of this, he simply couldn’t remove his gaze from you as you chopped away at more vegetables; the sharp knife inching uncomfortably close to your delicate skin with each slam down against the wood of the chopping board. The anxiety was unbearable, and he silently prayed your beautiful frail fingers would remain intact before he m entally scolded himself for being so protective over a grown woman, but also for the feelings he had tried, and failed, to suppress.

After all, for the past few months, being so protective towards you became his nature - part of his makeup - and two other men at camp gave him good reason for it. With that thought his eyes sharpened into cautious slits, like the eyes of a sly snake about to catch its scurrying prey, and he drifted his gaze to the men in question. Each had their eyes planted on you, and he followed their line of sight to the curves of your body as his blood began to boil. Unlike him, other men rarely saw you for anything other than your looks. Your empathetic generosity, strong-will, many talents, beauty and charm - he took note of all of them, favouring each moment he caught a glimpse.

His mind wandered briefly as the stew on his lap cooled below him. He secretly liked to pretend you didn’t share a tent because you were close friends, or because you often hunted together and got back to camp late - you shared it because you were meant to be together in one way or another. The possibility that it could lead somewhere so beautiful gave him hope; if only briefly. Whether you even felt the same way back was still unknown. What if he confesses and it pushes you away? Into the arms of one of the others? Was it worth the risk of your friendship? Maybe you’d feel betrayed, like this whole time his aim was to get you in bed with him? No, it wasn’t worth it.

“Friend. Not lover.” He reminded himself under his breath with a solemn sigh, inaudible to those around him. The mantra brought a silent sorrow to his mind as he lifted the spoon to his mouth, pushing the bitter broth to the back of his throat to avoid its taste. Afterwards, he threw the bowl to the side of the fire, along with the other dirtied dishes, before making his way back to your shared tent - praying you’d return soon too.

Charles

The field is surrounded by towering pine trees that stand proudly against the slight breeze that blows past. Every few moments, a hare pops their ears up from the foliage, prowling any potential predators, before ducking back down only to pounce off from the plains. Small chirps resonating from the blue skies above before flying off ahead to the high hills, each bird uniquely decked with an array of bright feathers in all colours of the rainbow.

Despite all of the gifts Mother Nature has to offer him, Charles can only focus on you. Admiring the weather, horticulture and agriculture can wait - admiring the beautiful woman before him cannot. Each movement you make stuns him, things that he wouldn’t pay even the slightest amount of attention to a few months ago now make his heart jolt like a doe from a predator.

As if sensing his prolonged stare, you look back at him. Only when you do, his head quickly looks ahead, the sudden swaying of his long hair against his shoulders giving him away. “There’s your target.” He whispers nonchalantly, as if he hasn’t been admiring your silhouette without your knowledge. You take the opportunity to gaze appreciatively along the spine of the hawk feather curled around the black flowing strands of his hair as they follow the winds direction. If only your vocabulary was colourful enough to describe his picturesque perfection. The sharp curves of his jaw were shaded over slightly by the blunt blades of his growing facial hair despite you carefully shaving his face only the night before.

Your attention darts back to the deer ahead as it grazes peacefully on the green grass blades, thin dainty legs propping it up centre of the field in your line of sight. A sliver of doubt etches your thoughts. “What if I miss?” You whisper. Charles comforts you with a calm grin - your best friends encouragement was never exactly vocal, so you sighed and swallowed any worries before aligning your eyes upon the target and signalling a slight whistle with your mouth to catch its attention. A split second passes where you read to the leather quiver situated on your back, bringing out a handcrafted arrow and placing it upon the bows strings. One of your eyes squints slightly to focus your line of vision more accurately upon the sudden exposure of the deers skull. Your finger releases upon the bows string and the arrow flys forward at lightening pace towards your target, meeting the tough skin of its neck instead of its head. The poor animal falls to the floor in agony, screaming.

You look at Charles beside you, disappointed with the outcome of your archery skills. “Its only your first attempt, ____. A great one too. You actually shot it.” He explains, pushing himself up to his feet from his squatting position behind the large rock before you both. You take his hand willingly as he offers it out to help you up, his large rough fingers intertwining with your own.

Charles takes the lead on approaching the animal and he gestures at the bow resting in your hand, signalling for you to end the animals suffering. The strange cries from the animal ring in your ears and you silently beg for it to stop, knowing full well the only way to end its misery is to close the gap between your arrows and the deers head.

