#every time i see abigail all i can think about is how much she resembles jodie

[jodians]

something i find interesting about hannibal is how they casted kacey rohl, who has a striking resemblance to jodie foster in the silence of the lambs, to play abigail hobbs, a young girl who is traumatized by the death of her father and is haunted by him - much like clarice starling was

[rearranging-deck-chairs]

Hi hello I watched all of carmilla in a weekend when I was 17 because a student teacher who in retrospect I had a bit of a crush on mentioned that she knew one of the actresses. also I am pretty invested in all your recent vampire stuff because I watched iwtv in 2 days last week because your edit intrigued me

oh hiiii 🫶 thank you for indulging me. thats so cool that you watched iwtv! did it live up to the expectation?

i also watched carmilla at 17! or like, 17-19. i found it when s2 had just started and followed it to the end. did something permanent to my brain but i think it was a good thing. on rewatch now im like, i was right to like this. like it's a solid show, it's good. it has its flaws obviously but it's well written, the emotional moments still get me, i can see why i liked it and i still like it now even when it's not anymore, you know, meeting every need that baby gay me didnt even know they had

what it doesnt reaallyy do though - i dont remember if i posted abt this or if i left it in my drafts but - is explore vampirism as a concept. their subject matter is more lesbianism than vampirism. which is great! thats what they wanted to do and they did it and it's very good. but reading interview with the vampire the book rn im realising how much potential vampires have to be metaphors for like so many things and i started wondering like 'wait, did carmilla just not really engage with it or did it all go over my head'. but it just didnt really engage with it all that much. which again is fine bc that wasnt what they were doing. im glad they were more about the lesbianism than the vampirism

but there's this interesting difference in framing, because in iwtv they keep calling armand 'ancient' right? and emphasising how old he is. and he's like 500? and i was like 'wait isnt carmilla like 400?'. she isnt, shes 340, but still, thats getting there, you know? and we know quite a lot about her history, but kind of just the Big Events. when she was turned, the events of the novella, coffin of blood, silas. thats sort of what we know. but none of the long lonely slog of history day to day you know? with armand i feel like we can really feel how much time everything takes. how every one of those years is made up of single days. with carmilla i dont feel that as much. i keep kind of thinking about daniel, when louis calls him a boy in the first episode, saying "im an old man, with all the triggers that come with it"

because carmilla might look 18 (or mid twenties at this point) but she has lived all that time. shes also seen her native land be claimed by like a succession of ruling powers, right? like armand. shes been buried alive, like louis. when lestat is born, shes already 80 years old, shes lived a whole human lifetime, and the entire adult part of it shes been a vampire. shes lived through 1680-1870 being a lure. i compared her to abigail hobbs in some tags on a post, i dont know if youre familiar with hannibal the tv show, but i do also kinda keep thinking about that comparison

if youre not familiar, in the first episode of hannibal the murderer of the week is this guy garrett jacob hobbs who kills and cannibalises girls who resemble his daughter. and later on it turns out she was made to be his lure. like they'd go places and he'd sent her to the victims to make friends and maybe get them back to their home or smth. not sure if they specified all the details. but that's what carmilla did for mother. and in s2 we hear from mattie that while every couple of decades carmilla had to lure victims for the fish god, she also seemed to just enjoy humans between those times, right? like the doctor, gets lonely, gets a new companion. but we've only sort of got mattie's mocking word for it ("dont eat him, hes a poet! or her, shes got such a wonderful voice. or that one, shes just too pretty to ruin"), we don't know exactly from carmilla's point of view what she was doing or why. if mattie's talking about stuff that happened after the blood coffin, 1950-now, then i think it's a fair assumption based on what carmilla says in the s1 sock puppet show that after she'd figured out what the real situation was and what her role in it was, when she'd started trying to save girls from being sacrificed, that she mightve been doing the same trying to save people from becoming mattie's victims. it's probably more likely that she was just trying to find excuses to stop mattie from sucking someone dry rather than actually having like an aesthetic based morality. but it might be a bit of both. im still trying to figure out what her philosophy actually is, like i dont know what existentialism actually means ghkfjghkj but i will

i also found it pretty striking in the movie when shes turning back into a vampire she says like "this was supposed to be done, you know? the blood lust, the self-loathing, the sleeping tied to a chair in my own bedroom". thats what defines her vampirism, wanting blood and hating yourself for it (the third part is a joke/reference to s1 but also i think meaningful for how she sees her relationship with laura when she IS a vampire. little bit of that 'she will reject me for my monstrousness' shining through). and thats what defines vampirism for lots of vampires across the genre obviously, but i dont know, it struck me. we dont get a lot from carmilla's pov, we know a fair amount about her, but the story is always told through laura. we get laura's diaries, but just snippets here and there from carmilla, what shes thinking, how shes feeling

and i love that shes a philosopher. i love that thats how she seems to try and find something to hold onto, in a world that kind of moves around her, having been murdered, kidnapped, turned and groomed to be a lure on the cusp of adulthood, never having been properly loved (the relationship with her father wasnt good she says in s3, and her mortal mother i dont think has ever been mentioned (like laura's)). the only good relationship she seems to have had for the better part of 3 centuries seems to have been mattie, and mattie seems to love being a vampire. i can imagine carmilla just sort of going along with anything mattie wants to do just because shes so desperate for that friendship. not like, against her will necessarily really. but more like, she hasnt even had the space to develop her own will, you know? and philosophy lets you do that. philosophy gives you frameworks to understand the world and to develop your own opinions on it. and by the 21st century she seems to have developed those opinions, she has a sense of her own values, but shes also still stuck in that same situation. shes jaded and cynical in the face of laura's optimism and strong moral code a lot of the time in s1 because she feels probably pretty powerless. like she does what she can to save some girls but at the end of the day shes scared of her mother and she has nowhere else to go really, right?

