#but the leafs are straight up cursed by god you simply cannot look away

[muirneach]

being a leafs fan is of course nothing but pain but if you love a tragic hero narrative boy do i have a team for you

[writings-of-a-hufflepuff]

Never Mess With a School Teacher

Fandom: The Mandalorian

Collection/Series: Western AU- Putting Down Roots

Pairing: Sheriff Din Djarin x Female Teacher Reader

Writer: @writings-of-a-hufflepuff​ aka @hufflepuffing-all-day-long​

Rating: M 

Warnings: Violence, oh my god, the violence. Also swearing, derogatory language. Threat of violence towards kids, but no actual violence, all violence is actually centred on the adults. 

Summary: He curses himself for getting so complacent, soft, it shouldn’t be this hard to chase down a thief. The thief should never even have made it to the steps of the schoolhouse, let alone inside. Luckily for your kids, an angry school teacher is worse than a pissed off sheriff. 

Notes: Someone said they wanted angst...well, I have delivered angst and fluff, hurt and comfort in one piece. 

Archiveofourown

Generally speaking Din’s job as sheriff had been pretty quiet and tame. An easy job. Navarro did not get a lot of crime and generally speaking the only people in his cells were the few regulars at the saloon who always got a little bit too indulgent with their alcohol and then started fighting over whichever girl they’d both decided they wanted that night. He hadn’t dealt with a murder, rape or assault his whole time here. He hadn’t dealt with major crime, not even horse theft. His life had become relatively...domestic and safe, compared to his previous. He’d gone from hunting down some of the most dangerous criminals around to simply wrangling a couple of drunks on a night and the occasional robber who tried his hand at a petty crime. 

He liked to think he was a competent sheriff, that part of the reason for the quiet was that he was just that good, the truth was in a small mining town nothing much happened. So he’d never had to worry, not about Grogu or about you or about the little ones you taught or any member of town. You were as safe as you could be. Navarro was probably one of the safest places around, it made his job as sheriff a damn sight easier that’s for sure. 

“Osik! Kolar! Get over here!” Which is why he’s feeling a little more winded than he used to when he runs through the centre of town after a lousy thief waving a gun in one hand and a bag of stolen credits from the mayor’s office in the other. He can feel a stitch pulling in his side and his knees don’t feel like they used to. 

He hasn’t had to run like this in a couple months, not since moving into town and perhaps he should have been going on daily runs because he’s feeling his age all of sudden. It shouldn’t be this hard to catch up to the guy, he’s not even that fast and he runs like a donkey’s shebs, all arms flailing about and no sense of his own centre of gravity. If he could just reach him then he’d be easy to tackle to the ground. Din was at least twice his size and even with that damn cattleman revolver being waved about he’d be easy to take on. But, of course Din’s getting old and of course he’s been complacent, not been working himself as hard as he should have been. Of course he feels like he’s about to bust a lung just from running for 5 minutes. He feels older than his years all of a sudden and can’t understand how he used to chance criminals down all the time with success.

He pushes his legs even harder when he realises the direction the thief is going in, “Haar’chak!” He hasn’t sworn this much in months, but he recognises the path towards the school and it’s the middle of the day. School is in session and he wants to just grab the guy before he causes more trouble. He has images of you standing at the front of class, radiant and warm, turning to fear as the man storms in. The thought makes him try harder.

“Get you’re fucking no good ass back here! Boy, don’t make me shoot you!” He’s reaching for his gun at about the same time as the schoolhouse comes into view and Din can feel all the blood draining from his face, fear gripping his heart tighter than any lasso at the thought that you’re in there, the little ones are in there and this di’kut is about to go storming in with a goddamn gun.

“I said don’t make me shoot you!” He’s got the gun out now, his trusty pistol, not his preferred rifle, but he’d left that in the sheriff’s office in a rush after hearing yelling and a commotion he wasn’t used to. He’s never leaving it behind again he decides, this has been a wake-up call, he’s gotten lazy, complacent, too soft. This town has damn near domesticated him. He needs to keep himself in shape and his wits about him if he wants to be a decent sheriff. Maybe he’ll telegram Cara, get her to come back him up as deputy or Paz, whichever wants the quiet town life more. 

He hesitates because of his recent domestication, his increased softness of heart...because if he shoots he’ll put a bullet in your schoolhouse and he knows it could go straight through, could hit one of you inside. But, mostly because he knows how much you care about that damn schoolhouse and he can’t bring it in him to damage it knowing you’d be devastated. Paz would laugh at him if he saw him now, tell him he needed to pull his trousers up and get on with the job. He’s never been very good at that. He curses kicking a rock nearby as the thief runs straight through the schoolhouse door with you inside. 

He’s panicking, he can feel it well in his chest, clutching at his throat and he’s not sure what to do. If he storms in it’ll be a mess, little kids and you, all at risk, but if he stays outside he can’t do a damned thing. He can’t begin to imagine how you’re feeling in there, probably panicking, the kids are probably scared, that’s soon confirmed by the terrified little screams he can hear. There’s a panic inside and it just swells his own until he feels like he’s choking. 

“Come out! Leave them the hell alone, boy! Do not test me!” They’re empty words because he can’t do a damned thing, but if that thief lays a hand on any of you he isn’t going to bring him in warm, he’ll be in a jail cell, cold, waiting for the coroner to come and collect him. That he’s certain of, a single hair out of place, a single bruise or mark and that man won’t be breathing for much longer. 

                                                   --------------------

“It’s a well known fact that we’re all acted upon by a force we call gravity! Now gravity-” The door to the school slams open with a supreme force that shocks you so hard that you jump from your place at the front of the class, chalk falling from your hand in a perfect demonstration of the force you’d been discussing. The children react in an instant, jumping from their feet then all clamour towards you like a stampede of panicked animals and it is all you can do in that moment to grab the yardstick you use in mathematics and occasionally in science and hide it behind you. 

He’s wild looking, the man who storms into your school. Bulging big eyes roaming over the lot of you with a snarl, almost foaming at the mouth with aggressive energy, gun clenched tightly in one hand. He’s red in the face, huffing and puffing from running from god knows where. You can hear Din outside, he’s cursing and blinding, you can hear the panic, you can taste your own on the back of your tongue like a sour candy, like cough candy, the ones your father used to love and you used to hate so desperately. 

“Now, sir, I-”

“Shut up!” It’s in this moment you realise that you cannot deescalate this situation, this man is like a wild dog, he is ready to bite at the slightest sound or provocation and the children are your main concern.

Panic gives way to anger, that bitter resolve, that feeling of indignation at this man’s brazen act. That he felt he could come into your domain, your space, that he could threaten you and your children. That he could point a gun in their direction. It’s the gun that angers you the most, it’s not pointed at you, like any sane person would do, it’s not pointed at the one adult in the room, but at Jerome who is shaking so hard you can hear his teeth clattering together. He’s barely a boy of fourteen, not a threat in the slightest. 

You wait, wait as he takes steps closer and closer, drown out the sound of Din’s panic outside, drown out the sounds of your own children, the adrenaline making you feel like your skin is buzzing, like you’ve touched an electric circuit, but there’s no electricity in the schoolhouse at all. You’re shaking, that’s just how much energy is buzzing within you, you’re shaking like a leaf on a windy November day and you can’t physically contain it, stop it. 

When he’s mere feet from you, you lift your chin defiant and angry, mouth opening in a tirade of angry words, as you rush forward in what you’re sure would be a stupid act if you weren’t so desperate for him to ignore the children and focus on you. 

“How dare you come into my school and threaten my children!” It’s almost a scream, you’re so angry, so scared, that you don’t even think when you pull the yardstick from behind your back and swing with both hands for the hand holding the gun. It connects and for a moment he fumbles, you’re sure the gun will fall from his hands, but he catches it at the last second.

His hand comes up, “You bitch!” and clocks you across the face with the butt of his gun. One hit, hard enough for your ears to start ringing. You can feel blood drip from your lip which stings as it splits itself open, your teeth clatter together and by some miracle you stay on your feet, swaying back and forth. The children have begun to cry behind you and you can hear the sounds of roaring anger from outside. Din’s voice, clamouring louder than you’ve ever heard it. 

“You lay a hand on her and you’ll wish you never came to this town!” It’s too late for that you think, he’s already laid that hand and if Din doesn’t get to him first you’re determined to deal your own blows. 

The yardstick is ripped from your palms and you’re sure for a moment that he’ll simply throw it away, out of reach but he doesn’t. Whatever anger he is feeling boils over and the slab of wood hits you in the stomach, the ribs, the back. A hit to the face has your nose bleeding, your jaw feels like it might be broken and your only thought is ‘stay up, stay standing’. Your only relief is that the attention is on you now and not the children. 

“Nar’sheb!” You spit it out, the pronunciation is awful, but the one insult that Din had taught you tumbles from your lips, hoping to keep his attention on you, hoping the provocation gives Din some time to think, to plan. Even, if you feel like he might actually kill you, like he’s capable of it. 

“What the fuck did you just say to me?” 

“I said shove it, you filthy nerfherder!” It’s enough of a push for him to grab you by the front of your blouse and pull you forward, one arm coming underneath your neck, hand gripping your jaw painfully tight, especially with how broken it already feels, no doubt his fingers are going to leave bruises, while the gun is pressed to your temple. 

The fear comes back in full force this time as you hear the children crying louder at seeing you being abused, seeing a gun to your head. But you know you have to be strong because they are your children and you have to protect them, that’s your job, it’s your duty. So you’re almost relieved when he spits at you.

“Let’s go see that sheriff of yours, huh? He seems mighty concerned for you.” It relieves you because you’re beginning to move inch by inch towards the door and you know the older kids will take the younger ones out the back door, usher them quietly out of the schoolhouse and to somewhere safe. You can breathe easy because even if you die today those children are going to be safe, you’ll have done your job. The most important one. Keeping them safe. 

He sees you first, you’re blinded by the light blinking at the midday sun, but, Din? He can see you clear and bright and he has never been so angry in all his life. Your lip is busted open, blood running down your chin, staining your white blouse, there are bruises over your jaw, your nose is leaking more red and he can see by the way you carry yourself that your ribs hurt. The thief’s dirty hands are on you, one clutching your jaw so tight that he can see the indentations his fingers make even from a distance away, the other holding that damn cattleman revolver to your head. It makes him want to beat the guy black and blue, forgoing guns, just give him his bare hands and he’ll ring the guy's neck. Just let him go absolutely feral on the man, let him tear him apart. Din clenches his hand tighter around his gun, the other tightening into a fist, he widens his stance. If it is to be a fight then that’s fine, so long as you’re not in the middle of it. 

He looks scared. That’s the first thing you think when you see Din. He looks scared and angry, his gun is pointed but you know he won’t trust himself to shoot it, his brow furrowed, wet eyes, and teeth biting into his lip hard enough to bleed. He looks raging and scared and wild. This is a side of Din you have never seen, you are so used to the calm, the quiet, gentle Din. But, this Din doesn’t scare you, it fuels your fire again, that this man would make Din feel like that, that he would make this kind man scared and angry. You can feel that rage welling up, shaking you physically. He thinks you’re scared, you can tell by the laugh and little comment ‘oh don’t be scared now’, that he whispers into your ear, his breath hot against your skin, making you shy away in disgust. It crawls over your skin in a most unpleasant way. 

“Now, Sheriff, i’m going to make you an offer that I wouldn’t refuse, not if you want this pretty little thing to come out in one piece that is.” That name angers you even more, how dare he condescend you, how dare he call you that, it’s worse than being called a bitch or a cunt or any other number of derogatory names. 

You don’t even give him the chance to make his offer. You slam the pointed heel of your boot into his foot, hard as you can, before bringing an elbow back into his stomach and using what little you know about the centre of gravity to off balance him and shift him over your head and in front of you. The gun goes flying and your hands reach for the heavy metal pail you keep in front of the school house for collecting water, thanking God that you’d decided a cast iron one would do better than tin as you heft it over your head and across his face with a ringing smash and a crunch of bones. 

You stand over him, chest heaving, “You come near my children again and I will kill you, do you hear me! I’ll show you what a pretty little thing like me can do, sir!” For good measure your swing the pail down again, the man groans and far from being disgusted with your show of violence, you feel better than you have all week at knowing the threat has been dealt with.

You look up breathing heavy, blood dripping from your lip to see the children had made it outside, watching you with wide eyes, almost as wide as Din’s, but not quite. The gun is slack in his hand and he is watching you with a heat you’ve never seen before, it makes you swallow hard.

Din’s sure he’s in love. That’s what he thinks it feels like as he watches you, your chest heaving in anger, your features twisted from their usual soft and delicate countenance. This is love, this feeling like you’ve reached into his chest and grabbed his heart in your bare hand. You are the picture of a mother bear protecting her cubs and that part of him that is deeply Mandalorian cries out for you, cries out to grab you and hold you close. You are in that moment more Mandalorian than he is, mandokarla in every sense of the word. You have the spirit of a true mandalorian, the spirit of a mother, strong, brave, prepared to do what needs to be done. Undefeated. The man beneath your feet groans and it spurs him to action. 

Pulling handcuffs from the back of his belt, Din closes the gap between himself and the thief. He’s rough as he rolls the man onto his front, pulling his arms far behind his back and locking them together. He knows he’s rougher than he needs to be, but the man’s lucky. Lucky that he can’t bring himself to hurt him more with you stood there. 

“You’re lucky I don’t put a bullet in your head right now, osi’kovid. I should kill you for what you’ve done.” He means it too, he wants to just do it, but he knows it’s not right. Not when the man is incapacitated, unable to defend himself. Not when the little ones are watching on, many of their parents having made their way through town at the sound of the disturbance, clutching at the little ones with relief and shock. 

“Then why don’t you, big bad sheriff?” Din hauls him to his feet roughly, presses his mouth close to the thief’s ear not wanting the others to hear him.

“The only thing keeping you alive right now is the woman standing in front of you. If she wasn’t here I'd tear you limb from limb. You’re lucky she’s there.” He means it too. He won’t hurt him, not like this, because he knows you wouldn’t approve, because he knows no matter how angry you are you’d never be okay with him hurting an unarmed, handcuffed man. But, god if he isn’t close to snapping. All that panic has turned into anger, anger which he focuses on the man as he roughly drags him towards the cells. 

You think you weren’t supposed to hear it, the threat, but you did and it is both scary to see him like this and a mite attractive.  Your gentle sheriff is showing a harsher side than you’ve ever seen and it should shake you to your core, make you distance yourself, but it doesn’t. Did you not just show the exact same side of you? Did you not just consider beating the man to a pulp yourself? All because you loved your children, wanted them safe. You think this anger from Din is a reflection on how much he cares for you and the children, how scared he had been and it warms something inside of you. Your chest aches with a longing that you don’t understand as you watch him roughly walk the man away. 