Only, when you lift the bow up to take your shot, you can’t bring yourself to do it. Your mind travels back to your early childhood, around 6 or 7, when you were pressured by the other children to smash a large rock atop a dying rabbit. The cries were all too similar to the ones that invaded your thoughts right now and the blood in your body grows cold at the memory. Many nights you’d awoken in a similar cold sweat, the cries of pain still ringing in your ears long after you’d awoken.

Cold sweat and panicked thuds against your rib cage invade your senses and your drop the bow from the overload. The screeches sting at your bubbling blood and sweat begins to form against your skin with anxiety. “____? What’s wrong?” Charles questions, his eyes lifting from the crying deer and widening in a deep concern at your state. You try to reply, but your breaths become hitched and uneven with panic, as if you’re unable to breath. Instead you settle for a shake of your head towards the deer, notifying Charles that you’re unable to kill the poor creature.

Your vision by now is clouding over by your lack of breath, and flashes of both the deer before you and the rabbit from your past trespass your mind. Silence takes over the empty field as Charles aims an arrow at the deer, meeting it between the eyes and finally killing your prey. Almost right away Charles let’s go off the bow and it drops to the ground with a muted thud, his arms are clutching at your shoulders, bringing you towards his large barrelled chest to comfort you as he manoeuvres your body to face away from the fresh carcass. You grip at the fabric of his shirt for comfort as your mind tries to regain control.

“Hey, it’s alright.” Charles cooed, hushing you patiently as your breath slowly regains itself. “Calm.” His tone is soothing yet secure, and you feel safe pressed against him at such as vulnerable moment. His fingers rub in small circles at your back, soothing you whilst you try to manage your breathing - and it works. Your constricted chest releases it’s tight hold of your crushed ribs and you take deep breaths, filling your lungs with cool fresh air.

Charles pulls back slightly, one hand moving up to lift your chin upwards, your worried eyes now meeting his. “What’s the matter?” He questions soothingly, his eyes searching yours for answers as his hand gently pulls a loose strand of escaped hair back between the nook of your ear. You return the favour by doing the same, tucking a jet black lock back in place. He hums appreciatively at the gesture.

“Just a stupid childhood memory.” You manage a weak smile, attempting to brush of the situation. “I’m okay now.” He nods delicately at your calm response, wiping away the drying tears from your cheeks with the rough pad of his finger.

You become hyperaware suddenly of his arms wrapped around you so close, and the proximity of your faces, only inches apart. Your eyes drift downwards pleadingly to his cushioned parted lips. Charles own eyes locked with yours as they admired his features. His heart told him to jump head first and kiss you with all the passion he’d had stored, but his head told him to stay patient, wait for an obvious signal as to not push you away.

Maybe it was the vulnerability of your raw emotional state, or maybe it was an inevitable reaction from both parties, but you slowly tilted your lips to meet - and when they did, it was magical. He tasted like coffee and firewood, warm and welcoming. Not even a thousand medalled soldiers could hold you back from pressing yourself desperately against his chest, clinging to the fabric of his shirt like a saving grace. His own thick finger did the same, flirting with the embroidered buttons upon your blouse to expose your chest. A moan escapes your lips at the relief of lust, from none other than the man you’d dreamt about secretly for months past. His own thoughts followed the same trail, grateful he didn’t have to make the first move. He could never forgive himself if he made you uncomfortable, or ruined your friendship. So maybe taking things so far so soon wasn’t the best idea?

The worrying thought flashed through his mind momentarily before he hastily reminded himself that you’d kissed back. No - you still are kissing back.

“_____.” He mumbled against your lips, tugging himself slightly away from the heated kiss. His eyes are dark and thoughtful, but thankfully calm and composed. “P-Pearson. The deer. Camp.” He managed through his baited breaths as his eyes fought to tear themselves away from the newly exposed cleavage within his view.

You hurriedly nod, adjusting your crumpled shirt and tucking back any escaped hair from your braids. His eyes follow the quick movements of your fingers as they button back up your blouse to conceal your dignity and it takes all of his strength pursed together to not rip the blouse back open. Instead he turns around and bends down to the carcass, lifting its weight to rest against his shoulder as he walks back to a calmly hitched Taima, whom grazed delicately upon the blades of fresh emerald brush at her feet.

Your own attention caught on the tensed muscles of his thick arms as they pulled the worn leather restraints of the saddle to firmly clutch tonight’s dinner in place. He turns and offers a large hand to assist you on mounting the horse and you oblige my sliding your own soft palm to meet his. Only, instead of climbing upon the steel supporting stirrups, you take a step towards the broody man and plant a chaste kiss against his swollen lips. His cheeks burn more than before because something about that kiss promised there’d be many, many more to come.