i like how she grapples with that over the course of the series, in tandem with laura grappling with her black and white morality. she sort of jumps ship from her mother to laura bc theyve fallen in love, but then laura still stuck in her hero thinking refuses to see her monstrous side. not literally bc i think the biological vampirism never seemed to be a problem for laura, but morally. the having murdered. carmilla needs laura to see that and love her while seeing it bc the last girl she loved rejected her for being a vampire.

but you see her kind of swing back and forth in s2. she softens first with laura but then they break up and she leans back hard into the sarcastic cynic defense mechanisms, leans hard into "im a monster, dont expect heroism from me". but thats like, it's sort of learned helplessness i think. it's powerlessness, resignation. bc morally shes not a monster. maybe she doesnt have as strong a drive to help other people as laura does and is a little more selfishly hedonistic in that she just wants to enjoy her/their life, but she doesnt hurt people for fun, she never has. she just sort of didnt have another option for a Really long time. so she pretends she doesnt care. "im a vampire, this is what i do, this is who i am". but clearly from the way she talks about it when she turns back into one, she doesnt enjoy it

and i like how she goes even further in s3, where she starts swinging even more to the heroic side, bc she sees hope. shes like "wow if we kill my mother, i'd be free". theres hope and she becomes like a lot more active. and shes like that at the start of the movie too, a lot happier, a lot more relaxed, and then vampirism is back and bam depression gfhgkjh like shes immediately more gloomy, ashamed of her past and her self, retreats into herself

sorry i just took this as an opportunity to dump all the carmilla thoughts floating in my head on you. you didnt ask fhkghgjh consider this an open invitation to you or anyone else to come talk to me about carmilla

[renee-writer]

Loved Her First Chapter 97

AO3

Her eyes narrow in concentration as she helps her honored granny grind the herbs. Storm’s hands are quite smaller and it is hard to work the mortar and pestle but she is determined. Mama and Papa do their work and Storm does hers. Hers, she is told, is to learn from honored granny how to heal.

 

“Very good Storm. See how the garlic is shredded. That makes it useful for medicine.” As her great-grandchild beams, Claire returns to her own work. With winter on the way, she is preparing the medicine that will be needed. Wee Storm, at three, is more helpful by the day.

 

 Finn drops her off early in the morning and picks her up at noon. It gives the little lass time to learn and gives Odina time to get her own chores done and rest a bit. Pregnant again, she is having a bit more trouble with this pregnancy. Claire suspects twins. They are in the family, after all. She is a bit to early for Claire to know for sure.

 

Time with Storm is welcome. It keeps her mind off Faith and Mercy, so far away. It offers relief from thinking about Caelen who is preparing to wed and Anslie who still refuses every suitor. When it is just her and her wee helper, she can simply feel the joy of being an honored granny.

 

 

“I am truly sorry about your aunt.” David says. His pops and her mama talk business in the other room. David offered to make dinner for their guests. Mercy, curious about how that is done in this time, has asked to accompany him.

 

She sits at the kitchen table, the only familiar thing in the room. David had showed and explained the refrigerator and stove, had amazed her with running water. Now, as he makes what he calls hamburgers, made from cows, they talk.

 

“Thank you. I didn’t really know her but, “ She rests her head on her hand and he sees the small flacks of green in her otherwise blue eyes. They fascinate him, “everyone says I resemble her. I see the sadness in mama and granny’s eyes sometimes and know they are thinking about her. Granda gets a faraway look and I know he is doing the same. The worse though is on my Uncle Jeremy and my cousin, Finn. He was just a few years old when she passed. I cannot imagine not knowing my mama.” She sighs, “Finn is married now, to a woman of the Cherokee tribe. Little Storm, their daughter, her name honors her late granny.”

 

He places the burgers on a plate and starts toasting buns. Her world is so much different then hers, still, he finds himself drawn to her. He is a bit freaked.

 

Clearing his throat, he replies, “Was it an illness that took her away?”

 

She sighs again and he hears the sorrow in it. “No, it was despair. Granny says that she had a deep sorrow after Finn was born. Though she loved him, she couldn’t get past it. So, she took her own life.”

 

A shocked gasp from David.  He turns to face her, not sure what to say, when his pops and Faith walk in.

 

“Come Mercy. Joe had some clothes that are from this time. They will help us blend in better.”

 

She raises, does a small curtsey towards David and Joe, and follows her out.

 

 

“I have a problem.” They are repairing the fence line before the snows come. Jamie nods at him to go on, “It is Abigail, the Bug’s daughter.”