“Are you alright, Miss!” It’s Mr Hewitt, concerned for your welfare, but you just wave him off and make your way to the children, hand clutching at your ribs. 

“I’m perfectly alright, Mr Hewitt, don’t you worry about me!” The children, for the most part are with their parents, all of whom have congregated after commotion drew their attention and word spread quickly through town. They’re crying into their mother’s skirts and their father’s trouser legs and it breaks your heart. They should never have had to witness or experience that, it should never have happened. 

“Children!” Their heads snap up instantly, ever attentive to your teacher's voice; they watch you with focused eyes even while they hiccup and sniffle. “I think we’ve earned the rest of the day off, don’t you? Go home, rest, play and I shall see you bright and early tomorrow morning!” 

Truth is you need to sit down. You can’t even begin to think about teaching right now. So sending them home seems your only option. 

Parents smile at you, wish you well, tell you to look after yourself as they escort their children home. The only little one left is Grogu who runs towards you with panicked eyes, and despite the pain you kneel on the ground in front of him. The little one wraps his arms tight around your neck before pulling back, little hands patting over your cheeks and hair, as if imitating an adult checking your injuries. It brings tears to your eye because in that moment you’re reminded of what could have happened, what could have been lost. It’s not fear for your own life that has tears falling, but fear for him, for all the little ones and their youthful innocence. 

“Cabur...cabur” It’s said to you, little hands framing your face, big brown eyes serious as he looks up at you. It isn’t a word you know, mando’a you are sure, and it’s not a word you’ve ever heard leave his lips before. A quiet child he had only recently begun to start talking and often in one or two words only. 

That’s how Din finds the two of you. You’re kneeling in the dirt, skirt stained probably beyond repair, blouse bloody, face bruised and cut. Grogu is in your lap, your arms wrapped around his little chubby body, his hands cupping your face as he says it over and over again. ‘Cabur’. Guardian. Protector. It warms him from the inside out, that his ad, his son sees you as such, that his son cares about you so much and that you care about him just the same. He has no doubt that you were prepared to die for those children and it scares him and warms him in equal measure. 

You hear his footfalls, dirt and gravel crunching under well worn boots, spurs clinking lightly as he comes to crouch next to you. Warm fingers reach out to gently graze your jaw, taking in the dark mottled bruising and deep swelling.

“What does it mean?” Wide eyes turn on him and he can’t help but smile softly at you, moustache twisting upwards at your curious nature, always so eager to learn, always wanting to engage more with the world around you. 

“Protector, guardian, cabur’ika.” You wince slightly when he presses around your nose, checking to feel if it is broken. It’s not, but it will swell and bruise along with most of your face. The blood has stood spilling from it and that reassures him that it isn't too serious. It still hurts to see you like this, to see you hurt in any way. 

“Ika?”

“Little.” He can already see your brows furrowing, lips setting into an offended scowl as you glare up at him. At the diminutive suffix, not fully understanding the nuances of mando’a yet.

“Little!”

He laughs at your offence, not because it’s funny because it does not mean what you think it means, “It’s a...a familiar term. It’s not because you’re little.” He hopes he makes sense. He doesn't call you a little protector to make fun of you or tease you, but because it shows familiarity, closeness. You are becoming part of his clan without realising it and the familiarity feels good to show. Just as when he calls Grogu, Gro’ika. 

“Oh.” The annoyance metals from your features as quickly as it came and he continues his prodding of your skin, carefully assessing your injuries. Your jaw isn’t broken, he tells you, but it is badly bruised and he tells you to talk less in class, although he gives you a look that says he understands that is unlikely to happen. A gentle finger pulls your lower lip from between your teeth, you hiss, but he’s gentle as can be when looking at the split lip. Badly split and still bleeding red over your chin and blouse. 

Din rises to his feet, offering you a hand, “Let’s get you clean up, cabur’ika”. He helps you stand, Grogu letting go and sliding from your lap to instead hold your skirt hem as the three of you walk. 

Din wraps a strong arm around your waist to help you walk, your pace is slow, careful and it takes longer than it really should to get across town to your small house. It’s not much, just 2 rooms; the main living area with your kitchen, wash basin, tub and a bedroom separated from the rest. But it is home. Cosy, he thinks, like you. It screams home, lived in, a place to live, not just rest your head. 

He eases you onto your settee, propping up pillows behind your back as he urges you to lay down. He even plumps a few in his hands like a mother hen, clucking around you as he unlaces your boots and gently pulls them off to make you more comfortable, grabbing a throw and tucking it around you. He’s filling a washbowl with water from your tap, the one luxury you have, being a plumbed-in kitchen sink. 

“Din...you don’t have to do this.” He should be dealing with paperwork, probably writing a telegraph for someone from a local prison to come and collect the man currently in the jailhouse. He shouldn’t be here with you, he has better things to do. 

“Yes. I do. Someone needs to look after you, cabur’ika.” You watch him grab salt from the side mixing it in with the water, just enough to help keep your wounds clean. Watch him decide which cloth on your countertop is the best to use. He feels the fabrics, which is too abrasive, which is softest, gentlest, before deciding on one and dropping it into the washbowl. 

Grogu is sat by your fireplace watching as his buir shifts you slightly so he can sit on the edge of the settee, washbowl placed on the ground. His fingers are gentle as they rest underneath your chin and urge you to look up at him, calloused but soft on your skin, careful of any pressure that might hurt you. 

The salt water stings, but the cloth is soft and he hushes you quietly at every hiss or groan of discomfort you make. Carefully cleaning your wounds, wiping the dirt, sweat and blood from your skin. 

“It’s okay, Cyar’ika. I’m sorry….i’m sorry.” It’s more than just a sorry for the temporary pain of cleaning your wounds, it’s more than just sorry that I am causing your wounds to sting. There is a deep pain in his voice that strikes you to your core and you shift, hands wrapping around his wrist as you sit yourself up despite the pain in your ribs. 

“You don’t have anything to be sorry for, Din. Listen to me,” you tug on the wrist, pull it towards you and hold him to your chest, urge him to look you in the eye. You can feel the guilt rolling off of him in waves, “You didn’t do anything wrong. It’s not your fault.”

“You wouldn’t be like this if I was better at my job...I got complacent, lazy, I should have been able to catch him before he even got near the schoolhouse! You shouldn’t have ever been put in that position, you and the little ones…” It’s the break in his voice, the tears welling in deep brown eyes that has you wrapping your arms around his head and pulling him to rest his cheek on your chest. Rubbing circles in the back of his neck, twisting dark curls between your fingers. 

“You did everything you could. You are not at fault and I will not have you blame yourself for something you had no control over. You are a good sheriff, Din. You are so good. Please don’t blame yourself for this, darling.” You scratch careful circles into his scalp with your nails, rub soothing lines over his neck and under his jaw, whisper gentle reminders that he is the best thing to happen to this town. That he provided you with a school. That he has made this town safe. That he is not at fault for this. But, you know, deep inside you that he will carry this moment with him, that he will not forget what happened and what could have happened. This guilt will weigh heavily on him, and will follow him.

“You could have been killed. The little ones could have been hurt.” He has always been a man of emotions, quiet emotions, but emotions nonetheless. You’d known from the start that he had a protective streak, that that extended especially towards children. That the mandalorian in him, his upbringing, urged him to keep them safe as much as your own duties did.

“But they weren’t. Keeping them safe is my job, Din. Don’t add it to your worries.” But, they weren’t his responsibility. When they were in your schoolhouse they were yours. The last thing you wanted was him to take that responsibility onto his shoulders when he already had so much, that guilt. It was your responsibility to protect them and while scared and shocked, none of them had a hair out of place or a scratch on them. They were okay. 

“You could have died, cabur’ika. You could have died.” 

“I know. I know,” It hits you. Like being trampled under horse hooves and the wheels of a carriage, like the yardstick to your ribs, full force and winding as you finally understand. You could have died. You could have died. 

It is your turn to cry as your breathing becomes uneven and your mind tries to make sense of the fact you nearly died today, just doing your job, just in your schoolhouse. That there is so much you have not achieved, so little you’ve seen or done and you could have lost the chance to ever do. “Din…” You’re clutching at him, fingers digging in his back as he pulls you tighter to him. 

There is a moment where he worries that you cannot breathe, that the force of your tears will choke you in his arms and so he holds you tighter, barricades you in his arms. Walls shielding you from the world. He brings a hand to the base of your neck cupping it to tilt your head up as he presses his forehead to your own. A comforting gesture, a keldabe kiss, he wants you to feel safe again. Wants to impress upon you your importance in his life even if he is not ready to say it yet.

He can feel your breath evening out with the gesture, your lungs relaxing as his presence comforts you. It pleases him to know he can calm you. He is the only thing present in that moment, not what happened, not the wild eyes of your assailant, not the fear, not the kids, not the room around you. Just him. His warm forehead pressed into yours, gentle, but firm enough to ground you. Large hand cupping the back of your neck, the other arm wrapped entirely around you to keep you close. 

It is a little movement behind your back and two small arms wrapping around your back, unable to truly wrap around you fully that bring you back into the present. 

It’s a little voice saying ‘Cabur’ into the fabric of your blouse, little hands gripping at you, trying to soothe you that makes your heart ache in an entirely different way. You pull back from Din, enough so that you can reach around you and pull Grogu into your lap, between the two of you, shielded by you both. It should scare you, how it feels like you have your entire world on your settee, how it feels like family. It should scare you what you would do for Din, for Grogu. What you would do to keep them safe, happy, healthy. Instead it warms you, to know that you’ve found somewhere to belong that isn’t just a schoolhouse and a classroom. 

“It’s okay, Ad’ika. I’m okay. I promise.” You run a hand through his dark curls, boop him on the nose to make him smile and feel a true smile creeping on your face even if it hurts. You’re not lying either. You’re okay. You will be okay. With this little child who cares for you deeply, with his father who is always there to look after you, you know you are okay and will be okay. 

“Ori'haat,” Din says to you, lifting your eyes back to him and the soft little smile playing at the corners of his mouth, “I swear. You said you wanted to learn more.”

“Or-e-haht?” You are back to your little game. The one where he tells you a new word and you try to pronounce it, but the unfamiliar words twist wrong in your mouth, coming out butchered to his amusement. He enjoys it, you know he does. It is easy to see because his eyes always twinkle with humour and his face softens, some of the harsh lines fading away. 

“Oh-ree-haht.”

“Oh-e-haht?” You always concentrate hard and it is this fact that makes your mispronunciations cute, copikla, rather than frustrating. He does not mind you making mistakes because you try earnestly to correct them and always practice the words till you have it right. He enjoys teaching you because he enjoys hearing his language from another person, enjoys the familiarity, the homeliness of it. 

“Oh-ree-haht!” This time it’s Grogu who announciates it, loud and clear with a little grin on his sweet little face as he looks between you and his buir as if waiting for praise. 

“Very good, Gro’ika,” Din ruffles the boy’s curls before turning his eyes back to you. The boy preens under the praise, little grin growing in size as he sits between the two you. How he always manages to get it right on the first try you don’t know, you’re a little envious of the boy's knack for seemingly everything. He is a quick learner in school and out of it. 

“Oh-ree-haht?”

“Jate, good.” You smile proud of your efforts and shift a little in your seat, ribs pulling and causing you to let out a pained breath. It's going to be sometime you think before you are fully back to how you were, without pain or bruises. You have yet to look in a mirror but are sure that you look terrible.

“Would you like to stay for dinner?” You extend the invitation, knowing you don’t want either of them to go just yet, even though Din probably has things he needs to do and it is selfish to ask him to stay when he has his duties to get on with. 

“You’re not making dinner, cyar’ika. I’ll make it.” He untangles himself from you, grabbing the washbowl to empty in your garden. The view of you with his son cuddled up to you makes his heart warm, even with the mottled bruising and cuts across your features. 

“Din…”

“I will not argue about this with you, i’m taking care of you and you will rest, cabur’ika.” His tone brooks no argument, demanding for the first time, truly, that you listen and do not fight him on this. You should be resting, not standing cooking dinner. You are in too much pain and he would sooner tie you to your bed then let you hurt yourself in an effort to be the hostess. 

With a heavy sigh, you conceded defeat. “Okay, but I’m not happy about it, Din Djarin.”

“I know.” He says with a smile.

                                                  --------------------

Mando’a Translations:

Nar'sheb - contemptuous comment, like saying shove it.

K'olar! - get over here!

Cabur - guardian, protector 

Cabur’ika - lit. little guardian/protector, but the ika shows familiarity, making this more of a pet name, friendly term. 

Haar’chak - damn it

Shebs - butt, ass.

Di’kut - idiot.

Mandokarla - having the *right stuff*, showing guts and spirit, the state of being the epitome of Mando virtue

Osi’kovid - shithead

Ori'haat - I swear

Cyar’ika - sweetheart, darling

Jate - good

Copikla - charming, cute, typically not used for women, but for animals and children. But honestly, I think the reader wouldn’t be offended like a typical mandalorian might by being called copikla. 

Ad’ika - Little one.

[captain-emmajones]

Love, Emma (7/7)

(Art by the wonderful @carpedzem​ <33) 

Loosely based on Love, Rosie (2014).

Killian and Emma are best friends and neighbors. They’ve always been – until he leaves for the Navy when his brother dies. When he comes back, nine months later, summer has begun and childhood is ending. Emma can tell something is changed in him, but she doesn’t know what. Until she does. He’s fallen in love with someone else.

And then, suddenly, they’re kissing on her nineteenth birthday. When she asks him to forget their night out, and never talk about it again, Killian thinks she means to tell him she regrets the kiss they exchanged. Except she has no memory of it.

Big thank you to @profdanglaisstuff​ for being a wonderful beta and having my back all through this work! 

Friends to Lovers - Mutual Pining - Angst - Fluff - 7000 words - ao3

Part 1 - MIRRORBALL, Part 2 - AUGUST  , Part 3 - HOAX, Part 4 - PEACE, Part 5 - THIS IS ME TRYING, Part 6 - CARDIGAN

Note: This is it, the great, the terrible last chapter. I hope you guys will like this as much as I tortured myself writing it, making sure it is the perfect ending to this story :’) It’s been a pleasure writing this story, I loved every second of it and yeah...Thank you for sticking with me through this. It’s been really lovely having you as my readers. 

PART 7 - INVISIBLE STRING 

Present Day -- August, Storybrooke, Maine.

That night, Granny’s dinner is fuller than usual. Fuller with people, fuller with life.