Javier [here]

Arthur [here]

[celtics534]

We’ll be the Proud Remainers

So... after that last chapter, I figured I should post this one a little early. 

Also Read On: FF.net or AO3

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 Harry dug his small spade into the dirt, trying to coax the potatoes out of the Earth. All the while he kept one eye on the horizon. The sky darkened to an ominous blue and black combo. A storm was coming. The question was, how long did Harry have to finish gathering materials for that night's dinner?

  He'd guess an hour, tops. After living in the same spot for the past seven years, Harry had become accustomed to the tricks and traits of the land. Weather prediction had become a useful and vital skill. 

  Seven years. It still sometimes felt unreal. He and Ginny had arrived at Bill's simple home with nothing but a few things on their backs. Now, they lived with Ginny's brother in a relatively simple lifestyle. Gardening, cooking, and maintaining the defenses were some of Harry's most important duties.

  Well... those and --

"Harry!" Victoire's girlish laugh pulled Harry's attention away from his work. The little girl was running straight for him, her grin showing a few gaps in her pearly white baby teeth. "Harry, Ginny's gonna get me."

  Victoire was right -- or she would have been if Ginny had truly been trying to catch her. As it was, Ginny was following behind the girl at a light jog, arms outstretched, wiggling her fingers as if casting some sort of witch’s spell. 

  "There is nowhere you can hide." Ginny was mimicking the stereotypical evil witch's tone. "I will find you, my pretty!"

  Vic let out a high pitched scream as she ran through the garden's gate. She ran around Harry, circling so that she hid behind his legs. Her little fingers stretched the dark denim. "Don't let her get me!"

  Ginny stopped in front of Harry, her wicked smile spreading from ear to ear. "Sir, I'm looking for a girl. She's about this height" --Ginny lowered her hand to Victoire's height-- "and cute as a button. Have you seen her?"

  "Cute as a button you say?" Harry tapped a finger on his chin in mock consideration. Vic's grip tightened. "Can't say I have. Now if you'd said pretty as a flower, I may have known something, but alas!" He  shrugged. "Clearly not the same person." 

  "Hmm." Ginny slid a hand over Harry's arm, trailing it up towards his shoulder. "Could I convince you to pass along your intel of this pretty person? Maybe the knowledge will lead me to my victim -- I mean -- friend ."

  "I don't know, I'd hate to betray this person. What do you have to offer in trade?"

  "I think you can find me quite -- persuasive to the right person." Ginny moved her body closer, her fingers now playing the little hairs on the back of his head. 

  "I think I may be the right person." 

  Right as Harry's lips met Ginny's, a long revolted cry came from behind him. 

  Victoire pulled away from Harry's legs, her lips curled in disgust. "Ew! Why do you two always end up kissing?"

  "Because they're icky, that's why." Bill walked down the cottage stairs, a playful smile on his lips that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Come on, Vic. Let's leave those two to finish collecting potatoes for tonight's dinner." 

  Victoire ran into her father's open arms. She hugged him tight as he lifted her in his arms. Bill ladened the girl's cheeks with kisses as she giggled. 

  Harry smiled as he watched the father and daughter duo turn back into the house. "They're adorable." Harry hadn't planned on saying that out loud, but it escaped his lips without permission. 

  He looked down at Ginny and couldn't help but imagine what it would be like if she was holding his baby. Watching her kiss their baby's chubby cheeks and see his or her gummy smile. 

  No ! Harry couldn't let himself picture that! It would just get his hopes up for things that could never happen. They could never have a baby, no matter how many times Harry's dreams imagined it. He could never bring an innocent child into such a horrible world. Harry could never forgive himself if something were to happen to his child or Ginny... like what happened to Fleur. 

  Even after all this time, Bill was still understandably shaken by the loss of his wife. Harry refused to let his mind drift to the possibility of losing Ginny. Which was why he would never risk her life having a child. 

  There had been a few times over the years where protection had been forgotten, which had led to weeks of uneasily waiting for Ginny's monthly. 

  Though anxiety drove him for those weeks, there had always been that base desire for a child of his own. So rather than dread and dream about a future he couldn't obtain, Harry focused on raising Victoire. She was just as good as his own child, her being his goddaughter and all. 