 

“What of the lass, Ian?”

 

He lays his hammer on the post. “She tried to kiss me. I rebuffed her, reminding her that I be a married man.”

 

“How did she respond?” He is already formulating, in his mind, the conversation he will have with Archie Bug.

 

“She said that a real wife wouldn’t leave her husband to go to Boston taking his girl child to be educated. That it is a scandalous thing to do. That,” he stares out over the fields, “is the real problem. I can handle young Abigail. The worry is, what is going around about Faith and Mercy.”

 

“Aye,” his Uncle Jamie replies, “I don’t know whether to let it lay or say something. Thank you for telling me. I will give it some thought.”

 

 

“They are queer.” Mercy says as she slips on the strange breaks and shirt that lasses wear in this time.

 

“A bit, yes. They are different then what Bree and I,” a short pause, as the pain of losing her, hits again, “wore when we were here. Don’t worry Mercy. You will get used to them.”

 

She takes her hand and they rejoin their hosts for dinner. David ‘s eyes grow wide at seeing Mercy in modern clothes.

[locked-tomb-shenanigans]

Spoilers for the new Nona excerpt look away now if you haven’t read it

(Please bear with me if this is kind of incoherent and doesn’t make complete sense in all places, it’s 2 am where I live lol)

Okay hear me out: if Nona is really in Harrow’s body which the new chapter seems to heavily point towards currently, I think the soul is Alecto.

There’s an actual logical explanation for this, too: thinking about it, the possibility has occurred to me that Harrow was never actually hallucinating Alecto. (For the record, yes, she is still schizophrenic, I will get to that in a second.)

So there’s this interesting thing about Alecto seeming to know things Harrow doesn’t when she speaks to her in HtN, like when she tells her to not tell Mercy her real age. I didn’t think much of it at the time, but that does point towards at least the possibility that there might be more going on and that Harrow’s head isn’t necessarily making the Body up.

I honestly feel a little stupid because I didn’t consider this sooner, but: what if, the day Harrow opened the tomb, Alecto actually did escape? More specifically, her soul? What if, in the way Wake anchored herself to Gideon’s sword, Alecto’s soul anchored itself to Harrow’s body? 

It does seem possible to anchor yourself to a body, considering Wake walks around in Cytherea’s corpse, and that one of the things Abigail lists as revenant anchors that can be destroyed are corpses. So why wouldn’t it be possible for Alecto, the other half of a Perfect Lyctor, to anchor her spirit to a living body?

When Harrow died, Gideon resurfaced. When Gideon in Harrow’s body died, and for a moment there wasn’t a soul left to fill it, Alecto took over. A part of me is wondering if the incoherent “No no” that Nona’s name is based on was Gideon trying to say “Nonagesimus”, which, yes, would be heartbreaking, but might have been her thinking the soul resurfacing was Harrow, and handing the body back over in relief. So she ends up shelved at the back of Harrow’s mind again, except this time she has no idea whose soul she’s stuck there with, or where the hell the actual Harrow even is. Harrow, meanwhile, is anchored to Gideon’s sword—the one that Alecto doesn’t know what to do with.

The most likely moment for Alecto’s anchoring to Harrow to happen would be after she first opened the blood ward, since she mentioned she started seeing the Body after that—she spoke to Harrow at first and then stopped when her parents died and then started again at the Mithraeum. 

The tomb opening and her parents dying is also when Harrow starts struggling with her schizophrenia symptoms. I imagine it would’ve been incredibly easy for her to lump the dead woman she’s seeing together with the other audio-visual hallucinations she had. That seems like a perfectly logical conclusion on her part. But she might’ve been wrong.

It’s a good way to throw us off with the symptoms being grouped together with her seeing the Body and the yellow eyes seemingly pointing towards Nona being Gideon while also subtly hinting that something else is going on.

The thing with Nona kissing the mirror? The person Alecto was stuck with and that was supposed to build the tomb was Anastasia, Harrow’s ancestor, who also had every reason to hate John considering he killed her cavalier in order to not be discovered. I’m thinking maybe Harrow resembles her, and that’s how the kiss happened. 

Another possibility would be that Gideon briefly managed to take over in some moments before Alecto’s spirit properly lodged itself in place controlling Harrow’s body, and she did it on a sort of autopilot. This could also be an explanation for the two tantrums Nona threw but can’t really remember. (The only sort-of example we have for something like this happening is when Pyrrha talks to Harrow after the little furnace incident and Gideon the First doesn’t seem to recall it when asked.)

Another thing that deeply fascinates me is the way Nona describes languages and how her powers related to that work, especially the “watching [others] talk, making her lips look like theirs”-bit, but having to see their face and eyes and lips. How does she do that, when neither Harrow nor Gideon ever could, but doesn’t remember how to use bone magic or know anything about swordsmanship?

In Harrow the Ninth, John says “My first Resurrection was not a normal human being, and she struggled to pretend.“

But in what way was she pretending? Did she try and learn what it meant to be human by imitating others, and that’s what the description refers to? Has she always had a superhuman ability to learn languages? Is she, considering she’s most likely a resurrection beast, a mesh of human souls and has a resource pool to pull from when she sees someone speak in a certain way?