It’s an agreeable summer night, the air a cool breeze against Killian and Emma’s bare arms as Mary Margaret and David argue over the color choice of the napkins for their upcoming wedding. Crickets chirp all around them, seeming to mock them.

Their plates of food are now empty, and Ruby expertely piles them up on her left arm as Mary Margaret shoots a death glare at her boyfriend.

“White is simply perfect, David.”

“So you play Snow White once in High School and now it’s your favorite color? That’s ridiculous, Mary Margaret.”

“Is it now? And what kind of color would you go for? Orange?”  

“Well, orange would be a statement for one!”

“Over my dead body, David. It’s white or nothing.”

If Emma weren’t so distracted by the warmth of Killian’s fingers around hers, she would have probably choked on her beer and mumbled “Mary Margaret - 1, David - 0.”

Thankfully for everyone, the palm that curled around hers a few minutes ago metaphorically threw her straight into a pink cloud kind of paradise.

Looking up from their intertwined fingers, Emma is greeted by the very real purple pink clouds in the night sky, behind Killian and Mary Margaret’s back. They are sitting opposite Emma and David, while Ingrid sits in the middle, a small contented smile on her lips, as she eats her onion rings in silence.

Fairy lights hang above their heads. Emma loves fairy lights, she always has.

“Why not settle for another color, mates?” tries Killian in a calm, soothing voice, and Emma is surprised he is talking at all.

He should know better. Grave, stupid mistake it is to get between Mary Margaret, David and their napkins.

“NEVER,” the couple answer as one voice, and Emma watches with a chuckle caught in her throat as Killian backs away, hands in front of his face.

“Wohoho, mates. Calm down. The only people you’re allowed to kill are each other.”

And as Emma swallows another grin, she thinks Killian and she haven’t talked about it, but that’s fine. Emma’s brain doesn’t seem able to come up with words, anyway.

A few hours ago, the walk back to Ingrid’s was achieved in near complete silence, and it was weird -- considering with whom she was walking. Actually, cross that -- it was weird to be walking back to her childhood house with Killian Jones, period.

But Emma was able to find comfort in Killian’s lack of words as well, and god knows how talkative Killian can be, she found comfort in his breathy tone when he handed her the box back and the flush on his cheeks, knowing if she could barely hear anything if not for her own heartbeats, surely he wasn’t pulling this any better than she was.

“Earth to Emma, would you like a desert?”

Emma blinks. Two green eyes are staring at her.

Right. Dinner. Granny’s. Damnit, focus Emma. Ruby’s voice sends a shameful loop down Emma’s belly.

“...Mmm, no, actually. I’m fine, for now.”

Ruby’s raising an eyebrow. Everyone is staring at her. Why are they staring?

“Are you sure, Ems?”

“I am. Why do you ask?”

“...It’s just, it doesn’t sound a lot like you.”

And then Emma’s pretty sure her hair stands on end.

“Really.” And each word is meant to sound more threatening than the last. “I. Am. Fine. Ruby.”

She’s not looking at him, but Emma catches Killian’s small chuckle all the same. It’s hard to ignore how easily her rage melts away, and she hides the beginning of a smile behind a napkin.

“Fine.” And Ruby nearly sounds like she is the one who got attacked. (Perhaps she was. But she deserved it.)

As the waitress disappears in a clatter of heels, Ingrid is tapping a napkin against her mouth, delicately, and Emma knows very well what this means.

“Well, it’s already 10pm. I think I’ll leave you youngsters to it.”

Emma watches as Ingrid folds the napkin in front of her, just like she always does, and gracefully stands up.  

“Goodnight, kids.” Ingrid grins, and everyone replies with a lively “Goodnight, Ingrid!”

A kiss is dropped onto Emma’s forehead, and Emma doesn’t miss the subtle pat on the back Killian receives on Ingrid’s way out. Emma thinks Ingrid’s always liked Killian, but then she stops thinking about it because David and Mary Margaret are coughing, and it is the least natural piece of acting Emma’s had the chance to witness in a while.

They both exchange a sly glance, nod and stand up at their turn, and Emma stares at them -- cheeks burning.

“Yeah, we’ll go, too. It’s getting pretty late, and we flew in very early this morning.”

Traitor, shout Emma’s eyes at Mary Margaret, but the small brunette is smiling with all of her teeth out and doesn’t seem concerned by Emma’s impending murder threat.

“Enjoy your night, guys,” David looks far too delighted. “Byye.”

“Aha, bye guys.”

Away from Granny’s dinner and up Main Street towards Granny’s B&B, the couple vanishes into the night.

And just like that, Emma and Killian are alone under the fairy lights.

Chirp, chirp.

This time, Emma cannot ignore the childish panic that strangles her throat, as his touch begins to burn her skin and her hand slowly slides out of his palm. She looks down at the green plastic table.

What to do now? Jesus, she is not nineteen anymore, she needs to take initiative, and—

“Fancy a walk along the beach, Emma?”asks Killian, and Emma is so thankful for the distraction she nearly knocks the table down as she springs to her feet.

“Excellent idea!” Why do her legs feel so wobbly?

And Killian smirks, and she wonders if he knows just how badly she is afraid, of him, of her, of risking her heart.

“Perfect then, let’s sail away.”

But she wants this to work, she wants them to work. She spent a good part of her life agonizing over this relationship, daydreaming about it, and then cursing it, and it better be as good as she thought it would be.

.

As things turn out, this walk along the beach feels like brutally falling down a rabbit hole. It knocks the wind out of Emma and it is wonderfully terrifying.

The wind blows that night. Salt air dances with Emma’s light dress and Killian’s hair.

Emma’s shoes dangle from her fingers, but she is still shaking like a leaf.

Awful, isn’t it, to finally get all you’ve ever dreamed of?

She knows it’s not entirely hers yet, she knows she still has to dash forward and grab it with her two hands, and not let it go – on any account. (Do you want it?)

It’s terrifying.

She did not reach out to Killian, this past month, although she knew about his letter...and she probably wouldn’t have reached out first, had he not appeared on her porch.

There is still this stupid fear, down her stomach, this stupid fear that he never cared, he never will, and this is all a sick joke.

(She wants it.)

“Should we sit?”

“Aye.”

He complies as she sprawls into the sand she feels moist under her toes, sitting down a few inches from him.

Somehow, staring at him still feels illegal.

When he gets a flask of rum out of his leather jacket, she rolls her eyes, and her bracelet glints under the moonlight. For the first time in ages, it is not a painful sight. She does not twist the little charms.

“Really? Is rum your solution to everything?”

“It’s not rum, Swan. It’s merely water.”

“Is it now?”

“Nah, it’s definitely rum. But it never hurts to have a drink between friends.”

And at that wicked, wicked word, they both stare at one another and gape slightly.

It should be funny. Except it still itches.

Aren’t they friends?

There are stars reflected in his eyes. There is still this ache inside her chest.

Emma is urged by a desire to look down then, but she doesn’t cave in. Instead, her mouth curves into a smile.

“…Friends or other types of acquaintances,” he adds after a while, and Emma’s smile widens.

The flask of rum is handed to her, and she drinks a few mouthfuls that diffuse a sweet heat and courage down her throat. Lord does she need it.  

“Acquaintances, you say, um?”

She licks the small drop of rum that rolls down her lower lip, notices with satisfaction as Killian’s eyes follow the movement of her tongue and widen when he realizes she has caught him red-handed.

“Aye. I believe we’ve been acquainted.” There is a delicious twirl, down in her stomach, that could drown her fears, she knows it, if only she allowed herself to let go.

“Right.”

Idiot. Her cheeks burn. It is ridiculous, they are ridiculous and she doesn’t mind.

Woosh, woosh, the waves giggle.

As Emma inhales deeply, she figures she has to give him back his flask and that this -- whatever the hell this really is -- is probably going to be more difficult than she initially thought.

Her fingers brush against his as his hand closes over the flask -- of course they do -- and Emma couldn’t honestly say who’s to blame.  

“Thanks, Swan.”

Oh, how many scenarios she made up in her mind, about him showing up. They all ended with their lips locked together. What she had a very hard time figuring out was the in-between. The talking. The confession. Because there has to be one, right?

She hears him gulp a few mouthfuls of rum down next to her and she refocuses her gaze on him. He clears his throat.

“So, erm, any plans for the foreseeable future?” he inquires.

The flask is buried in the sand between them.

“I don’t know, to be honest. For now, I think I’ll stay in Storybrooke. It’s my home.”

And then a pause, she glances at him through her eyelashes. A mischievous wave comes crashing at their feet, bites their toes.

“What about you, Killian? Still in Portsmouth?”

She watches him tilt his head next to her as he carefully sieves a handful of sand between his fingers, brows furrowed.

“Actually, I’ve been thinking about moving back to Storybrooke. Joining the Navy again would not be easy, and I’m not sure it’s entirely what I desire. I mostly did it to honour Liam but it’s never been a dream of mine…”

A pause, a breath, for him, Emma has stopped breathing somewhere after “Storybrooke”. And her mouth refuses to shut.

“Plus, there’s the fact that Graham did mention the need for another deputy,” he casually adds, shoots a swift glance at her.

Oh. Breathe, Emma, breathe.

It’s very hard, then, for Emma to swallow the smile that tingles her lips.

“You are?” she asks, curses silently her quivering tone. Clears her throat. Dammit, why did it come out like this?

If he notices it, Killian doesn’t show it. Instead, he goes on, the ghost of a smile over his lips.

“Aye. I don’t think there’s anywhere else for me to be. It is high time I came home.”

Home. The word echoes between them, much like the gentle rustling of the waves.

And Emma nods and she has no idea where to put herself, what to say. She settles for telling the truth.

“That’s great. I could really use you around.” A pause. “I’ve missed you.”

Twinkle, twinkle the stars in the night sky, and the constellations in her heart as her eyes meet his. They put to shame the sea of stars in front of them.

Emma’s heart is bursting out as he slowly glances down at her lips, and then even more slowly looks up, a dangerous grin overtaking his features.

“Aye. I’ve missed you too, Swan. I don’t want to be apart from you anymore.”

Hearing him repeat her words is positively the worst thing that could have happened to her heart rate. That one nearly rips her heart out of her chest and sends it ricocheting on the waves.

She nods, laughs a bit, crinkles her nose mostly to hide how flustered she truly is.

“How…How did this happen?”

And he sighs next to her, a very dramatic sigh that she recognizes as a poor attempt to hide a deeper kind of pain. She watches as he stretches his legs, digs a shape into the sand with his fingers.

“How did you end up marrying Neal Cassidy, you mean? Poor judgement, if I do say so myself.”

The bastard.

She elbows him in the ribs, of course, he deserves it.

And he only chuckles, feigns a moan of pain, and… and grabs the arm she threw at him to bring her closer to him. There are grains of sand stuck to his skin as his hand closes over her fisted palm. As he stares at her, all air has definitely been knocked out of Emma’s lungs.  

His nose gently brushes hers. Little pulses of magic seem to climb up her hand, her arm, to gently tickle her heart.

And she gazes into his eyes, mortified. Swallows hard.

“To be fair, he did hide that letter from you. A shame really, it was truly a pearl of literature.”

His breath tingles Emma’s lips, and it isn’t fair.

She snorts, she tries to at least, because it is hard to do anything when he is this close to her.

“David told you,” she mumbles, rolls her eyes dramatically, blushes furiously.

He isn’t denying the letter. He isn’t denying anything.

“Aye that he did. You can’t trust the guy with a secret, love.”

She doesn’t know what David told him over the phone, but Emma thinks it is safe to assume that it is somewhere near absolutely everything. And it should bother her, it should bother that secret and private part of herself, but Emma’s tired of fighting against herself, and she lets it go. All of it.

Her hand is still in his, twisted against his chest, right above his heart. She doesn’t mind. They could remain like this, forever, for all she minds. But that wouldn’t be very practical, now, would it?

“And it’s not like I didn’t know…” he continues, and Emma’s mouth drops even more, if it is possible. “I think I’ve known from the moment I met you. Haven’t you?”

A nervous chuckle shakes her shoulders.

“What exactly have you always known?”

“You can’t answer my question with another question, Swan. That’s just not how the English language works.”

“Well, if you could drop the metaphors and double entendre, then perhaps, perhaps I…” A breath. There’s no need to hide anymore, although something ludicrous seems about to explode inside her chest. “Y-yes, I think I knew...But I --”

“-- Good, because in that case, there’s no use for me to hold back from doing this…”

And as she opens her mouth to complain about metaphors and double entendre, again, he leans into her, tilts his face and, as Emma’s heart does a weird leaping thing in her chest, delicately presses his lips to hers.

While Emma does think it is definitely very rude of him to interrupt her like that, she cannot bring herself to complain too much.

Neither can she ignore the sudden explosion in her chest, thousands of strawberry bubbles of happiness that taste of childhood and dreams bursting out.

Oh god. She muffles a moan against his mouth, snatches her hand from his grip to tug at his hair, brings him closer to her, as close as humanly possible, presses her mouth harder against his, as hard she can, and she quite literally feels like a house set on fire.

Thump, thump, cries her heart, as their lips dance together, as his hand gets lost in her hair, and no air reaches her lungs and this goddamn flower keeps blooming inside her chest and there isn’t any space between them, and she’s pretty sure she’s combusting into flames, but it’s fine, it’s really fine when his mouth opens and gives her access to his tongue.

It’s a gentle kiss, in spite of the passion. It’s such a gentle kiss, in the way with which his hand tenderly lingers in her curls, as if he were afraid she’d shatter under his touch, or in the way his other arm curls around her waist, holds her tightly, but not too tightly, so as not to break her it seems.

Years of yearning will do that to you, make you afraid of shattering the glittering and fragile object of your affection.

And when they let go, burning forehead against burning forehead, because they really, really need to breathe, Emma doesn’t want to run. In fact, she doesn’t want this to ever end. And she doesn’t know it, but she smiles.

“Then why –” he begins, his lips lightly, delicately brushing against hers as he speaks.

And how dare he be talking! She can barely breathe.

“—why the wedding?” she lazily answers against his lips. “Because I didn’t think you cared…” A pause. “You never told me you did... You didn’t even call, after the k-kiss.”

Damnit, that was harder to spit out than anticipated. And it probably sounded more accusing than she wanted it to, but she forgives herself.

The painful memory allows her to step back a little, to gaze into his blue eyes and discover his cheeks crimson and an awestruck look on his face, as well as a lot of guilt and tenderness.

A sigh. “Of course I didn’t. I was waiting for you to do it. You were bloody engaged, may I remind you.”

Her brows furrow.

“And I did! But you didn’t answer.” Silence. “Tink did.”

She watches his features with weariness. She watches as he frowns. Backs away slightly, to gaze into her eyes, seems to seek the truth. And then, sighs.