  "Harry?" Ginny kissed his lips lightly. "Come back to me, love."

  "Sorry." Harry forced his mind to think happier thoughts. He smiled. "You wanna help grab some carrots for the stew?" He made to move out of her embrace, but Ginny kept her arms around his neck. 

  " Or... " That wicked smile came back onto her lips, this time with a different connotation. "We could head over to that empty house next door for a bit."

  Harry looked over Ginny's shoulder at the still dark and foreboding sky. There really was a storm on the way... 

  Ginny trailed her lips down his neck, over his throat, and down to his collarbone. Her words coming between kisses. "Am - I - being - persuasive - enough?"

  He couldn't contain the little groan that rose from his throat. " Yes ."

  "Yes to which question?" Ginny asked as she continued to torment him. 

  "Both."

  Ginny drew back, making Harry bemoan the loss of her attention . She ran her hand down from his neck to his shoulder, along his arm, before lacing their fingers together. "Perfect. I'm glad my talents weren't exaggerated."

  She pulled them out of the fenced garden, towards the neighbors. Harry stayed close, letting her warmth keep him safe from the chill of the impending storm. 

  XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

  "Aunt Ginny?" Victoire's sleepy voice made Ginny turn around. The little girl was still tucked up under her blanket. Comforter to chin and Alfred the bunny’s ear sticking slightly out from under the covers he wouldn't get cold.

  "Yes, luv?" Ginny moved back into the room, her hand gently brushing the blonde locks from Vic's face. 

  "Why didn't their mummy stay with them in that story?" Her eyes didn't quite meet Ginny's as her voice softened. "Did she not want them?"

  Ginny had to think about the question for a second. She glanced over at the book they had been reading before bed. The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe had a piece of yellowed paper stuck marking their place. When she had selected the book, Ginny figured the little girl would focus on the amazing fantasy, not...

  "Oh, no, Vic." Ginny's free hand came up to rub the back of her neck,a skill she'd picked up from Harry. "She wanted them very much. She loved them so much, but she had to send them away to protect them."

  "So she had to leave them because she loved them?" Victoire's child mind couldn’t quite understand all the logistics. "Is that why my mummy left me?"

  No. No. Nope. 

  Ginny did not want to be having this conversation right now. Fuck, she never wanted to have this conversation. They had told Victoire about Fleur. They'd explained how beautiful Fleur had been and how much she'd loved Victoire. But they never really explained how Fleur had died. 

  It was natural for Victoire to draw conclusions based on the stories they read, but Ginny never expected this. 

  "Well, yes she loved you so much." Ginny sat on the edge of the mattress, “and all she wanted was for you to be happy and healthy." She drew a deep breath. "Sometimes in order to protect the people we love, we have to make sacrifices."

  Victoire blinked at her with those ocean blue eyes. "But doesn't that make you sad to sac --" she started stuttering over the word. "Sacri... sacr..."

  "Yes, it can make you sad to make a sacrifice." Ginny kissed Vic's forehead. "But sometimes the happiness of others is more important. But what is important right now is you going to sleep." She rose from her spot on the bed, with a final kiss to the girl's forehead. "Goodnight, love."

  Ginny moved out of the room, leaving the door ajar. Her mind was racing. Never had she thought Victoire would ask questions like that. It was heartbreaking to think Fleur never got to tell her daughter just how much she loved her. 

  Without conscious thought, Ginny's feet took her right where she needed to be. Harry sat in their bed, a candle lighting the room so he could read his novel, his legs covered by their duvet. 

  He looked up at the sound of her shuffling feet. His glasses were slightly crooked, which he took a second to correct. "Hey." He took one look at her and placed his book aside. "What's wrong?"

  Ginny's throat seemed to close as she tried to explain what had just happened. She stood stock-still for a moment, trying to force the words out of her mouth. When they didn't come, she moved. Ginny went right for the spot that she felt safest, where everything horrible in the world couldn't get her: Harry's arms.

  Harry didn't ask any more questions. He just held her close, pulling the blanket so it wrapped around her. 

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

  “No peeking, Aunt Ginny,” Victorie called over her shoulder as she ran into the woods. Hide-and-seek had become one of the seven-year-old’s favorite pastimes, which in turn meant it became one of Ginny’s daily activities. The little girl couldn’t get enough of the simple game. Some days, like today,  Bill and Harry would join.

  "You heard the master, Ginny." Bill smiled at his sister as he followed his daughter. 