It’s worth noting that Gideon in Harrow’s body wasn’t suddenly able to use necromancy. She had lyctoral healing abilities, and so does Pyrrha, but she’s unable to access the necromantic abilities of the body, and since we pretty much know for sure that whoever is in this body isn’t Harrow, it can’t be a necromantic ability—and even then, it isn’t an ability we’ve ever seen anyone possess. So what is it, if not that?

At the end of Harrow the Ninth, Mercy describes Alecto as a “monster in a human suit”, which is an interesting detail considering she does seem to be walking around in someone else’s body.

Again, I apologize for this being somewhat incoherent, I just needed to get it out of my system because my mind is spinning in too many directions at once.

[kanonsarchivedblog]

Burn For You

Word Count: 5856 Genre: Smut Rating: E Characters: Uchiha Madara, fem!Senju Tobirama, Uzumaki Mito (briefly) Ship: Uchiha Madara/Senju Tobirama Warnings: Unprotected Sex Author's Note: You can read it on my ao3 here! This was inspired by Burn For You by Abigail Barlow! It suits Tobirama and Madara really well, imo. Also, this was just fourteen pages of smut. I hope you all enjoy this! ━━━━━━━━━━━━ It all started with a confession.

“I burn for you.”

The admission had taken her off guard. She’d agreed to stay behind after a meeting, going over the development plans for the Nara clan to settle in the North Eastern part of the village outside of the gates so that their deer would have plenty of space to roam and not fear the wrath of hunters. Madara had additional ideas that needed to be looked at by a different pair of eyes- constructive criticism before presenting it officially to the council. The night had grown long, the candles burned so long that they were more melted wax than actual candles. She’d ended up sitting atop the table, her legs crossed as she read over Madara’s ideas, comparing them with her brother’s. Truth be told, Hashirama seemed to be distracted- his plans were barely finished, whereas Madara’s were completely finalized. It was nice to see work actually getting done.

“If you keep looking at me like that, I might just think you actually fancy me, Uchiha,” Tobirama had taunted, a smirk curling wine colored lips as she glanced over. However, unlike their normal banter, he hadn’t responded. “... That was a joke. You’re supposed to laugh now. Ha-ha.” She mumbled, lips turning down into a pout as she turned her gaze back to the papers.

“Senju.” His voice was soft, low- nearly resembling a growl as he stepped closer. Instinctually, her legs spread slightly, the cloth of her kimono parting with the movement, feet barely meeting the ground. Prepared to run, to bolt, Madara noticed. Or perhaps to fight, with how her hands gripped the edge of the table. “You’re a nuisance, you realize that, yes?”

“A nuisance?!” She exclaimed, eyes widening in surprise. “You've some nerve, calling me- what are you doing?” All heat vanished as he settled between her spread thighs, his hands braced upon the wood of the table on either side of her hips. “Madara, are you ill? Is something the matter?” A hand reached up to touch her wrist to his forehead to see if he’d come down with a fever, only for his hand to capture it-

And press a searing kiss to her wrist.

“I burn for you,” he murmured against the pale skin, lips brushing so gently, delicately- as if afraid that the mere movement would cause her pain. “I burn for you, day in and day out.”

“Madara-” her voice was barely above a whisper, chest rising and falling quickly as her heart began to race. When he looked up at her, her breath halted all together: three black tomoe stood out against ruby irises, yet she could not look away. Heat gathered in her cheeks- and lower, much lower, to her own embarrassment. “This is- inappropriate.” Even so, she did not pull her hand away.

She leaned closer.

That is, until the sound of footsteps approaching had Madara backing away, Tobirama cradling her wrist delicately as the door opened, revealing Mito. “Pardon the intrusion,” she murmured, giving a small bow. “My husband forgot his files, and instead of coming back himself, he sent me.” A sharp roll of the eyes showed her annoyance, even if her smile was soft.

“You could have told him to fuck off,” Tobirama stated simply, shoulders rising in a shrug.

Mito let out a bark of laughter at her sister-in-law. “I think that would have given him a heart attack!” Shaking her head, she flashed the pair a smile before turning on her heel. “Don’t work too late, you two.”

“We won’t,” Madara called after her, though his gaze was trained on Tobirama. The only way she could describe what she saw in his gaze was hunger. Pure hunger.

A fire had been started- and she wasn’t sure if she wanted to douse the flames, or fan them.

“We should… Head home for the night, yes?” Tobirama asked, scooting off of the top of the table to settle her feet on the floor once more, gathering her scrolls. She could sense Madara lingering behind her, yet he did not touch. His gaze was akin to their famed fireball jutsu, scorching the back of her neck. “Do get some rest, Madara.”

“You as well,” Madara murmured, though he made no move to follow her out of the door. Her footsteps were calm at first, until she was outside of the Hokage’s office. Only then did she sprint, pressing chakra into her legs to make her move faster, to get back to the Senju compound quicker. Alone, she needed to be alone to process what just occurred. ━━━━━━━━━━━━ That had been a fortnight ago. Ever since, she’d been busy overseeing the building of the Nara compound while Madara saw to his own clan, making sure they were comfortable as the Uchiha compound began to expand. And every night since, her thoughts had been consumed with the feeling of his lips against her skin, his gaze boring into her own, the feeling of his hips settled between her thighs-

A sharp shake of the head causes wild snowy locks to sway with the movement. Not now, not while she’s reading reports. Even so, her foot tapped on the floor, a movement that spoke volumes of her unease, her need to get up, to demand to know why he’d done it. His office was across from her own. All she’d need to do is rise from her desk, walk across the hall, and demand an answer.