“Of bloody course. Tink.” Emma watches as he rolls his eyes dramatically, hisses a few insults between his teeth.

She thinks he is still infuriatingly handsome.

Another nervous laughter begins rattling her body, because this is ridiculous, they are ridiculous, they just had to talk it out and it would have been fine but --

“Seems like our lack of communication isn’t only on us.”

Emma smirks. “Well, it’s mostly on us.”

“Point taken.” And it’s unfair because he smiles a bright smile then and her heart jumps once more.

And he looks down, again, at her lips, and Emma feels frozen only she is burning. She needs to kiss him again, and forever, probably.

“But if you cared--” Why is he talking again? She opens eyes she didn’t know she had shut to dart a murderous gaze on him. He doesn’t see it, the fool, keeps talking instead. “--why did you ask me to forget our kiss?”

That nearly knocks her out. “Our kiss? Which kiss?”

She doesn’t know just how right she is to ask this question.

He raises an eyebrow. His cheeks are flushed and his hair dishevelled, and Emma has to focus to look into his eyes and not stare at his swollen lips.

“You mean to tell me you don’t remember?”

And his eyes do a weird twitching thing. He doesn’t seem alright. And he sounds a little bit as if a part of himself has just died.

“I mean… I sure as hell think I would remember this.” Oh, she totally would.

“Your nineteenth birthday,” he exhales, and if he could raise his eyebrows any harder, they’d get stuck up his hairline, “we kissed on the rooftop right before you fell to the ground.”

Well, she does remember the wicked headache she got that day, but she thought it was caused by the alcohol and…

“No…Yes?” A pause. She frowns. Realization sinks in. Well that would explain a lot, indeed. “We did?”

That would explain his crumpled face as she asked him to forget their night, it would explain why he avoided her all through summer, and why he stayed with Milah, and why she started dating Neal in the first place, and oh -- they are two idiots, aren’t they?

“Aye. And you specifically asked me to forget that night.”

If she keeps frowning her eyebrows will remain stuck forever. She frowns harder.

“But I had no memory of that kiss.”

“Bloody hell.” And Killian lets go of a very dramatic sigh, shakes his head.

Emma’s mouth forms an “O” as she watches Killian glance further away, to the sea, and she begins to understand years of struggle could have been avoided, had they, had they…well, talked about it, it seems.

An angel passes.

“Damnit,” she whispers.

And Emma is surprised to find a chuckle tickling her throat. Why is she laughing? This isn’t funny.

He still isn’t looking at her. Impish waves keep nibbling their toes. She hates how heavy everything suddenly feels.

Emma thinks that all this time he thought-- he thought she didn’t care, but she did, oh she cared, and...

Emma breathes in, fingers pressed to her temples. Shrugs a bit, breathes out and casts an eye on Killian. He doesn’t seem alright. But she knows how to distract him.

“Since I don’t remember, allow me to ask: did you kiss me?”

His blue eyes flash in the dimness as she smirks.

She doesn’t think she has seen him look this offended before.

“I beg your pardon? You bloody kissed me, Emma!”

His high pitch does make her chuckle.

“Don’t give me that offended look. That does sound like something you’d do.”

Oh, the wrath sparkling in his gaze then, it’s a sight for sore eyes, and she cannot stop smiling.

“Nah, you were the one who melted onto my lips and sucked the bloody life out of me, perched on your high heels.”

“They weren’t that high. And, at least I did something about my feelings.”

“Well, you forgot so it was pretty useless in the end, anyway.”

“Hey!”

And her fist punches his chest, and he captures it again, traitor, and time stands still for a moment, as they glance at each other.

Everything still feels very fragile and terrifying. But that’s quite alright.

And then with a swing of his hip, he shifts her under his weight, onto the sand, and her body meets the ground softly.

His face surrounded by dark, tousled hair hides the moon from her sight, but as her breath catches in her chest, she doesn’t mind.

“You were saying?”

“Mmm…”

Emma thinks sand will get stuck in her hair. And it’s going to be a pain to wash it out. But that’s okay.

They’re only twenty-three, murmurs her inner voice, they’re allowed to be young and stupid and messy and –

“Well, I’m glad it didn’t take us another ten years to figure our shit out. Wouldn’t be nearly as sexy.”

“Speak for yourself, Swan.”

“Idiot.”

And without a second thought, or a first, she raises her face to capture his lips, drink his breath, because she is allowed to, and this is right and all she’s ever wanted.

.

Up the beach, down Main street, Killian and Emma walk along the roads of their childhood.

Emma doesn’t know where they are going, but it doesn’t seem to matter, not just yet.

Fear is of course lurking in one deep corner of her mind, but it is easy to ignore it while her hand is safely tucked in his.  

“Where are you staying?” she asks as they shift to stare at one another.

Granny’s green B&B sign flashes behind Killian’s back.

Amusement sparkles in his eyes. “Granny’s.”

Emma remembers New York’s cold street lights, and the snow melting onto her lips, and Killian’s damp hair, and the sad glimmer in his blue eyes and her cold, shaking hand in his.

It was the night she decided to give him up, not knowing, not knowing he cared too.

It was the night she would have burned in hell to hear him invite her into his hotel room.

(Was it worth it, all the pain, in the end?)

“Fancy a last drink, Swan?”

Streetlights dabble gold beams into his blue eyes.

She nods, a little out of breath. Something soft and awful swallows her from inside.

“Yeah.”

And down the road, up the stairs, they go, hands clasped together. Her bracelet jingles up the stairs.

Emma remembers standing on his porch before her eighteenth birthday party, forehead pressed to the door, eyes locked on her phone screen, heart beating fast, fast.

“Come in whenever you want, I’m ready!” And her stomach twisting at his reply.

Things were so easy while she was still convinced that she was in love with him and she would never love anyone else and they had all the time in the world.

She was wrong, but that’s also fine.

(Isn’t pain just pain?)

Click, he’s unlocked the door, and Emma steps forward to gaze inside. Beyond Granny’s questionable decoration choices, everything is clean and proper and Navy and Killian. What a relief.

It is quite late now, and exhaustion burns Emma’s eyes, circles her throat and crudely brings to light her fears and insecurities. She feels bare, exposed, vulnerable under the dark green chandelier.

For a short moment, she fears there will be too much to mend between them, too many scars over their chest for them to offer their hearts again.

“Make yourself at home, Swan.”

The red leather jacket is dropped onto the bed just as he neatly folds his own on a chair by the wall.

And she keeps staring at those four walls, at this cramped room, and she thinks a month ago she was marrying someone else.

She’s still scared. Is she supposed to be scared?

“You okay, love?” he nudges her.

His hand softly grabs her shoulder.

She shrugs. If she is honest with herself, she does feel a little bit overwhelmed. This room is too silent. She can almost hear past echoes of their hearts breaking.

“Yes, I’m just…”

“Reminiscing?”

A smile. “That’s not the word I would have gone for, but yeah.”

His hand hurtles down her arm and slides into hers. His touch still shoots electric trails all over her skin.

“Want to sit down, Swan?” A nod, and he’s tucking her down with him.

When Killian switches on the small outdated TV on the wooden table in front of them, Emma sighs in relief.

And when still no words echo between them, Emma feels his eyes burn the skin of her cheek.

New York again. A cold bench. The snow falling onto his hair. This pain, in her chest, as he utters her name. Milah.

(Pain is just pain.)

“What are you thinking about, Swan?”

She blinks, licks her lips. Breathes in.

Will not look at him.

Augusta airport this time. His back, his image printed in blood over her retinas, this dark shape she cannot forget, forever turned on her.

“The past.”

The pain.

Storybrooke’s town hall. Her weary eyes twitching back and forth from Neal towards the door. Begging Killian to appear. And he doesn’t. (Or he does, but he’s too late.)

“Listen, Emma,” and his fingers have found hers again, and they are soft, and she looks up to discover his eyes even gentler, and his lips spread in a tender smile, “The past is behind us and we cannot change it.”

“But there’s been so much pain…”

She sounds like she is twelve again, she can almost touch Ingrid’s wooden fence under her fingers, can almost feel the tingling fear that a splinter might get stuck in the tender skin, and she can almost smell the yellow irises, and it almost brings her to tears.

“I know. But we can do better now.”

She nods. Can they do better? What if all of this is just a chimera and they’ve both idealized their love and what if … What if none of this is real?

She should sleep. Her eyelids are heavy and her eyes burn.

But then his hand cups her cheek, and its warmth brings her back to reality, tethers her. Her own palm settles above his as she leans into his touch. Closes her eyes, for just one bit.

She is so tired. Morpheus is luring her into his arms.

“As long as I am alive--” Oh, but then he is talking, and his voice is velvet against her skin, and she opens her eyes to stare at him. She’s pretty sure he can hear the thump of her heart. “--you can live with the conviction, Swan, that I will always be by your side.” A pause. “Always.” Another silence, his words sinking into her skin, as his fingers trace butterflies along her neck. A smile. “I’ve always been in love with you. From the moment I met you.”

Oh. Her eyes widen. Thump, thump.

She is swallowed by a gigantic wave of confused feelings. She thinks an earthquake is shattering the windows and shaking the walls. She thinks a tear rolls down her cheek, but she is not crying.

And it’s not like she didn’t know, she knew, but, but also she didn’t, for so long, and this is all very confusing and unexpected but very much expected, and he keeps staring at her and she doesn’t know what to say, for fuck’s sake.

And the only answer she can come up with is her trembling hands caressing his cheeks and then slowly grabbing the lapel of his t-shirt, and then, finally -- the pressure of her lips against his. Tender, at first, and then furious, desperate, hungry.

She wants to tell him, I loved you when you walked away from me, the first time, and the times after that, as well. I loved you although you never looked back at me, and I couldn’t look forward. I loved you when you were avoiding me, and I loved you when I didn’t think I loved you anymore. But mostly, I loved you from the moment I met you.

Instead, she presses her mouth into his, fiercely, for all of those times she wishes she had been brave enough to kiss him and she didn’t.

And Emma forgives them both. Forgives their past mistakes and heartaches.

They will do better. (They want to, and that’s already half of the journey, isn’t it?)

.

A number. Nineteen. Emma’s nineteen tonight. He’s been for a while now. (He feels a hundred years old since Liam left. Feels like he’s been holding his breath for centuries. Only the pain doesn’t flatter.)

They’re on a rooftop. Emma’s pink dress floats in the wind, much like a pirate flag. Her smile, that night, is bright, vivid, infuriatingly confident as she glances down at his lips.

The waves crash against the sand, back and forth, back and forth.

Her body is warm against his chest. Both of his hands hold her waist.

Time stands still, as she stands up on her tip toes and kisses him.

It’s an explosion, then, in his chest. A mercurial bliss.

And this time, he catches her before the fall. He doesn’t let her go. This time, his grip is secure around her waist, his fingers firm around her hips as she stumbles forward and they chuckle together.

This time, she doesn’t forget their kiss.

No.

Instead, she stares deeply into his eyes and she says: “I’ve been meaning to do that for a while, now.”

And he says: “I’ve been waiting for you to say that.”

And if everything is easy, it’s only because it is a dream.

.

A ray of sunshine tickles Killian’s eyelids. His face crinkles, he groans, opens one hesitant eye.

Bloody hell. What a dream. Or a nightmare, he cannot really tell.

There is a weight against his chest, bitterness at the back of his mouth.

He glances down. Emma. She fell asleep in his arms last night while he was slowly rocking her, and they forgot to close the shutters and now Killian will never fall back to sleep again.

His eyes still burn.

He gazes at her face buried in the hollow of his neck, blonde hair across his chest. He smiles.

A hospital room, eight months ago. A blinding, golden light. Her sleepy smile. “Oh, you’re awake?”

He would pinch himself if he had a hand to spare.

Those six months, without her, thinking she didn’t want him, were some of the bleakest of his life.

It was like losing a limb, only he lost two. And he had to keep on learning how to walk without an anchor, how to live without a hand and without hers to hold.

And then, David’s call, one morning.

“They broke up, Killian. Neal found your letter. I think you should do something about that, or I will personally come to murder you in your pitiful apartment, do you hear me?”

Emma snores lightly against his skin. He traces the shape of her jawline with gentle fingers.

He is terrified. Perhaps it is the only way to be, for now.

Perhaps it is good. It means they’re trying. They’re evolving, together, for the first time in ages.

A grunt, her small hand spread across her face, she’s starting to wake up, he can tell.

There is still a lot of sadness in his chest, for the boy who loved a girl and suffered deeply for it. For the boy who lost everything and still managed to lose more through the years, until there wasn’t anything left to lose.

Liam’s smile from his car window. A wave. And then void, nothing.

Killian clenches his jaw.

“Hey,” a small voice groans, “if you keep staring at me while I sleep, it’s going to get creepy.”

A grin.

“Sorry love, couldn’t sleep.”

Emma lifts her chin, green eyes shimmering in this golden morning light, and she tries a sleepy smile.

“Morning, Killian.”

“Morning, Emma.”

“Am I crushing you under my weight?”

“I think I’ll survive, love.”

She still hesitates to kiss him, he sees it in the small start of her head backwards, so he bends forward to kiss her.

It’s a sloppy morning kiss, but he wants all of them.

Last night, they absolutely did not take time to undress. Emma fell asleep like a rock, and he was too afraid he’d wake her up to try and remove his clothes.

But she seems very much awake as her legs curl around his hips, and it is very hard for Killian to ignore the way her dress climbs back up her thighs and gives away the beginning of her red panties.

He can feel his cheeks become hot and red, and suddenly Emma’s smirking at him.

“Like what you see?”

He swallows down.

“It’s quite alright, aye.”

A squeeze of her thighs around his torso, he is trapped, and his heart leaps.

“Alright?” she repeats. “That’s definitely a disappointing answer.”

As for Killian’s heart, it’s practically bursting out in his chest by now. He gulps.

He cannot say he hasn’t thought a lot about it, what it would feel like to go beyond a simple kiss with Emma. How her skin would taste under his tongue.

He may have started to think about it at around age fifteen, when he saw her come back from summer vacation all tan legs out, and he can still hear Liam’s mocking tone “If you open your mouth any wider, little brother, you’re going to swallow flies.”

The thoughts worsened after their kiss. There were some lonely, desperate moments as well during which he imagined tracing the shape of her body, much like his fingers flutter against the side of her leg right now.

His eyes don’t leave hers, scrutinizing her to know if he is allowed to go further.

“We don’t have to, if you don’t want to, Emma,” he whispers.

The wicked smile she shoots him is a sufficient answer. “Oh don’t worry, I want to.”

And then her lips find his again and his fingers are gripping her thigh now, clutching her skin, leaving marks, climbing back up some more and feel the soft skin right under the fabric of her dress.