  Harry smiled at her, moving in close. His fingers toyed with the belt loops of her denims. "You know I was thinking, maybe we could play a round of private hide and seek later." He bent down to kiss her. "I guarantee I'll find your secret spot."  

  Ginny laughed, letting her lips linger on his for an extra second before pushing him away. "Well, let's test your skills here. "

  "See the problem is -- I want you to find me ." 

  "This is a test of your longevity , love." She looked him up and down, a coy smile playing on her lips. "I want to see how long you can last."

  "Baby, I can last all night."

  Ginny snorted. "Did you just call me baby?" 

  Harry gave a nonchalant shrug. "Figured I'd give it a shot. Didn't feel right."

  She shook her head. " Definitely not right."

  "I'll stick with darling ." Harry kissed her one final time before disappearing into the forest. 

  Ginny sat down on the porch stoop before covering her face with her hands. Her eyes closed naturally from being already bathed in darkness of her hands.  

  One. Two. Three. 

  She kept a beat between each number to give Victorie ample time to find the perfect spot. Though enthusiastic, the girl wasn't great at finding spots. 

  Twenty. Twenty-one.

  If Ginny had to place bets, Vic would be in the little cove, Bill behind the tree next to the cove, and Harry would be up in one of the high branches. 

  "Thirty. Ready or not here I come!" Ginny shouted as loudly as she could before rising from her perch. She entered the thicket of trees the others had disappeared into, her mind debating who to focus on first. 

  Vic would be easy to find, but being found first would ruin the girl's fun. That meant Harry was her first target. She kept her steps light as she walked across the hard forest ground. She took the left fork instead of her normal right. If she could manage to sneak up on Harry, it would be even better. Typically he would watch her from his perch, laughing quietly as she walked right under him. This time she wouldn't fall for his tricks. 

  She kept her eyes to the sky, focusing on any large shadow. It wasn't until she was quite a few meters into the forest that she saw his dangling foot. Her eyes scanned up his leg, then to his torso. Harry's back was to her as he watched her normal route. 

  Ginny grinned. Watching the ground for any possible noise-makers, she slowly made her way to his hiding spot. She waited until she was directly under him to give his trouser leg a sharp tug. 

  Everything happened at once. Harry let out a sharp gasp as his body leaned towards her pull. He fell sideways off his branch, landing on the ground with a loud thud. 

  “Shit!” Ginny crouched, helping him sit up. Her hands covered his body checking for broken bones. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you -” 

  Her panicked apology was cut off by his laughter. Harry brushed off her scrutinizing hands as he rose to his feet. “You certainly found me.” 

  Ginny shook her head, her raising heart rate starting to slow. “Well, you never seem to change your hiding spot. Always up in a tree.”

  “But it’s a different tree,” Harry defended, his hands brushing off dirt from his knees. “Wait.” He held one hand in a stop motion. “Are you saying I’ve lost my touch?” 

  “I mean --” Ginny let her words fall off with a well if the shoe fits shrug. 

  Harry stared at her for a solid ten seconds before moving with the speed of a hungry lion. His arms came around her, lifting her feet from the ground. Ginny let out a squeal of surprise before she wrapped her legs around his waist. Harry proceeded to push her against the trunk of a large oak. 

  His lips pressed to hers in a hard kiss. It didn’t take long for Ginny to get over her initial shock. She laced her arms across the back of his neck, returning his attention with enthusiasm. 

  Ginny lost track of time as she and Harry focused all their senses on each other. She wasn’t sure who made the first move to remove clothing, but the next thing she knew her button-up blouse was open, letting in a cool breeze. 

Harry’s lips wandered away from hers, down to her neck, down to her chest. Ginny arched against him as his attention focused on her breasts. 

  “Where is Aunt Ginny?” Victoire's loud voice only slightly broke through the fog Harry had created. It wasn’t until Bill’s deep tone followed that Ginny remembered what they were supposed to be doing. 

  “I’m guessing she’s finishing finding Uncle Harry. How about we head to the house and start making lunch? It will be the best hiding spot ever. She’ll never think to look there.”

  Victoire's response was muffled as they moved back towards the house. Harry’s eyes met hers, the usual green much darker . 

  “Did Bill just give us an excuse to be alone for longer?” Harry starting trailed his lips up her neck. “Because that’s what I heard.” 

  “You always seem to hear what you want to, even if it’s the opposite of what someone said.” Ginny smiled as his lips pressed to hers.

  “It’s another skill of mine.”

  “Another? What are some of the others?”