Burn for you.

The words held weight, especially for an Uchiha- known for their innate ability to control fire. To burn for someone is to be completely overwhelmed by the flames of passion, of lust. To think only of them.

Her thighs pressed together beneath her desk.

“Fuck,” she groaned, leaning back in her chair, head flopping back as her eyes closed. This was annoying, she decided. A nuisance. Yet, the Uchiha had kept her thoughts entertained. The night prior had been spent with her face pressed to her pillow, her hand between her thighs, working herself over and wishing it had been something much thicker.

The current bane of her existence knocked on the door before opening it, his gaze settled upon the paper he held. “Did you know that Hashirama put in for an expansion of the Senju compound?” He asked, annoyance clear in his voice as Tobirama forced herself to focus.

“I had no idea,” she replied dryly, her brow furrowing. “We don’t need more space. We’ve got plenty already.” Her gaze drifted, studying Madara for a moment. He wore no armor- they never did when in office. The summer yukata did little to hide what lay beneath.

Perhaps that was why her underlings were so distracted.

“Hm,” a sigh escaped his lips as he set the paper down onto her desk, only to pause for a moment. “Can we speak?”

“We’re speaking now.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I’m afraid you’ll need to be a bit clearer.”

“About what I said.” Madara caved, shaking his head at the Senju. “It was uncalled for, and I was out of pocket-”

“Tonight,” Tobirama cut in, raising a hand, causing Madara to pause. “Meet me in my quarters tonight, and we will talk about what you said. Not now- I’m busy.”

“Busy.” He repeated, gaze trailing over the stack of papers to be signed. “Right. Tonight, then.”

“Tonight,” Tobirama agreed, her gaze never lifting from her paper. “You’re dismissed.”

“Dismissed?! I-”

“Out of my office, Uchiha.” She snapped, feeling a touch smug as Madara turned on his heel and marched out, all but slamming the door on his way out. A snort escaped her as she leaned back. Tonight, they would speak. Tonight, the truth would come out- one way or another.

The day had passed quickly, leaving her spinning in the aftermath. Tobirama drug a hand through her hair, down from it’s normal high ponytail, the wild, curling tresses free for once. Her footsteps carried her across the room in a quick pace, her heart a staccato beat within her chest. Any moment now, she’d be able to feel the familiar flicker of Madara’s chakra entering the compound. To the East, Mito sat with Hashirama- no doubt the pair beginning to bed down for the night.

There, at the southern edge- the flicker of warmth, of red-tinged chakra that felt like standing too close to a bonfire. Her breath skipped a beat as she turned, studying her reflection in the mirror across from her bed. The sleeping yukata did little to give modesty. In a last moment effort to try to compose herself, she snags a robe and quickly ties it around her waist.

The sound of footsteps had her turning, studying the door the moment before it opened, revealing Madara. “Right on time,” she commented idly as she reached back, pulling her hair out from beneath the robe, inadvertently causing the fabric of both robe and sleeping yukata to rise.

“I hope it’s not too late?” Madara asks, head tilting, gaze drifting to the pale skin that was revealed. The barest hint of red on those thighs- did the tattoos stretch that far down? “I’m afraid I was caught up in clan business.”

“Not too late at all,” Tobirama replies with a shake of her head. “Please, come in- close the door, too?” She adds as an afterthought, moving to where she’d set up sakazuki. Her room was nice- it got the morning sun, and the afternoon shade, causing it to be cooler compared to the other sections of the compound’s main house.

Madara walked over to the low table, settling down into an improper sitting position, crossing his legs. Tobirama settles across from him, easing herself into a polite seiza, though the yukata and robe part to reveal how her thighs press together. Such pale skin… “I’m surprised you would even want to meet to discuss what was said,” he commented idly, head tilting as his gaze tracked her movements; sake was poured first for him, and then for herself. “I’d figured you’d want to ignore it.”

“Why ignore it,” she asked as she raised her sakazuki to her lips, careful not to spill a single drop, “when it’s the truth for myself as well?”

Madara nearly choked on the sake- and not from the taste. “Pardon?” He asked, blinking rapidly. “I don’t think I heard you correctly.”

“How did you phrase it?” Tobirama’s head tilts, her gaze narrowing, ruby hues settling upon Madara’s face- flushed, eyes wide, caught off guard. “I burn for you.”

“You burn for me?”

“I burn.”

“You… Burn,” he murmured, gaze growing heavy- hungry. “For me.”

“I burn, day in and day out,” she nodded, sipping her sake once more. “I would be lying if I said I hadn’t envisioned you in my quarters.”

A moment of silence passed before Madara was reaching across the table, taking hold of the collar of her yukata to tug her over, their lips meeting in a kiss that was equally teeth and lips. Biting, hungry, her hands reached up to tangle in wild dark locks, tugging none-too-gently. A groan spilled free from Madara as he pulled back, her lip caught between his teeth in a gentle bite before he released her.