She moans against his mouth, and it’s a wonderful sound, and suddenly they are both wearing far too many clothes and they have to hurry or they’ll combust into flames.

Emma straddles him just as her nimble fingers pull her dress up and throw it over her head.

“Couldn’t have done it better myself,” he mumbles and it’s very hard to look anywhere else but at her naked body.

But she’s already getting impatient with his t-shirt, and she groans. “Come on Killian, help me. Raise your arms up.”

“Didn’t think you’d become such a morning person, Swan.”

She laughs a bit as his t-shirt hits the floor in its turn in a muffled sound, and she does this thing where she stops to gaze into his eyes and he will die for a lack of oxygen.

He watches as she swallows, ogling him.

“Some things are worth waking up for.”

And then she’s melting into the skin of his neck as her fingers sift through his hair, and Killian ceases completely to think.

.

A month later -- Augusta Airport.

Emma clutches Ingrid’s yellow irises against her chest. Her hold is gentle but her lips form a firm line.  

As she stares at the Arrivals Board in front of her, the beat of her heart is drumming in her ears, and she is pretty certain oxygen is having a very hard time reaching her lungs. 

He’s only been gone a week, mumbles her inner voice, but Emma’s too happy to pay attention to her pride. 

She glances up, and a breath of relief escapes Emma’s throat as the light next to Portsmouth changes color.  

“He’s landed,” she whispers to herself, flowers still pressed to her chest.

She glances down, careful not to damage the beautiful bouquet Ingrid offered last night, over the dinner table. 

“I know how much he loves them,” Ingrid smiled. 

Another look at the clock. He should be here any time now. 

Her heart skips a blissful beat. 

A part of her still cannot believe this is real. That he is coming home, for good, that Emma found them a cute apartment near the beach and they’re going to get everything they’ve ever dreamed of.  

“Are you sure you want to do this...I mean, we could wait, and I could go back to Ingrid’s for a while…”

A butterfly in the dark, a kiss in the night. 

“I’ve never been so sure of anything…” 

Gazing all around her, Emma spots the familiar large window in front of her. It still shows a blurry reflection of her body. Emma frowns. Well, that will never change. One hand reluctantly gives up on the flowers to comb her hair. 

It is now mid September in Storybrooke, Maine, and Emma has to admit she’s missed him.  

It wasn’t the kind of missing him she was far too familiar with only two months ago. It wasn’t a burning ache in her chest. It was just like losing your glasses and finding them again on your bed table, where you left them. It’s a kind of missing she knew to end. And it made a great difference. 

As she remains very still, feet stuck to the ground, she remembers shaking, bouncing up and down on her feet, waiting for him to come back the first time, four years ago. 

Nothing’s really changed. She is still Emma and he is still Killian. Except everything’s changed. 

It feels like another lifetime. Emma smiles down at the flowers in her hands. A very peaceful sunflower blooms in her chest. 

The crowd of people around her brings Emma back to the present. More people gather together, and Emma understands they are all just as eager to see their loved ones as she is.

And she waits, knowing her love is about to arrive. 

Another few minutes go by, and time seems to slow down. She clenches her jaw. Unclenches it. Come on, relax, Emma. 

And then… And then, there he is.

“Killian.” The blissful whisper escapes her throat as a brutal wave of bliss sweeps her off her feet. She doesn’t hold it back. It isn’t scary anymore.

  She’s somehow thankful to notice he hasn’t changed one bit, but it’s only been a week, what was she expecting? A tender hue of blue meets her eyes and smiles in recognition.

“Emma, my love,” he mirrors her happy sigh. 

Her heart beams as they walk towards each other, their pace sure and quick and knowing, and in a few steps he lets go of a thousand suitcases to pick her up from the ground. 

  “Careful, Killian, your flowers,” she complains even as her feet quit the floor.

And she tries to hold the bouquet away from his face, but he doesn’t seem to care and presses a long kiss to her mouth instead.  

She sighs happily into his embrace, wraps her arms around his neck, and her senses are filled by him – his smell, a strong cologne she is only too familiar with, his skin under her fingers, his tousled black hair.

“I missed you,” he exhales against her cheek, and drops another kiss to her cheek. 

She slowly backs away, smiling. “It’s only been a week…” 

He raises an eyebrow that challenges her to lie some more. She chuckles, crinkles her nose, mumbles: “Okay, I might have missed you too…”

He sighs a dramatic sigh, rolls his eyes. 

“Now, you nearly gave me a heart attack, Swan. I was this close from flying back to Portsmouth.”   

Idiot, her inner voice snorts, unimpressed. But her heart isn’t very concerned, and a giggle jolts out of her throat. Even her cheeks give her away, flush furiously, and she hates them for it - come on, it’s been a month now. 

Her hand lingers on his face, tracing the little scar on his cheek.  

“Are you going to take those flowers, or should I keep them for myself?” She attacks in a coy, sharp tone. 

He flutters his eyelashes. The fucker. 

“If the lady insists.” 

A roll of the eye, a bright smile, and Emma’s heart sighs -- defeated. And the flowers carefully slip into his hand. 

He drops another kiss to her lips. “Thank you, love.” 

“Of course, Killian.” 

And then there is this very dramatic moment during which they both stare at his three enormous suitcases and wonder how the hell they are going to make this work. 

“Damnit. Did you have to take your whole life with you?” 

“Well, a blonde lass did ask me to move in with her.” 

Her fist punches his shoulder, playfully. Another sigh echoes all through the airport’s hall. 

“Well, let’s go, I guess.”  

She’s quick to grab the bag he let go of to hold her and seizes two red suitcases. And he watches her, the fucker, flowers in the crook of his arm and the third suitcase secure his hand. He seems infinitely entertained. 

“Don’t you dare laugh in my face, Killian Jones.”

“Well, if it weren’t for the flowers, I could maybe hel-”

“-- NO. You keep the damn flowers! For once Ingrid offered them.” 

And as they are walking down the airport like old times, Emma knows they’ll do better. They already are doing better. 

(Emma thinks pain is just pain, and they should have known sooner, they should have known better but she also thinks that doesn’t matter because surely there is no kind of pain that cannot be absolved by a lot of love.)

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

@yasbio2015 @bubblegum1425 @daenerysmyhsa @dancingnancyy @elizabeethan @farewell-courgette  @beca0912 @stina-g @tenaciouskittynightmare @noensnaringnet @klynn-stormz @sekretny13 @tiganasummertree @vvbooklady1256 @brustudyblog @peggyyswan @thisonesatellite @ohmightydevviepuu @courtorderedcake @snowbellewells @kingofmyheart14 @teamhook @mariakov81​ @folkloreismylullaby​ @officerrogers​

(Might write some missing scenes, and add a few bonuses to this story, so if you’ve got anything in mind you’d like to read, hit me up ;) (actually hit me up for anything and let’s be friends.) 

[adargo]

Aurum

Written for the Fractured Fairy Tales zine. (Still available until the end of March!)

Please take a look at the beautiful accompanying art by ryethe as well <3

Northern wind swipes across the land. It ripples the surface,  moves pebbles both ice and stone,  water waving oh so gently, as if the lake before him longs to be a sea. 

To be moon-bound. It stings against the white of his skin, it guides away the warmth of his breath. Yet, he cannot retract his hands from the salt of the air, from the sight of the water. Hands, laid bare for hours upon his lap.  Hands, brittle-nailed fingertips bitten blue.  Hands, gifted by the Gods. 

Blessed. Cursed. Forlorn, he smiles, no longer knowing which one to pick. Northern wind swipes across the land, ripples the water and moves both ice and stone- 

Until he can’t feel its cold sting no more. “I…”

...

..

.

Sorrow finds him when he’s young.  It catches him for but an instant, through a woman’s longing stare at a lonely daffodil, surrounded by nothing but the birth of spring. Its remnants in her eyes wilt away underneath a hopeful smile, soft, like the blossom-pink of her hair. “Life is so very fragile, my child.” Violet only blinks. Contemplates. Watches her walk away. 

Stills- 

The daffodil droops on its stalk.

As he grows, it encounters him more and more often. 

In the lonely frown of a classmate, In the tears of a chaffed-open knee, In the words, spit like venom between adult’s mouths, In pain, disappointment, fury. He shrugs it off as easily as he drinks it in, the crippling feeling not as arduous before him as it feeds within others, finds that, in his youthful stubbornness, the light of a mere smile sometimes radiates stronger than any word, than any false promise.  “Tomorrow, things will be the same as always,” he simply says, the curl on his lips tugging on those of his little brother’s, the shake in those big eyes dying down even as words coated in spit and fire continue to seep through the floor beneath. 

It’s enough.

There comes a day when it isn’t. A day where the sun fails to blink through the carpet of clouds and not a single songbird’s melody reaches him.  The coffin sinks into the earth before his feet. Small fingers wrapped around his own. Priest’s lips parting and speaking holy words of deliverance, salvation, of light… It’s an entirely different kind of sorrow, Fyodor thinks.

Soon enough, green turns to gold, once water-filled veins crumpling underneath the soles of his feet as autumn arrives to claim its toll.  And he swears, with every new visit it brings, with every passing, every rip of a dying leaf from its shrivelled stem- the wind thugs at him, at something within him that bit more easily.  At something, wanting to wrench loose.  More and more and more-  “How do people end up like that?” a voice besides him starts, followed by a curious hum birthed from yet another’s throat.  The question isn’t meant for him in particular, but his eyes stray upon the figure across the street anyway, a sore image, huddled up in nothing but tattered cloth. “Who knows…”  “Just be very unlucky, I guess?”  Empty replies. Not that he expected much else from his classmates whom disengage from the topic as soon as the bus arrives, all racing straight to the back lest the best spots be taken… It drives off, leaving him rattled with all the possible answers he could come up with, the question still lingering in his mind as he wonders… 

One day, will it be different? 

One day, will it change? Fyodor stares into a city sorrow-built. 

It stares right back into him.

And yet, one day, as time continues to tick forwards and seasons pass him by… One day, it makes way for something else. “Come here you little shit!” A sharp sound reverberates throughout the dense network of alleyways, metallic and far heavier than the voices mixed in with its echoes.  “You’re just going to scare it off like this…” “Shut up.” Three kids, not much older than himself, stand near an old garbage container, one of them holding up something akin to an old walking stick that he’s sure doesn’t belong to them. A hiss comes from above their heads, a clawed paw reaching out to flick at the stick before a distressed cry follows.  A warning. A plea. They don’t notice him until he speaks, until he’s there almost right next to them. “Preying upon those weaker than you…” They turn to him in surprise, almost staggering- as if they’d just seen a ghost.  “How typical.” “The hell did you just say?” comes the stick-wielder’s dented response, a different kind of fury settling in his eyes than the one contained in his own. He doesn’t back off when the other, confident and broad, steps forwards, invades far too close, grabs him roughly by the hem of his coat. 

Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t speak a single word. Doesn’t need to.  “Dude…his pin…” another speaks up and the eyes before him consequentially flicker to the gleaming gold and silver on his chest, a token of his descendance.  Ever so slightly, the grip on his coat falters. 

“Let’s just leave it man, it’s not worth it,” yet another calls. Fear, a spider that crawls over his voice. And despite his better judgment, the smirk edges unto his lips, high purely on control, for he knows the other has no choice but to let him go and leave things be.  The price for messing with a noble is one nobody wants to pay, after all. So all he receives is a flinch, a somewhat coarse release of his coat bordering on a push, and a positively fuming glare pointed his way before the other turns and leaves, even dropping the stick in the process.  He stands there as he watches them go, lips smoothing back into a thin line, adrenaline falling away in his veins… When he glances up at where the cat was before, his eyes find nothing but a wisp of stray furs. So he smiles, at nothing in particular, only to turn and leave. “Why did you help me, human?” It hits him out of thin air, rising, resonating around him, blowing wide his eyes, near-stumbling his feet- He stills. 

There, the cat sits, black and fire-patched fur dancing upon brilliant white. “Why, like all the others, did you not just ignore it?” Once again, it speaks, yet its mouth does not move as the words wisp around him, swerving into him from all sides. Still, he dares to calm his jittered breath as those big eyes search his own. 

Curious. Analysing. “Because it was wrong,” comes his answer, doubtless like falling rain.

A simple truth. The cat only blinks at him slowly, crescent moons thinning. “To show you my gratitude, I will grant you a gift.” Wielding a thousand voices, the words shatter through him and reality alike, every echo sucking away every colour, every shape, until there’s nothing left but him and the big, brilliant brown eyes peering up from below. “A gift?” It nods, slit pupils disappearing again for but a moment. “Upon the touch of your finger, you shall deliver this gift upon the Earth.” Dark eyes stare into him like he is a story, an open book. As if they can see his past, his present, everything that’s yet to come. “It can be anything you wish for.”

Anything… He breaks loose from the gaze before him, only to stare at the depth of the mists.  In it, he sees the loving smiles of his family, the cheery grins of his classmates, the helplessness of an old man stumbling in the middle of the street, the starving gaze of the homeless, the layers of greed exchanged through blackened fingers… It all traces out to the same end.  Unsmiling, he understands, lays his eyes to rest at the palms of his open hands as a voice whispers to him in the solitary of his mind. 

One day, will it change?  He knows what he needs to do. The violet in his eyes hardens as it meets the warm timbers before him once more, his words laced with certainty on his lips, right before the world fades to black. “I wish for-

…

..

.

Just for a moment, as he stirs from deep sleep, his brother’s wake-up call coming from beyond the door like any other morning as quick feet jumble down the stairs and into the kitchen for breakfast, Fyodor thinks it was all just a dream.  It almost makes him want to laugh out loud, almost, right until the doves on his windowsill flutter off by the smallest twitch of his fingers.  

They never do. And so, that very same evening, he awakens,

stretched-out fingertip hovering over the stilled body beneath, over nothing but a heap of flesh and bones that had simply ceased to function...  Shuddering, his breath evaporates into the frost of stale air. His eyes, stuck to the sight before him, ever-quivering.  There’s no mistaking that the man was a thief, he had witnessed it so first-hand, being quite the dusk-lurker himself. If only to observe, to validate humanity’s cruel nature.  The man before him had no mercy, no regard for life as long as he could take whatever he wanted. 

So why should he treat him any differently?  The quiver in his eyes steadies, all doubt and remorse hardening into pure, rebirthed resolve. “I wish for the touch of death.” He smiles as he stares into the city before him, equally tied. 

This is only the beginning.