  “How about this?” Harry’s lips slid off hers and trailed down her bare skin back to her chest. 

  Ginny let out a breathy sigh. “A man of many talents.” 

  “And I’ll be more than happy to bestow you with said skills anytime you want." 

  "Is that so?" Ginny ran her fingers along the nape of his neck. "Well, I can't pass on such an educational offer. There is a lovely treehouse not too far from here. The perfect spot to display your expertise."

  Harry lowered her slowly to the ground. Ginny felt every hard muscle as she skimmed down his body. His hand slid into hers, lacing their fingers. "It will be a pleasure , for both of us."  

  XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

  Harry watched Ginny show Victoire how to hold one of their chickens on their farm. Seeing Ginny and Vic smile so brightly made his heart full. His family . Something he had never had, but always wanted. It was strange to think how he’d gained a family while most people lost theirs. 

  "That looks good." Bill's voice drew Harry's eyes back to the dinner he was preparing: roast chicken and vegetables from the garden. 

  "I hope it will be." Harry wiped his hands on the flannel next to the cutting board. "I grew some basil and I think it should add a little something to the chicken." 

  "Anything I can do to help?"

  Harry shook his head. "No, not really. I just finished cutting everything up. All that's left is letting the fire cook it all up."

  "Good. Good." Bill shuffled his feet slightly. "Harry?"

  "Hm?" 

  "I wanted to thank you."

  Harry turned to look at the older man. He had an emotional look to his dark blue eyes. "For what?" Harry was afraid Bill might start crying. 

  Bill cleared his throat. "For being there -- for me and Vic. And Ginny."

  "Oh." Harry felt his face heat. He’d never have expected Bill want to talk about... something like this. "Of course. I care about all of you."

  "I know. It's just... it would have been so much harder to raise Victoire without you and Ginny. After Fleur." Bill choked up for a moment before clearing his throat again. "Thank you."

  Harry rubbed the back of his neck. This was not his forte. He wasn't good at talking about things like this, as Ginny’d pointed out a million times. But another thing Ginny had told him was that a lot of people liked hearing how he felt about a situation. He took a deep breath. Fuck it . 

  "Without you and Vic... I don't honestly know what would have happened to me and Gin. London was a shit show. Being out here..." Harry glanced back at the girls. "It's so simple and perfect. Even after all this time, it still feels like a dream."

  Bill moved closer to the window. "I know what you mean. Out here... it's the middle of nowhere and no one bugs us. It's safer than anywhere else out there." Harry saw a small smile form on Bill's lips. "This is the kind of life I would have wanted for Victoire. A simple life where everyone around her loves her." 

  Harry smiled as Ginny threw the chicken up into the air. Victoire loved watching the bird flap wildly back to the ground. "Yeah, she deserves it." 

  Bill thumped Harry on the back. "You and Gin deserve it, too. I don't think I've ever said it, but you two are good for each other." 

  "It only took you five years to say it out loud." Harry turned to Bill, meeting his gaze. "Thank you."

  XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

  Ginny stared at Harry. "You mean to tell me you set this whole thing up so you could take me for a romantic picnic by the water?" 

  Harry grinned at her. He was rather proud of this one. "That's right. It wasn't too hard to convince Victoire that a beach day would be fun."

  It really hadn't been difficult to get the family to travel to the seaside. He had spent the last few days chatting to Victoire how much fun building sandcastles and running through the waves would be. Two days later, Bill had his daughter attached to his leg, begging to go to the beach. In Harry's mind, it was a win-win: Vic was getting to play in the water and Harry would be getting to play with Ginny. So the small family loaded up into the beat up old Range Rover they kept for far trips. It was only an hour long car ride, so naturally Vic spent the whole time cheering loudly about all the fun things she was gonna do. 

  Really, the only tricky step had been setting up the blanket and food without Ginny noticing. He had found a tall group of dunes and used them like a wall. While Ginny buried Victoire in the sand, Harry had assembled his surprise. 

  He had packed all of Ginny's favorites, well, at least the favorites that he’d been able to find over the past few weeks. Yes ...he had been working on this for longer than those few days of whispering into Victoire's ear about the surprise.  

  "What's the occasion?" Ginny asked as she took a seat on the blanket. 

  "Does there need to be one?" Harry asked. "A glass of our finest distilled water, darling." 

  Ginny laughed, her smile wide and bright just like Harry wanted. He handed her a canteen of water before reaching into the rucksack for the chicken legs he'd cooked the previous night in preparation for their lunch. 