“You’ve no idea how long I’ve pictured this moment,” his words were barely above a growl as Tobirama rose to her feet, the robe discarded, the collar of her yukata disheveled, baring a pale collarbone and shoulder. “How many times I’ve thought of you in my own quarters.”

“I think mine are more comfortable,” she teases as she settles atop his lap, her arms wrapping around his shoulders, her nails gently scraping at the back of his neck. “After all, my bed is made to fit… Multiple.”

Multiple. Oh. Madara’s gaze grows distant as he envisions just what she insinuated for a moment, lips parting slightly. “Multiple.”

“Come now- you didn’t take me for a prude, did you?” She murmured, leaning in to kiss along his jaw, lips trailing up to his left ear. “After all, you just admitted that you’ve thought of me. Tell me, Madara- what have you thought of? What positions?” The shell of his ear is nipped before he reaches up, gripping her jaw to tug her head back.

“Do you truly want to know?” He asks, leaning back as if surveying her. His other hand reached up to brush her hair back from her face before his fingers began to drift, tracing the collar of her yukata slowly, gently nudging the fabric to cause it to fall back, baring more pale skin and red ink.

Such flimsy things, yukata.

“Senju Tobirama wants to hear how I’ve thought of her at night?” His fingers leave her jaw to brush knuckles gently against her cheek. “How I’ve thought of her on her knees beneath my desk, her lips around my cock? Or how I’ve pictured her laying on her back, pleasuring herself in front of me?” His lips quirked into a smirk as Tobirama whined softly at that, her eyes fluttering shut. “Or how I’ve spent so many nights picturing you laying beneath me, begging for my cock, begging for me to fuck you harder, faster?”

“Please,” she whispered, eyes opening into slits, her cheeks flushed. “My fingers could never be enough.”

Fingers. Her fingers? Oh- oh, a groan spilled free as he leaned in, stealing a kiss that had Tobirama’s head swimming. His hands smoothed down her back, pulling her closer, causing her to rise onto her knees. No words were exchanged as his hands slipped to grip her thighs, holding her up as he rose to his knees, then his feet.

Huh. Tobirama pulled back from the kiss to glance down at the floor for a moment. “... One day, take me against the wall.” She spoke quietly, as if to herself, though it got a chuckle out of Madara as he carried her to her bed.

It was large, he noted- larger than his own. “Anywhere you want,” he murmured as he settled her down, not bothering to part as his lips began to kiss and bite a scorching trail down her neck. “Your office, mine- my compound- wherever you want, just say the word.” A soft moan filled the air as his hand came up to settle atop her left breast, gently massaging through the fabric of the yukata. Her hands tangle in his hair as she keens, her eyes closed, head tilted back against the pillows. He pulled back long enough to make quick work of the tie that held the yukata together before parting the thin fabric, baring Tobirama to the chill of the room. She doesn’t cover herself.

No, her legs settle down against the silken sheets. Nothing beneath. Oh, she’d been prepared for this! The realization draws a chuckle from him as his hands smooth across her thighs, marveling at the way the red ink settles into her skin. Her chest- oh, how it encircles both breasts, ending in a circle in the center of chest. The bands around her biceps, encircling her shoulders, how they encircle her throat. That’s why she preferred the high mandarin collars. The ink stretches further down, encircling both thighs. His fingers trace their paths, drawing forth gentle shudders that dance across her skin.

“Beautiful,” Madara whispers, leaning down to press a kiss in the center of the circle that laid upon her chest. “Every inch.”

“Who knew you’d be a sap?” Tobirama teased, though the flush in her cheeks gave away how affected she was by his ministrations- and the slickness between her thighs.

She receives no verbal response; instead, he continues to kiss a trail lower, feeling her stomach tense beneath his lips. A smile curls them as he glances up, meeting her gaze the same moment his tongue lolls out, dragging a slow trail back up towards her chest. His lips enclose around her right nipple as his fingers begin to toy with the left, pinching gently the same time his teeth graze against the other.

“I always- oh- knew you had a thing for breasts,” Tobirama snickers before flinching at the swat he gave to her thigh. Huh. “What with how much you try to- watch your damned teeth-” another swat, though he pulls back from her breast, “-try to peek down my clothes.”

“What can I say?” Madara muses, a cheeky grin curling his lips as he leans in to steal a kiss, his hand soothing the area he’d swatted mere moments before. “I’m a simple man with simple likes.”

“Gross.”

“Fuck off.”

“Take your yukata off and I will,” Tobirama mutters, reaching out to drag her nails down the portion of his chest that was revealed. “I’ve always wondered if you’ve got the dick to back up how cocky you are.”

“You little shit,” he hissed, falling for her words as he made quick work of his yukata, leaving him in his undergarments- which hid nothing, Tobirama noted, her eyes widening in surprise. “Ha! See? I can actually back my shit- oh,” whatever he’d intended to say died on his tongue as Tobirama had reached out, palming at him through his underwear, her eyes wide in curiosity.