He starts out small, 

merely scavenging the maze of the underground like the inner walls of a house, mapping, observing, sniffing out sinner’s blood from the shadows. It doesn't take him that long however, to actually unravel his claws and strike- making no distinction between those renowned for their crimes and those pulling the puppet strings, hands coated just as red.  He will paint them white. With every new moon, another target hits the floor.  Yet by the time he’s made a name for himself his family is none the wiser of his nightly escapades.  The dream-like effect sticks to him every morning, right until white-speckled wings flutter up and away from his windowsill and the housecat’s hiss reaches him from across the kitchen table as he calmly eats his breakfast. “So cranky lately,” his mother comments though doesn’t think anything more of it. She turns to him again about seeing a doctor for his hands. He only nods, knowing she won’t continue on the subject anyway as she prepares for another long day of work. His brother is not that easily sated, the lie Fyodor had coaxed up about accidentally burning his hands against the hot hearthstone of their fireplace all the more festering the worry in his voice. “Do they still hurt?” he asks, eyes bleeding with that innocence Fyodor himself can never attain again. He only nods, bandaged fingers curling into the cloth on his lap. “It’s going to for a long while...” It’s not exactly a lie, but that doesn’t lessen the sourness of its taste. 

A necessary evil.

Soon enough, rumours are circling through the halls of his school, the mysterious deaths striking the city a subject on nearly every tongue he passes, newspapers and magazines marked with his actions plied open to dozens of curious eyes. NO CRIMINAL IS SAFE- is what he catches by a glance and it almost makes him chuckle, if not for the truth of the media’s statement. The vile fear him while the virtuous praise him. But Fyodor knows that even with the support of the common folk, the law will not turn a blind eye to his methods… Gloved hands dig further into the warm confinement of wool as he feels something unfurl in in his bones, biding, like rosebuds awaiting spring. Another smirk edges itself upon his lips.  It’s time to step up the game.

And as summer and ice rake through the land, inevitable and merciless, year after year after year- he is never far behind. Every step, calculated, careful, but not entirely absent of flaw. Sometimes, he still catches glimpses- Of horses’ wails, heavy hooves rampaging through both wood, steel and flesh as a carriage runs rampant throughout the streets, only because he was on the outer end of it. 

Of the detective’s gun staring him down, long hair fluttering behind an idealistic mind reflecting his own, spouting at him how wrong, how disturbed his sense of justice is. 

Of innocent blood spilled by his hands, as well as those he owns, of snapped puppet strings, of unforeseen slip-ups.

Of life, death and everything in between. “Brother, look!” The familiar call sucks him back into the present, effectively cutting still all thoughts. He looks up to see his little brother run excitedly to the fence bordering the forest road, to the pack of deer staring back at them from the center of the meadow.

Yet, they’ll never come closer. It’s almost as if with every layer of youth that melts away from his skin, the toxicity of what lies underneath festers, spreading death like it’s a disease instead of deliverance. “Come on,” he coaxes gently, smile slipping over his lips as smaller feet run up behind him again, passing him by just as quickly. He watches the other scavenge, bright grin stretched across his face as he points out whatever new he spies around the snow-carpeted path. It seems so unreal. Like he’s walking inside of a dream he’s not supposed to have. Eyes untracking, he thinks back to the city he had changed- the lives he had changed. Crime-rates dropped to the bottom, corruption signalised and dealt with, the right pawns shifted into the right places… 

An example to the world. He takes a breath, the snow crunching underneath his feet a sound far too nostalgic. It hadn’t been easy at moments, to find the right pieces to play with, to buy, be it with simple greed or cold-blooded manipulation, just so he could focus on the big guns whilst they took care of the fodder. Adding log after log upon the funeral pyre, lighting up his path, that long black and white-tiled lane ahead of him.  Yet…  There’s so much more to come.  Suddenly, feet are circling around him, impatient and curious. On pure instinct, his hands delve deeper into the thick pockets of his coat as he regards the mischievous smile on his brother’s face. “So…what did you get me for Christmas?” Inwardly, he gives a laugh, eyebrows raising up to the heavens. “Not much of a surprise if I tell you, is it?” The other scoffs, hopping off to the side of the road to stare at nothing in particular. “You never even drop a hint,” comes the complaint and he can’t do anything but chuckle this time, knowing it’s true, almost fails to catch himself from stopping to pet the other on the head, a habit so drilled into his bones from when they were younger- it catches him off guard. That feeling- that yearn for warmth. Instantly, he pushes it away, again, again, and again. 

For thinking about it will earn him nothing... He simply walks on and soon, small feet follow again, never noticing the worried frown on the other’s face. Peering upward to a sky, grey and stacked to the brim, he tries to distract himself from his previous thoughts- turns back to the flutter of pages in his head, all the steps he still has to undertake, the obstacles he still has to overcome. A list, never-ending. A murder flutters through the white peaks of pine and violet wanders back to the small form up ahead, jumping up and down in the thick, unblemished snow, the grin now aimed at him just as bright but so, so much more warm. 

Golden. And it’s a terrible ache- to think about the times when they would huddle up on the couch by the fire for sleep to take them, where thumb-fights and forehead-poked goodbyes were all just a normality, of touch. I cannot stay here, he thinks, the repeated thought coated in worry, in sorrow, in fear- There’s a sound, birthed from his next step, far from the simple crunch of snow and the gentle jitter of laughter up ahead. He never even noticed they strayed off the path. Eyes wide and heart stilled, he stares at the crackle of ice underneath his foot. And then, everything is but a blur. First comes a shout, a name drifting over the stretch of a frozen lake, echo overcome by the deafening shift, the break that follows. Hands, shooting out of their illusionary restraints, reaching, grasping, feeling. 

A thousand knives shoving into his skin. 

Relief is a wave, far different from the bitter sting of ice, yet it rips through flesh and bone all the same, for he’s got him, he’s got him, he’s got him, he’s got him, he’s- The feeling is strange, overbearing, right there between the crease of a glove and thick, woollen cloth. -gone. Small fingers, clasped around his naked wrist. “Life is so very fragile, my child.” That day, the light dims in his heart. 

That day, the reaper disappears from the city.

Never to return.

…

..

.

Northern wind swipes across the land, ripples the surface, moves pebbles both ice and stone, water waving oh so gently-

But his hands, his hands are all he sees. “Would you like me to take it away?” Its words whisper into him, whiskers like shards of pure white. Divine. Merciful. “Without reason, without a light, how will you move forwards?”

Light, his mind mimics, a concept too far too grasp. Right until the moment he’d lost it. Right until he had sniffed it out with his own two hands. “I…” “It’s interesting, isn’t it?” The voice comes unbidden and for once, Fyodor leaves the shock on his face unveiled in its wake. “How it spreads death so easily, denying any form of life…” He only stares at the man. At the loose, black sleeves dangling in the wind. At the white cloth wrapped thinly around skin. At an empty eye, peering into an equally empty lake. 

At salt and water. “Death…” his lips repeat thoughtlessly, gaze once more turning to the waves before him. Maybe… “Is that not why you’re here?” The man is staring at him now too, the words flowing from his mouth holding more certainty than actual wonder. Like he’s an open book. 

And then, silence. 

The slither of wind over salt-dried stone. 

Darkness staring into darkness. It holds him down as the question repeats itself in his mind, beats back and forth against glass walls. His head an empty cathedral. His hands open heavens. “Maybe…” Fyodor’s lips part, violet breaks away from pitch black. “It is because I’m not that different from this place.” Because just like the salt quenches the life from the lake, his hands suck away any and all they dare to touch… He thinks back to the day he wished for this, to the day he moulded his future in a mere second, the path he’s walking down framed at all edges, like a painting not yet ready, but soon to be. What colour would the ridges be… “Hm,” the man hums, stepping closer before gingerly sitting down next to him, the large, salt-stricken rock no doubt going to stain the black of his coat. “Perhaps, we are alike then.” It was the strangest thing, for he doesn’t know this man at all, and yet, within those dark pools drinking him in, he meets something he never expected to find in his entire life. 

Understanding.

Still… 

“No.” Fyodor just says, nothing but sorrow in his voice. 

“You are nothing like me.” 

You cannot be. A scoff then, and Fyodor can’t really hide his surprise at the smile the other shoots him like there’s no truth to it at all. 

Disarming. “Maybe not,” the other speaks, all carefree, unconvinced- It sends him dizzy, makes him fail to notice that curious gaze stray downwards. Unyielding, the words of a God invade his mind once more, echoing in his head like mixed prayers. A wire waiting to snap. Jittering on and on and on like a symphony composed of a thousand songbirds that fly to and fro, to and fro, to and fro- 

And then his lungs forget how to draw in air, 

his eyes darting down to the hand covering his own. 

Touching him.

No, the thought is instant, a knife at both his mind and throat. 

No, no, no, no- “But you can’t hurt me.” The words shatter him, gently, like the gaze pointed down at his hands. Warm. Breathing. Alive.

“For I am…”

The man looks at him and Fyodor drinks in his sorrow like gold in the flame of fire.

“No longer human.”

Light.

Northern wind swipes across the land, ripples the water, moves both ice and stone…

But Fyodor only smiles as it sears passed his cheeks.

I think I’ve found it.

[aprito]

SasoSaku Day, day 14: The Remains of War

In which edo Sasori refused to be sealed away by Kankuro for strange reasons, was dragged along with Deidara to the camp, and assigned to Sakura -- in hopes that at least one of the Akatsuki will spill important intel. Sakura never could have guessed how increasingly terrible this task would turn out to be.

Thank you so so so much to both @evartandadam and @poppy-muffins for collaborating on this with me! Two extremely talented artists and writers in their own right. <3

...

...

...

There were plenty of signs that she should have picked up on to know he would cause trouble. The fight between them, however brief, had been a way to see into him and his beliefs. For so long she had thought about what had happened and what he had said. The offer he made. So many late nights were spent awake pondering their battle and what it had changed to the both of them. 

Sakura had spent so much time thinking about what they had shared that she never thought he would be such an asshole.

Not just in the sense of his idea of purpose and 'artistic ideal'. Instead it was in the little ways that of course he would be the type to flick pebbles at her back while she tried to instruct chunins in the medical arts. Even as the rocks bounced off her skull she kept a straight face even if her smile was growing strained. Less from the rocks, but more because the chunins weren't even listening. Instead they eyed Sasori with twitching fingers that strayed too close to their holsters and one seemed ready to bolt. Granted, that one was from Suna. That could be somewhat forgiven if they would just listen.  Instead she had to waste time explaining for the fifth time the exact depth a senbon could penetrate the base of a neck before rendering irreparable damage. If they didn't start staring over her shoulder she was going to just go with a demonstration on the root of the problem. Who cared if he was already dead and that would render the point moot? The annoying jerk deserved it. If only because he made her waste this entire session by just sitting there and pulling faces. If he was even doing that. Honestly he was just as creepy straight-faced .

Sakura dismissed the other shinobi and was happy that at least they left in a rush. Having others ask for advice or quick tips about medical care did stroke her ego, but right now all she wanted was just a few moments of calm before heading back out the tent to face the rest of the day. Even when there was war it was crucial to take time when possible to collect oneself to keep steady hands and a clear mind.

Sasori tossed another pebble and it bounced off her right shoulder. The second struck center in her back. The third was caught in her hand and punctured the tent as she flicked it away. Seconds later she heard clattering as metal fell against metal and the blood drained out of her cheeks. The cursing that followed somehow managed to be even louder.

“Oh, it sounds like you hit one of the armories. Very good aim.”

It was then she realized she would never have a calm moment again.

It was due to Sakura's rank that she was able to get away with only bunking with Shizune. Even better, the woman was almost constantly with Tsunade and often times slept in that tent. This left Sakura with a very valuable luxury.

Even if she only managed only a few hours of sleep, it still was worth it not having to deal with trying to sneak around at late hours to keep from waking anyone.

Well, luxuries had their limits.

“What” she begins, slowly “are you doing in my tent?”

The person sitting in the shady corner facing her direction was doing anything but looking at her, occupied with keeping their phosphoric smeared eyes on a bingo book of her’s.

Sasori would normally be locked away at this time, not wandering around the camp like it belonged to him. She’s caught him harassing a unsuspecting patrol man who’s taken a quick nap while she briefly left the tent to catch a breath of fresh air.

To say he was only off putting at this time of the night would be an understatement -- Luckily, she didn’t experience the misfortune of simply waking up to this sight...yet.

“Don’t be so conceited, little girl.” He says, not looking up from the book. “Not everything is about you.”

She’s in front of him before he knows it, slapping the book out of his hands -- because god knows she needed that sleep and didn’t have the energy for another tirade from this tyrant.

Sasori changes his gaze from the now empty spot between his hands to her, eerily composed for someone who’s nearly succeeded in piercing a poisonous scorpion tail composed of bones through the heart of a blonde bomber over a difference in opinion.

Sakura sighs. “If you don’t need anything, we’ll be going back to the prison.”

“You mean the animal barn.”

“It’s-...you’re dead.”

“The people of the sand respect the dead, little girl. Are you implying the same cannot be said for the people of the leaf?” Sasori throws back, crossing his arms in a mockery of stubbornness.

How is skinning and taxidermying shinobi for your collection any more respectful? She wants to ask, but knew it’d just result in another witty comeback. How old was this man anyways, 40? 45? Even in the face of death, he barely looked older than her.

Her bare legs were starting to shiver, reminding her that she should be returning to the sanctuary of her little bed.

“Okay, what do you want?” Sakura asks, mirroring his gesture and crossing her arms.

Sasori smiles, and she doesn’t think she’s seen that one before. Creep.

“My book.”

“Huh?”

“I was reading that until you rudely interrupted me.” He nudges his head towards the other side of the room. “I would be much obliged if you returned it to me.”

“You’re just going to...stay here? While I sleep?” And no, her voice didn’t just inch an octave higher.

“If it matters, I hold no deeper interest in anyone beyond tactical fascination -- especially not little green brats, like you.” He finishes, before one of his fingers twitch, and the book flies back -- past her figure -- towards him.

She flinches, just briefly. That...

That seemed to be it. Sasori uncrosses his arms in favor of crossing his legs, leaning back in that little wooden dinky chair of his to continue reading about wherever rogue delinquents were doing their worst out there.

The tent’s quiet, save for the occasional cicadas chirping outside, and she’s staring at him, the man who’s changed her life in just more ways than one.

She later would amount her reaction to the fact that she was about to pass out, not that she found herself considering the situation to be less threatening than she should.

She was losing her damn mind in this war.

“Alright, you can stay here for tonight, no promises that it will stay this way.” Because it definitely will not. “If you move, let alone touch me, I’ll kill you.” Sakura puts emphasis on that last syllable, because he’s touched her arm in the middle of surgery once, in front of her frozen co-workers, uncaring to the fact that he retained all qualities of a cold dead body, and she’s shrieked and bumped against the table with the-...

She’s embarrassed herself enough in front of others in the past couple days.