  "Well, look at you." Ginny gave him a crooked smile. "You've got everything a girl could ask for. Good food, a comfy spot, a great view ." She winked at him. 

  "It's even better up close." Harry crawled from his side of the blanket, hovering his body over hers. His lips rested a millimeter above hers. "And it gets even better when you touch it." 

  Ginny closed the gap between them, her fingers coming up to tangle in his untidy hair. Harry was more than happy to lose himself in her. The way she felt against him, how her lips pressed to his. 

  If Harry had it his way, this would be the only thing he ever did. After seven years it still was the best thing in the world. 

  "Whatcha doin'?" Victoire's innocent voice brought Harry out of his utopia. 

  He pulled away, only far enough to look up into the big blue eyes of his goddaughter. "Hi, Vic."

  "Hi." Her head was cocked to the side. "Why are you and Aunt Ginny over here snogging?” 

  Ginny pushed Harry from her chest, much to his displeasure. "Hi, luv. Uncle Harry and I were just... enjoying the weather."

  "By kissin'?" Victoire asked, her face scrunched in disgust. 

  "It's how -- uh adults enjoy the weather, yes." Ginny rolled over onto her knees before rising from the blanket. "And now that you're here we can enjoy the sunny day another way." 

  Victoire perked up. "How?"

  "How about --" Ginny paused for dramatic effect, which worked perfectly on Vic. She was shaking like an excited dog. Ginny reached out and tapped the little girl's shoulder. "Tag, you're it!"

  Before Victoire could do more than blink, Ginny was gone. Harry watched her sprint towards the water, her plaited red hair bouncing off her back. 

  "No fair!" Vic yelled after her aunt. When her attention flickered towards Harry, he knew what was coming.

  "Hol --" He tried to stand, but Victoire tagged him on the arm.

  "You're it, Uncle Harry!"

  Harry shook his head as he rose. Vic had taken off towards her father who stood laughing at the edge of the ocean, clearly enjoying that his daughter had broken up the private lunch . Ginny stood fifty meters down the coast from her brother, her smile as bright and beautiful as the sun behind her.  

  The choice was a no brainer. Harry couldn't re-tag Victoire (those were the rules and he refused to be a cheater), so once he was steady on his feet, he took off after Ginny. 

  Ginny's eyes widened as he came at her, full throttle. Her feet stuck in the sand for a moment, and then she started to run. That little bit of difficulty was all Harry needed. He caught up to her after a minute, his hands wrapping around her waist, pulling her back to him. 

  Harry moved his lips right next to her ear. "You're it." 

  "Is that so?" Ginny asked, her face tilted to look at him. 

  " Always ." Harry kissed her once before releasing her and running off towards Bill.  

  XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

  "Good job, Vic!" Ginny cheered as the birthday girl kicked the football across the lawn. Victoire pumped her fist in the air in celebration. It had been the first time all day that she had gotten the ball across the gap between them. 

  A few days before Victoire's birthday, Ginny and Harry had gone in search of an inflated football. It had taken the better part of four hours, but it was worth it. Victoire was having so much fun. Hell, even Ginny was having a blast!   

  "Next time try dribbling it closer to me before passing it!" Ginny told the girl as she bopped the ball back. 

  Victoire nodded enthusiastically. It took a few moments for her to get her footing right, but eventually she moved forward with the ball. 

  Ginny beamed as Victoire pulled her foot back in a hard kick. Instead of just rolling to a stop in front of Ginny like the last time, the ball took flight and came up to Ginny's knee. 

  "Nice!" Bill clapped from his spot on the porch. He had been meaning to fix the crooked step for the last few days, and finally, the weather permitted an opportunity. 

  Victoire looked back at her dad, her whole body wiggling in excitement. "It even went up in the air. Did you see?"

  "I sure did, sweetheart!"

  Ginny waited until Victoire was looking at her before passing the ball back. "Hey, Bill, have you seen Harry?"

  "Last I knew he was checking the traps in the river." 

  "He's really hoping to do a fry up. The number of times he's told me how much he misses fish and --" Ginny's final word was cut short as the air was knocked from her lungs. Victoire had kicked the ball when she wasn't looking, this time getting more air and hitting Ginny in the center of her chest. 

  "Ginny!" Bill dropped his hammer and ran out towards them. Victoire had started crying, noticing Bill's tone and Ginny's pained expression. Ginny waved Bill off with the hand that hadn't come up to clutch at her chest.