Wordlessly, she sat up, gaze intense as she leaned in to lick a slow line down the center of his abdominals- a mirror of what he’d done to her, he realized belatedly. “Lay down,” she murmured against the sensitive skin of his stomach. He obeyed, settling back against the large bed, hair spreading out beneath him like a dark halo. She went to crawl between his legs, only for Madara to grunt.

“No.”

A blink. “Why not?”

“Come here.”

“Wh- oh.” Realization struck, and her cheeks burned as she swallowed roughly. “Right,” carefully, as if afraid she’d somehow crush him, she crawled up and turned. It was an intimate position, one that she didn’t often find herself in with her previous partners, yet Madara didn’t complain. This way, it left them both open- vulnerable, but gave her the perfect angle to reach out and tug his underwear down far enough to free his cock. “... Are all the Uchiha built like this?” She asked, half joking as she gazed down at it.

She couldn’t lie- it wasn’t a bad dick. Not at all- no, it was veiny, but not outwardly awful to look at. Thick; the stretch would hurt, she had no doubt about that. But a part of her thrilled at the idea of the pain. A jolt danced through her, drawing forth a startled gasp at the feeling of his tongue licking a slow stripe up her slit. “No, we aren’t,” he finally answered as his hands raised, settling on her most intimate part and spreading her wide. “I’m just fuckin’ lucky.”

Her eyes rolled, but any retort she had died the moment his tongue pressed against her clit. Gaze closing, she enjoyed the feeling for a moment longer, hips grinding back against his mouth, moans spilling free. Damn him- he was talented. Perhaps the rumors she’d heard were true. Reaching out, she cupped his cock, giving a light stroke before leaning forward, tongue lolling out to give sweet kitten licks at the head, enjoying the way his thighs tensed at the feeling. Two could play at this game, she decided as she opened her mouth wider, taking the head in to suckle on.

Madara groaned against her, lips closed around her clit before he pulled back for a moment, letting his thumb circle her clit in quick, tight circles. “What, is it too big for you?” He teased, only to eat his words a moment later as wet heat encircled over half of his length-

And she swallowed around him. His head fell back against the pillows, a groan filling the room as she began to bob her head in earnest. His fingers didn’t pause, tormenting her clit. Neither would last like this, not with how pent up they were. And as tempting as it was to let her finish him off like this, or to have her finish against his mouth-

That could come another time.

“To-Tobirama, stop, stop,” he murmured, tapping her thigh gently to get her attention. One last slow lick is given before she lifts her head.

“What?” Was she not good? She hadn’t gotten any sort of complaints before, but there was certainly a first time for everything. Her answer was given the next moment as he rolled her off of him.

“As much as I’d love to continue this,” he mused, pushing himself up, his gaze drifting over her form, “I’d much rather have you coming around my fingers than my tongue. This time, at least.”

A shiver danced across her skin at the implication that there would be more than just this. That this wouldn’t be a simple one-night stand. A smile curled her lips as she adjusted herself, settling back against the pillows. Reaching out, she snagged his wrist and tugged him closer, pulling him in for a slow kiss, much more sensual than their initial- the heat still there, certainly, but no longer a fight of dominance. Her hand slipped beneath her pillows, retrieving the small glass vial of oil. “I’m sure you know what to do with this,” she murmured into the kiss, giving his bottom lip a nip.

A chuckle rumbled free from his chest as he plucked the vial from her grasp, settling back on his knees between her thighs. “I think I have an idea,” he agreed, uncorking the bottle with his teeth before letting the oil drizzle out over his fingers, coating two and letting a small stream drip onto her already-soaked cunt. With his clean hand, he replaced the cork before carefully setting the vial aside.

It might be needed again later.

His clean hand settled atop her thigh, massaging it as he eased a finger in, drawing a pleased gasp from Tobirama’s lips. Her eyes fluttered shut, cheeks a rosy hue as he crooked his finger, slowly drawing it back out before pushing back in- a slow pace. She was soaked- realistically, he didn’t believe she needed much prep, but he’d dreamed of this moment for too long to even consider speeding through this.

Leaning down, he pressed a kiss to the inside of her left thigh while his right hand continued to work, thumb rubbing clockwise circles against her clit as a second finger eased in beside the first, stretching her out. She was relaxed, sure- but not enough, not to his standards. “Tobi,” he murmured, watching as her gaze fluttered open, brows draw inwards, lips parted to allow soft moans and whispers of “Yes,” and “right there,” to spill free. “Eyes on me,” the command had her tightening around his fingers, a pulse of arousal. He felt the shift when his Sharingan activated, the strain on the veins around his eyes and within as everything swam into a sharper view.

He wanted to remember this.

“The great Tobirama Senju, getting fucked by none of than Uchiha Madara- her sworn enemy,” he taunted, crooking his fingers up, pressing against the most sensitive part of her. A whine- loud, long- escaped, her thighs tensing on either side of him as his hand sped up suddenly. Wet, so very wet. “How lewd,” he crooned, giving her thigh a nip, enjoying the way the muscle jumped beneath his touch. “So fucking wet for me already- listen, Tobirama.”