Sasori hums in reply to her, and she takes it as a cue to turn around and go back under the covers.

Maybe, if she hadn’t been so exhausted at the time, she wouldn’t have missed Sasori glaring at the tent’s entrance, nor would she have missed the sound of footsteps shuffling away in a hurry.  

[dragestilwrites]

Yama no Kami 山の神

Rated G ~2.5k words McHanzo Chapter 3: The Heart of It All

Under the cover of night, Hanzo takes Jesse to see the shrine at the heart of the forest.

Jesse didn’t wake until the sun was already well on its way to sinking beneath the horizon. He cursed his craving for an afternoon nap and roused himself quickly, pushing himself up off the ground and heading straight for the edge of the woods. He wanted to grab  his things before he met up with Hanzo again. As much as was possible, he wanted to be prepared. He couldn’t, of course, plan for what he might encounter, but he could at least reassure himself with the knowledge that he had plenty of food for himself and basic camping supplies should he need them. He was unsure of whether or not Hanzo had any sort of house hidden on the mountainside in the forest.

It took him no time at all to retrieve his pack from the tree he had hidden it in, and he began to whistle an upbeat tune he had heard as a kid. He couldn’t quite shake all of the warnings from the man at the bar, so he hoped the happy melody would chase away the lingering doubts. Hanzo had seemed to respect Jesse’s lack of fear after all. It wouldn’t do to be trembling like a leaf when the so-called demon of the mountain appeared again. He pulled out a small block of wood from his backpack along with his whittling knife. Perhaps keeping his hands busy would stave off the thoughts of what could go horribly, awfully wrong.

Hanzo did not keep Jesse waiting for too long, though. As the sun dipped below the treeline to the west, the god of the forest appeared with two spectral wolves. He cleared his throat pointedly to gain Jesse’s attention without startling him too much. The last thing he needed was his pack smelling blood because Jesse got spooked and cut himself with that little knife. His plan worked and Jesse glanced up from his work, pushing off the tree he had been leaning on as he worked. Before he could catch himself, he let out a low whistle as he appraised Hanzo and his companions.

“That’s not what you were wearin’ last night, and those two weren’t there either. Or am I still dreaming?” Jesse said, scratching the back of his head. “Didn’t figure you the baggy pants type...”

“I do leave the forest at times. I do not think I would be well-received in town wearing my usual attire. If you are followed, no one will guess my true nature.”

“What about them?” Jesse asked, gesturing to the wolves. “Not sure people could just ignore those two even if you look like that.”

“They would not see Tamotsu and Daisuke. These are the guardians of the forest, and they do not simply appear to everyone who wanders idly into their domain.”

“But I can see them?”

“You were invited here.”

“Fair enough, I guess. So are we gonna...go somewhere or just stand here all night? Not that I’m complainin’, just-”

“You talk too much. Let us go then, if you are so eager to see more of this place.”

Jesse nodded his head and followed as Hanzo turned and began to walk into the forest. He was still caught up on Hanzo’s appearance - how normal he looked wearing casual clothes. Compared to the fearsome warrior draped in the pelt of a wolf that he had met the previous night, this man seemed like an underpaid retail employee of some hip fashion store. And yet Jesse couldn’t help but feel like Hanzo could still end him with a single glance from those piercing eyes. He slipped his knife and wood back into his bag as he worked to keep up in unfamiliar territory.

“We will go to the shrine first. If you are to spend any time here, you must pay respect to this place, to its heart. This is sacred ground,” Hanzo said without looking back.

“Of course. Don’t wanna disrespect anyone or anythin’. That’s not what I’m about,” Jesse replied seriously. “I didn’t really bring any sorta offerings though.”

Hanzo did not answer, only leading Jesse further into the forest. He was used to a certain level of peace and quiet. Though he often talked to his pack and to the spirits of the forest, he had very few conversations with people. On the rare occasions he went into town, he usually tried to keep himself as unnoticed as possible. The less people questioned him, the better.

“Where do you come from?”  one of the wolves asked.

“Hanzo has told us little about you, outsider,” the other continued.

Jesse froze. Wolves? Sure he could handle those. Blue, translucent wolves? Not the weirdest things he had seen. Talking , blue, translucent wolves? That was a step too far to just be casually brushed past. He took a deep breath to ground himself in this bizarre new reality before jogging a few steps ahead to catch back up with his escort.

“I’m from all over.  The Southwest’s where I got my accent though.”

“How did you get here?”

“I go lots of places. Don’t call anywhere home, so I just wander around ‘til I find something interesting. All the shit I heard about this place? Real interesting. So I came to see what the fuss was about.”

“What was the fuss about?”

“Hey, didn’t you say I asked too many questions, Hanzo? I’m gettin’ grilled over here.”

“You came into their territory, Jesse. Do they not have a right to ask about you and your intentions?”

“Fair,” Jesse said with a sigh and a nod. “I wanted to see if there really was a demon on the mountain. But I ain’t seen a demon yet.”

That seemed to give the wolves pause, and the party of four fell into silence as they journeyed through the dense forest. Jesse tried to expand upon the mental map he had made that morning on his way out of the forest, but he knew there was no way he’d be able to find his way back without a guide. He almost wondered if he’d ever hear another voice again in the stillness of the forest in the thickening gloom of night. It was Hanzo who spoke to break the spell of quiet that had overtaken them all.

“They call me despair and destruction. They call me a god of death. They say that I am as unforgiving as the steep slopes of my mountain.”

“They don’t know you,” Jesse replied.

“Do you know me, Jesse McCree?” Hanzo asked, stopping to turn back and face the lone wanderer who had somehow convinced Hanzo to reveal the secrets of his domain.

Jesse’s brow furrowed. He had only met Hanzo the previous night, and yet he couldn’t shake the feeling that he did know Hanzo, or at the least knew the sort of man that he was. But how could he say that without sounding crazy? He chewed on his lip for a few long moments.

“I know you aren’t what they say you are. You could have killed me, but you didn’t. You could have banned me from ever coming back, but you didn’t. Right now even you could be leading me to my death. But you aren’t, are you?”

“So he is different from the others who have strayed here before.”

“Of course he is, Daisuke. The pack see beyond the surface. They would not allow just anyone to sleep here unbothered.”

“Take him to the sanctum.”

“Humans are not meant to see the heart of the shrine. You cannot mean I let him see it all, Tamotsu.”

“That is just what I mean, Hanzo. You called upon us for guidance. Will you ignore it now because it does not match your expectations?”

Hanzo looked away briefly, as if ashamed of his questioning the judgment of the forest’s guardians. He shook his head after a minute’s pause.

“Of course not. You have never led me astray in all my years. I will show him it all.”

“Good. We shall leave you to your task, then.”

The wolves did not wait for Hanzo’s response. Rather, they walked past him and then faded away into the night not ten feet from where Jesse and Hanzo still stood. Jesse ran a hand through his hair as he exhaled heavily. He couldn’t claim to fully grasp all of what had been said, but he definitely understood the fact that he was being marked as different, perhaps even special in some way. He wasn’t certain, however, whether that was a good thing in the long run or not. Hanzo cleared his throat.

“We should continue on. The shrine is not far from here.”

“Of course, yeah, sounds good,” Jesse said, glad to be able to focus on something other than wondering just what was in store for him. He could handle wandering through a forest. That was a reasonable and logical thing, even if he didn’t know where he was being led to.

Hanzo and Jesse slipped back into silence as they resumed their journey. Night had fully settled over the forest, but a strange light seemed to linger around Hanzo wherever he went, and that was more than enough to illuminate the worn path Jesse realised they were following. Through the leaves and moss and debris, Jesse could just make out stones that must have once been a proper pathway. He wondered how long it had been since people had regularly travelled to the shrine.

“It’s just ahead,” Hanzo said, motioning to a break in the trees where moonlight shone through.

And there it was. Jesse couldn’t help but widen his eyes in amazement. In a small clearing grew an absolutely massive tree. Jesse couldn’t even fathom how old it must have been to grow so large and so strong. Its sprawling branches provided nearly the whole clearing with shade, and at the base of its trunk there was an opening large enough for a grown man to pass through. The stone path was obvious here, still well-kept with the smooth, pale rocks reflecting the moon’s light like mirrors. Jesse had never been much of a believer in magic, but this place urged him to change his mind.

“Come. The shrine is within, and the sanctum is beyond that.”

Jesse followed in reverential awe, keeping as close behind Hanzo as he dare. Hanzo whispered a brief prayer as he passed through the archway carved into the tree. Jesse didn’t know what to say, but bowed his head before crossing the threshold into the shrine. When he lifted it, he was taken aback by the grandeur of the shrine. It had been carved painstakingly in the trunk of the tree, with a sloped ceiling that rose to a point high above them. There was a small altar in the middle of the room with lit incense set upon it. The shrine smelled of cherry blossoms, and Jesse had to believe it was from the sweet smoke wafting up from the altar and seeping into the wood all around them.

“This is unbelievable,” he murmured, voice low as if to keep from disturbing the sanctity of the space. “Did you make this yourself?”

“This shrine has existed for as long as the forest has. I am merely its caretaker, and its god.”

“The path outside - people must have worshipped here once.”

“The forest was sacred to the first settlers here. They understood its beauty and its power. They knew that all it could give, it could also take away. Things were different then.”

“What happened? What changed?”

“Men grow greedy and complacent. They believe they can tame all of nature like their pets and livestock. They think it is their right to bend nature to suit their desires. They stopped leaving offerings and began talking about clearing trees, hunting for sport.”

“So you scared them off...You became something to be feared to protect this place.”

“I did what had to be done.”

“But-”

“It does not matter now. The past is the past. Come. You still have not seen the heart of it all.”

Jesse closed his mouth and nodded, treading softly behind Hanzo as he was led beyond a heavy, wine-red curtain behind the altar. If the shrine had amazed him, the sanctum left him absolutely stunned. The encompassing walls were carved with intricate scenes - wolves on the hunt, devotees leaving offerings, a boy growing into a man, memories from a distant past. And right in the middle of it all was the throne carved into the very heart of the tree, the very heart of the forest.

“This feels so familiar,” Jesse breathed, gently tracing a carving of a woman leaving wildflowers on an altar with his fingers. “Why does this feel familiar?”

Hanzo said nothing, only watching from the entryway as Jesse moved from one vignette to the next. He did not know what to say. What could he say? That this felt as familiar to him as it did to Jesse? That he had been fighting against a sense of deja vu from the moment he brought Jesse into the shrine?

“Hanzo,” Jesse said, and Hanzo blinked, pulling himself back into the present reality. “Why did you bring me here? Even before those wolves told you to bring me here, you were already planning on it. Last night you said you would show me your shrine. Why?”

“I needed to.”

“Why?”

“You are so familiar to me,” Hanzo finally said after several minutes of staring silently at Jesse. “Perhaps if I brought you here, I could find out why you are so familiar.”

“Have you? Found out I mean.”

Hanzo shook his head with a sigh, glancing down. Not knowing felt like failure, especially when he was risking so much by bringing a stranger all this way.

“Perhaps spending so many ages alone has weakened my mind. Perhaps I have forgotten the truth of reality.”

“Do you really believe that?”

“No.”

“What do you believe?”

“Come here,” Hanzo said, though he halved the distance between them himself by taking two steps forward. Jesse closed the rest of the distance obediently. “Look into my eyes and tell me what you see.”

Jesse’s brows furrowed in concentration as he stared at Hanzo. There was a light in Hanzo’s eyes that shone bright even in the dimly lit sanctum. And there were stories in those eyes, even if Jesse could not interpret them all. Hanzo had seen so much, and it was all reflected back in his unwavering gaze. But there was more than just that. Jesse could see himself - but not himself. The Jesse that he saw was someone - something - more than him. His chest ached, and he clutched at it instinctively.

“Where are you from?” Hanzo asked quietly.

“The southw...” Jesse trailed off, face scrunching up as he searched for an answer somewhere inside himself. “I don’t...know? I can’t remember...“

“Who were your parents?”

“I never had any. I was an orphan.”

“Were you?”

“Why can’t I remember? Hanzo, what’s going on? What have you done to me?”

“The pack really do see beyond the surface,” Hanzo murmured as he set a hand on Jesse’s shoulder. “Remember.”

[preachbvne]

Prophetic Word - 2020 The Season of Great "PLANTINGS" I Will Heal Your Waywardness! The “Dismantling of Vagabond" https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I2sM2zhgXGY Glory Note: They Will still Talk about You, but the Context of the Conversation Will Change!" Says The Lord!" (Video Premiering LIVE in 30 Mins, Set Reminder)

Land*Homes*Roots Planting Of His People on Land; With Houses;Flourishing Roots! Why? For His Glory! DON'T MISS THIS WORD!

"I have Heard Their Waywardness(Wandering) I Will HEAL You Waywardness Says The Lord! For those who have the Capacity to Receive.. RECEIVE!

HERE THIS WORD OF THE LORD!!!! • The Spirit of "Wondering' Vagabond' Dismantled • Houses You Didn't Build • Wells You didn't Dig • Land- Community - Fellowship • Relationships –Fellowship –True divine Connections

Trees Of Righteousness Isaiah 61:3 (KJV) 3 To appoint unto them that mourn in Zion, to give unto them beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning, the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness; that they might be called trees of righteousness, the planting of the Lord, that he might be glorified.

Planted by the Waters Psalm 1:3(KJV) 3 And he shall be like a tree planted by the rivers of water, that bringeth forth his fruit in his season; his leaf also shall not wither; and whatsoever he doeth shall prosper.

Grace Nuggets: • What Waters?.. The Flowing Rain and Word • (No Open Heavens( No Rain)=No Rhema Word=No Flow = Drought

Numbers 24:6 (KJV) 6 As the valleys are they spread forth, as gardens by the river's side, as the trees of lign aloes which the Lord hath planted, and as cedar trees beside the waters.

*They will "FLOURISH" Because "ROOTS"** Psalm 72:7 (KJV) 7 In his days shall the righteous flourish; and abundance of peace so long as the moon endureth

Green Olive Trees that TRUST Psalm 52:8  (KJV) 8 But I am like a green olive tree in the house of God: I trust in the mercy of God for ever and ever.

I WILL HEAL The Waywardness(Wondering)- They Will Be Dew, Lilies and Trees with a Glorious Smell! Hosea 14:5-8 (KJV) 5 I will be as the dew unto Israel: he shall grow as the lily, and cast forth his roots as Lebanon. 6 His branches shall spread, and his beauty shall be as the olive tree, and his smell as Lebanon. 7 They that dwell under his shadow shall return; they shall revive as the corn, and grow as the vine: the scent thereof shall be as the wine of Lebanon. 8 Ephraim shall say, What have I to do any more with idols? I have heard him, and observed him: I am like a green fir tree. From me is thy fruit found.