  Bill hesitated before turning his attention to his crying daughter. He picked up the sobbing little girl, his large hand running smooth circles along her back. 

  Ginny focused on getting her breath back. Fuck that had hurt. Her chest felt as if it had been hit by a sack of brinks rather than a football. Why the fuck had it hurt so much? 

  She rubbed the spot where the ball had collided, hoping it would soothe some of the pain, like Bill was doing for Victoire. The more she thought about it, Ginny’s chest had hurt all day. This was a different kind of sore, but it had escalated whatever else had been plaguing her throughout the day.  

  Bill walked over, Victoire hiding her face in the collar of his shirt. “You all right, Ginny?” 

  “Yeah.” Ginny placed her hand on Victoire's back. "I'm fine, luv. It just hurt for a moment. I'll be right in a jiffy."

  Victoire half turned out of her father's chest. Tears still trailing down her cheek. "I'm sorry."

  "I know." Ginny took the little girl out of Bill's arms and kissed away the moisture. "How about we go inside and see if Uncle Harry is back?"

  Vic nodded, sniffling a little. Ginny put her down in the grass. "I'll race ya." 

  It took a second for Victoire to understand the challenge, but the moment she did her little feet were moving. Bill smiled at his daughter's back before glancing over at Ginny. "You sure you're okay? You looked in a lot of pain." 

  Ginny nodded, rubbing her chest a few more times before walking towards the back door. "Yeah, I've just been sore all day. Must have slept wrong or something." 

  Bill kept pace with her. "I'm sure that's it. So, do you think Harry did catch something?" 

  XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

  Harry leaned against the doorjamb, watching Ginny brush her teeth. They had set up a basin of water for teething brushing. Little Victoire had taken her turn, still running high from being the birthday girl. Bill had taken her up the stairs, hoping that a couple of books would send her to sleep. 

  Ginny spit the homemade toothpaste out of her mouth. “You know I can share, right?” 

  "What if I don't wanna share?" Harry moved behind her, his arms wrapping around her waist as he pressed light kisses up her neck. "What if I want you all for myself?"

  "That could be arranged." Ginny put her toothbrush down on the counter and spun in his arms. Her arms circled his neck, fingers threading through his hair. "But you do know it's rather hypocritical of us to tell Victorie she has to share when you won't even --" 

  Harry cut her reprimand off the most effective way he knew. Ginny didn't seem to mind. She arched into him, her lips pressing harder to his. 

  "How about --" Ginny spoke between kisses, "we take -- this upstairs?" 

  Harry didn't think a verbal response was necessary. He lowered his hand slowly down from her waist to her legs. In a fluid motion, he lifted her into his arms. Ginny kept her arms wrapped around his neck as he carried them up the stairs into their room.

  He plopped her onto the bed in an unceremonious gesture, crawling over her and reattaching his lips to her skin.

  "Look at you, the promise of a shag and you become a caveman." Ginny laughed. 

  "You'd become a caveman, too, if you know what it was like to shag you." Harry sat up and pulled his t-shirt over his head, before going for the hem of hers. Her completely exposed torso teased him as she sucked in a deep breath. His mouth instantly dropped to her bare midriff. He took his time, moving his lips slowly up past her ribs. 

  When he reached her breasts, her breath hitched and she winced. "Harry, wait." 

  He pulled back, his eyes meeting hers. Her face was scrunched in pain. "Gin?"

  "I --" She let out a long exhale. "I took a ball to the chest today and it's a little sore." 

  "I'd say more than a little sore." Harry's eyes dropped back to her chest. "they're swollen." 

  "Swollen?" Ginny sat up, pushing Harry off her. 

  He fell back to his side of the bed. "Yeah. I noticed that -- uh -- they're larger than normal, but I didn't know they hurt. Not that I was staring at your chest or something. It was just an --" 

  Ginny clearly wasn't listening to his ramble. She had moved to the mirror over the dresser, her body turned in a side profile. "Harry, my chest was sore before Vic hit me with the football."

  "Okay." Harry sat up, positioning his pillow behind him so it was between him and headboard. 

  Ginny turned towards him and at that moment Harry knew things were about to become much less simple. "Harry, my breasts are sore, they're larger, and I couldn't stand the smell of your soup a few nights ago."

  Harry nodded, remembering how Ginny had run from the room when he had brought out his chicken soup. "Okay." 

  "Harry." Ginny's tone became one of forced calm used on a child who just wasn’t understanding what was being said. "I think I may be pregnant."