Hosea 14:5-8 (MSG) 4-8 “I Will Heal Their Waywardness. I will love them lavishly. My anger is played out. I will make a fresh start with Israel.He’ll burst into bloom like a crocus in the spring. He’ll put down deep oak tree roots, he’ll become a forest of oaks!  He’ll become splendid—like a giant sequoia, his fragrance like a grove of cedars!  Those who live near him will be blessed by him, be blessed and prosper like golden grain. Everyone will be talking about them, spreading their fame as the vintage children of God. Ephraim is finished with gods that are no-gods. From now on I’m the one who answers and satisfies him. I am like a luxuriant fruit tree. Everything you need is to be found in me.”

There must be the anointing to eject demons and break curses in our Houses if our people will ever enter the freedom they need to be effective. One of the curses that I have observed hindering believers significantly is what I call the Curse of the Vagabond.

Curses are very real. They affect Believers and Unbelievers alike. • There are Self-Inflicted Curses which are usually caused by blatant, pre-meditated, and consistent sin, Contrary Speaking, Disobedience, Hatred and • then you have Generational Curses which are usually hereditary weaknesses to particular sins and or disadvantages. • Some families struggle with particular sins, while other families struggle with other sins.. these are generational curses that attach themselves, because of past pacts and contracts, to entire families.

Grace Nuggets: • A curse is simply defined as being empowered to fail. • A blessing means to be empowered to prosper.

So a curse then is a legal hold that binds people to failure. God told Abraham that He would CURSE those that CURSED Abraham (Gen. 12:3). Anyone that made it hard for Abraham to complete his assignment, God would make it hard for them.

Now let’s look at the Curse of the Vagabond. Genesis 4:12 12When thou tillest the ground, it shall not henceforth yield unto thee her strength; a fugitive and a vagabond shalt thou be in the earth.

A Vagabond is defined: • As wandering from place to place without any settled home.  It has the connotation of being disreputable, worthless and or shiftless.  And this is many times how people who are under this curse feel. • This curse is usually activated by deep rejection. Rejection from pastors, parents and close friends. • It attacks ones confidence with people and scars their personality. • Vagabond also means one who is leading an unsettled or carefree life, a life of no direction or purpose. A life lived haphazardly and not intentionally.

IF YOU OBEY---IT WILL BE Well Jeremiah 7:23 (KJV) 23 But this thing commanded I them, saying, Obey my voice, and I will be your God, and ye shall be my people: and walk ye in all the ways that I have commanded you, that it may be well unto you.

Grace Nuggets • The World was Formed(Out of Alignment) VOID(Chaos) • God Goes from Dark to Light(The Evening and the Morning)

Three Terms for Sin Used in the Bible 1) Het- "Straying away from the Path" (Found 459 times Forgetfulness, neglecting the Truth,) 2) Avon - "Crookedness in Your Conduct" (Iniquity- Twisted- Deliberate but weakness) 3) Pesha - "A Rebellious Transgression"  (Willing rebellion 136 times in the Bible)

He Directs Your Paths Proverbs 3:6 (KJV) 6 In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths. Proverbs 3:6(AMP) 6 [a]In all your ways know and acknowledge and recognize Him, And He will make your paths straight and smooth [removing obstacles that block your way].

IF WE - LIVE WITH-- STICK WITH- DIE WITH 2 Timothy 2:11-13 (KJV) 11 It is a faithful saying: For if we be dead with him, we shall also live with him: 12 If we suffer, we shall also reign with him: if we deny him, he also will deny us: 13 If we believe not, yet he abideth faithful: he cannot deny himself.

2 Timothy 2:11-13 (MSG) 8-13 Fix this picture firmly in your mind: Jesus, descended from the line of David, raised from the dead. It’s what you’ve heard from me all along. It’s what I’m sitting in jail for right now—but God’s Word isn’t in jail! That’s why I stick it out here—so that everyone God calls will get in on the salvation of Christ in all its glory. This is a sure thing: If we die with him, we’ll live with him; If we stick it out with him, we’ll rule with him; If we turn our backs on him, he’ll turn his back on us; If we give up on him, he does not give up—for there’s no way he can be false to himself.

When The Lord Comes Will He Find Faith Luke 18:8(KJV) 8 I tell you that he will avenge them speedily. Nevertheless when the Son of man cometh, shall he find faith on the earth

The "GOD-With" Ministry

Not Inspirational Speaking, But Word-Based Preaching!"

TRUTHALITY! Facts are Temporal Truth is Eternal! What is real? The TRUTH that, Nothing is too hard for God!

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To Sow into this Ministry Mail to: Shawntrell or Thomas Davis               P.O. BOX 606               Goodlettsville, TN 37070 CashApp: $KingdomStewardDavis PayPal:  www.paypal.me/SHAWNTRELLDAVIS or Email:PreachBVNE@yahoo.com

Thomas Emmanuel Davis III Shawntrell Davis Ambassadors of the Word of Reconciliation Followers of "The Way"

Distributors of the Revelation! Distributors of the Truth! Distributors of the Release!

S.H.I.F.T Suddenly Heaven Invades Forcing Transformation!!

#YesLordIWill #CryLoudAndSpareNot #TheLordMyGodIsWithMe #PartakersofHisGlory #FortifiedBrazenWall #Repent #TheKingdomOfGodIsAtHand

Let the Lord be Magnified! Announcing the Coming of the Glorious Kingdom of God!

2 Corinthians 5:20(KJV) 20 Now then we are ambassadors for Christ, as though God did beseech you by us: we pray you in Christ's stead, be ye reconciled to God.

Matthew 24:14 (KJV) 14 And this gospel of the kingdom shall be preached in all the world for a witness unto all nations; and then shall the end come.

Obadiah 1:1 (KJV) 1 The vision of Obadiah. Thus saith the Lord God concerning Edom; We have heard a rumour from the Lord, and an ambassador is sent among the heathen, Arise ye, and let us rise up against her in battle.(They will Fall)

[preachbvne]

Prophetic Word - 2020 The Season of Great "PLANTINGS" I Will Heal Your Waywardness! The “Dismantling of Vagabond" https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I2sM2zhgXGY

Land*Homes*Roots Planting Of His People on Land; With Houses;  Flourishing Roots Why? For His Glory! DON'T MISS THIS WORD!

"I have Heard Their Waywardness(Wandering) I Will HEAL You Waywardness Says The Lord! For those who have the Capacity to Receive.. RECEIVE! (Video Premiering Sunday 1-12-20

HERE THIS WORD OF THE LORD!!!! • The Spirit of "Wondering' Vagabond' Dismantled • Houses You Didn't Build • Wells You didn't Dig • Land- Community - Fellowship • Relationships –Fellowship –True divine Connections

Trees Of Righteousness Isaiah 61:3 (KJV) 3 To appoint unto them that mourn in Zion, to give unto them beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning, the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness; that they might be called trees of righteousness, the planting of the Lord, that he might be glorified.

Planted by the Waters Psalm 1:3(KJV) 3 And he shall be like a tree planted by the rivers of water, that bringeth forth his fruit in his season; his leaf also shall not wither; and whatsoever he doeth shall prosper.

Grace Nuggets: • What Waters?.. The Flowing Rain and Word • (No Open Heavens( No Rain)=No Rhema Word=No Flow = Drought

Numbers 24:6 (KJV) 6 As the valleys are they spread forth, as gardens by the river's side, as the trees of lign aloes which the Lord hath planted, and as cedar trees beside the waters.

*They will "FLOURISH" Because "ROOTS"** Psalm 72:7 (KJV) 7 In his days shall the righteous flourish; and abundance of peace so long as the moon endureth

Green Olive Trees that TRUST Psalm 52:8  (KJV) 8 But I am like a green olive tree in the house of God: I trust in the mercy of God for ever and ever.

I WILL HEAL The Waywardness(Wondering)- They Will Be Dew, Lilies and Trees with a Glorious Smell! Hosea 14:5-8 (KJV) 5 I will be as the dew unto Israel: he shall grow as the lily, and cast forth his roots as Lebanon. 6 His branches shall spread, and his beauty shall be as the olive tree, and his smell as Lebanon. 7 They that dwell under his shadow shall return; they shall revive as the corn, and grow as the vine: the scent thereof shall be as the wine of Lebanon. 8 Ephraim shall say, What have I to do any more with idols? I have heard him, and observed him: I am like a green fir tree. From me is thy fruit found.

Hosea 14:5-8 (MSG) 4-8 “I Will Heal Their Waywardness. I will love them lavishly. My anger is played out. I will make a fresh start with Israel.He’ll burst into bloom like a crocus in the spring. He’ll put down deep oak tree roots, he’ll become a forest of oaks!  He’ll become splendid—like a giant sequoia, his fragrance like a grove of cedars!  Those who live near him will be blessed by him, be blessed and prosper like golden grain. Everyone will be talking about them, spreading their fame as the vintage children of God. Ephraim is finished with gods that are no-gods. From now on I’m the one who answers and satisfies him. I am like a luxuriant fruit tree. Everything you need is to be found in me.”

There must be the anointing to eject demons and break curses in our Houses if our people will ever enter the freedom they need to be effective. One of the curses that I have observed hindering believers significantly is what I call the Curse of the Vagabond.

Curses are very real. They affect Believers and Unbelievers alike. • There are Self-Inflicted Curses which are usually caused by blatant, pre-meditated, and consistent sin, Contrary Speaking, Disobedience, Hatred and • then you have Generational Curses which are usually hereditary weaknesses to particular sins and or disadvantages. • Some families struggle with particular sins, while other families struggle with other sins.. these are generational curses that attach themselves, because of past pacts and contracts, to entire families.

Grace Nuggets: • A curse is simply defined as being empowered to fail. • A blessing means to be empowered to prosper.

So a curse then is a legal hold that binds people to failure. God told Abraham that He would CURSE those that CURSED Abraham (Gen. 12:3). Anyone that made it hard for Abraham to complete his assignment, God would make it hard for them.

Now let’s look at the Curse of the Vagabond. Genesis 4:12 12When thou tillest the ground, it shall not henceforth yield unto thee her strength; a fugitive and a vagabond shalt thou be in the earth.

A Vagabond is defined: • As wandering from place to place without any settled home.  It has the connotation of being disreputable, worthless and or shiftless.  And this is many times how people who are under this curse feel. • This curse is usually activated by deep rejection. Rejection from pastors, parents and close friends. • It attacks ones confidence with people and scars their personality. • Vagabond also means one who is leading an unsettled or carefree life, a life of no direction or purpose. A life lived haphazardly and not intentionally.

IF YOU OBEY---IT WILL BE Well Jeremiah 7:23 (KJV) 23 But this thing commanded I them, saying, Obey my voice, and I will be your God, and ye shall be my people: and walk ye in all the ways that I have commanded you, that it may be well unto you.

Grace Nuggets • The World was Formed(Out of Alignment) VOID(Chaos) • God Goes from Dark to Light(The Evening and the Morning)

Three Terms for Sin Used in the Bible 1) Het- "Straying away from the Path" (Found 459 times Forgetfulness, neglecting the Truth,) 2) Avon - "Crookedness in Your Conduct" (Iniquity- Twisted- Deliberate but weakness) 3) Pesha - "A Rebellious Transgression"  (Willing rebellion 136 times in the Bible)

He Directs Your Paths Proverbs 3:6 (KJV) 6 In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths. Proverbs 3:6(AMP) 6 [a]In all your ways know and acknowledge and recognize Him, And He will make your paths straight and smooth [removing obstacles that block your way].

IF WE - LIVE WITH-- STICK WITH- DIE WITH 2 Timothy 2:11-13 (KJV) 11 It is a faithful saying: For if we be dead with him, we shall also live with him: 12 If we suffer, we shall also reign with him: if we deny him, he also will deny us: 13 If we believe not, yet he abideth faithful: he cannot deny himself.

2 Timothy 2:11-13 (MSG) 8-13 Fix this picture firmly in your mind: Jesus, descended from the line of David, raised from the dead. It’s what you’ve heard from me all along. It’s what I’m sitting in jail for right now—but God’s Word isn’t in jail! That’s why I stick it out here—so that everyone God calls will get in on the salvation of Christ in all its glory. This is a sure thing: If we die with him, we’ll live with him; If we stick it out with him, we’ll rule with him; If we turn our backs on him, he’ll turn his back on us; If we give up on him, he does not give up—for there’s no way he can be false to himself.

When The Lord Comes Will He Find Faith Luke 18:8(KJV) 8 I tell you that he will avenge them speedily. Nevertheless when the Son of man cometh, shall he find faith on the earth

The "GOD-With" Ministry

Not Inspirational Speaking, But Word-Based Preaching!"

TRUTHALITY! Facts are Temporal Truth is Eternal! What is real? The TRUTH that, Nothing is too hard for God!

Preach Be a Voice Not an Echo www.preachbvne.webs.com www.preachbvne.blogspot.com Twitter@Preach_BA_Voice Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/preach_bvne/ Facebook: www.facebook.com/PREACHbeaVoicenotanEcho Pinterest: https://www.pinterest.com/PreachBVNE/ Youtube Channel:www.youtube.com/c/PREACHbeaVoicenotanEchoMinistry

To Sow into this Ministry Mail to: Shawntrell or Thomas Davis               P.O. BOX 606               Goodlettsville, TN 37070 CashApp: $KingdomStewardDavis PayPal:  www.paypal.me/SHAWNTRELLDAVIS or Email:PreachBVNE@yahoo.com

Thomas Emmanuel Davis III Shawntrell Davis Ambassadors of the Word of Reconciliation Followers of "The Way"

Distributors of the Revelation! Distributors of the Truth! Distributors of the Release!

S.H.I.F.T Suddenly Heaven Invades Forcing Transformation!!

#YesLordIWill #CryLoudAndSpareNot #TheLordMyGodIsWithMe #PartakersofHisGlory #FortifiedBrazenWall #Repent #TheKingdomOfGodIsAtHand

Let the Lord be Magnified! Announcing the Coming of the Glorious Kingdom of God!

2 Corinthians 5:20(KJV) 20 Now then we are ambassadors for Christ, as though God did beseech you by us: we pray you in Christ's stead, be ye reconciled to God.

Matthew 24:14 (KJV) 14 And this gospel of the kingdom shall be preached in all the world for a witness unto all nations; and then shall the end come.

Obadiah 1:1 (KJV) 1 The vision of Obadiah. Thus saith the Lord God concerning Edom; We have heard a rumour from the Lord, and an ambassador is sent among the heathen, Arise ye, and let us rise up against her in battle.(They will Fall)