“Sh-shut up,” Tobirama gasped, her hands gripping at her chest. Good, so good- she was drawing close. “Stop- ‘Dara, stop, too close,” she warned, but his fingers didn’t slow down. “Madara- oh, Madara, there, there, don’t-” her words cut off as her orgasm swept over her. Her head fell back against the pillows, snowy tresses spread about the dark sheets like a halo as she pulsed around his fingers, coating them and his hand.

A pleased hum rumbled free as Madara leaned down, pressing a kiss to her over-sensitive clit. “Good girl,” he murmured, giving it a lick, succeeding in drawing out a broken whine as his fingers withdrew. Sitting back, he reached out to grasp the vial once more to open it, using the remaining oil to slick his cock up. He gave it a few slow strokes, thumb drifting over the sensitive slit in the head to gather the bit of precum that had gathered.

“Don’t treat me like I’m made of glass,” Tobirama murmured, reaching out to take hold of one of Madara’s hands. “I’m anything but glass.”

“I’m aware,” he replied, scooting forward to settle his hips against hers. A groan fell from both at the sensation of his cock rutting against her cunt. “You’ve never been glass. Iron is a much better word to describe you,” murmuring, he took a moment to enjoy the sensation of being so close to her. He gave her hand a gentle squeeze as his other guided his cock to her entrance. A slow push of his hips had the head slipping in, a gasp breaking free from Tobirama’s lips, her eyes squeezing shut at the intrusion.

Not made of glass, but still very much human.

The stretch was wonderful- the slight sting of pain eased by his thumb on her clit, by his hips slowly moving forward and not deciding to seat himself in her all at once. So much- almost too much, but she’d be the last to admit that. His hips settled against her own, his hand leaving hers to grip at her hips instead, thumbs rubbing small circles into the soft, unscarred skin. “Good,” she whispered, gaze opening to reveal hazy ruby hues. A moment passed as they both grew used to the sensation- her to how filled she felt, him to the wet heat that encased his cock. Curiously, she shifted her hips, a low moan leaving at the feeling of him moving within.

Madara took that as his sign, hips drawing back before shifting forward slowly, testing the waters. Tobirama’s breath hitched, her brow drawing inward, hands slowly gripping at the sheets beneath her. “Please,” she whispered, tongue slipping out to wet her lips. “Fuck me.”

“Gladly,” he grinned, shifting his knees before he began to thrust harder, faster, causing Tobirama to moan- a much louder sound than anything she’d given him before. Wordless little sounds, but gaining in pitch as his hips met hers, as he pulled her back onto his cock. “If I didn’t know any better,” he panted, gaze trained on her face, “I’d almost mistake you for a common oiran.” The way she tightened around him at the slight degradation had his hips slowing for a moment, much to her annoyance. “Oh, yes, I could see it so easily,” he continued, hips grinding, barely pulling out before pushing back in, rubbing against that spot that had her breath catching in her throat. “You in one of those little Tea Houses that have settled here, wearing a pretty little kimono, your lips stained red- laying on your back just like this, letting men use you like the whore you really are,” his voice dipped into a growl as he leaned forward, resting his weight on his forearms while the position shifted, her hips rising with his.

Bordering so closely to the mating press, he noted in the back of his mind. But that didn’t matter, not with Tobirama gasping out his name. “Madara,” she whined, a hand rising to cover her mouth- as if it would hide what they were doing. “Don’t stop, sweet Gods do not stop, ah-right there!” Her thighs tensed around his hips, her cunt pulsing around his cock. Oh, she wouldn’t last long- but that was fine.

He would.

His fingers dug into her hips as he pressed close, hips grinding against hers. A moment to catch his breath- and to have her last just a touch longer. Being so close, he could just… Tongue lolling out, he licked a slow stripe up the valley of her breasts, drawing a surprised gasp from her lips, a breathless smile rising to settle across her features. “I could stay like this for ages,” he murmured against her skin, pressing lingering kisses to the smattering of scars across her chest- small, given by shrapnel during their darker days, “just like this, fucking you until you cried, until you can’t remember your name.”

Tobirama shifted her hips, brow furrowed as Madara spoke. She could hear him, certainly- could understand him, but the words didn’t register, not with how close she was to her own end. “Then do it,” she whispered, reaching down to cup his cheeks, drawing his face up- and for once, didn’t flinch away from the triad of tomoe within his ruby gaze. “Make me forget my name. Make me only remember yours.”

Something seemed to switch, then- as Madara studied her flushed features, the way her hair spread out beneath her head like a silver halo and wings. Leaning in, he captured her lips in a slow, sensual kiss that ended in him nipping at her lower lip as he shifted, his hands smoothing up her sides before settling atop the blankets, holding his weight up. This position was far more intimate than their previous positions, yet he found that it didn’t bother him. No, rather, he preferred this- to see her face so clearly, to hear her whispers of his name as he began to thrust once more. Her legs shifted, coming to settle around his hips, her ankles crossing at the small of his back.

Closer, stirring the embers of the flame that had been waiting to come to life for some time, now. What had been a small campfire was quickly spreading, consuming like a wildfire, flames licking at their skin, settling in their veins.

His lips brushed against her chin as her head tilted back, the position allowing for Madara to push deeper. “Tobirama,” he murmured, brow furrowing. Perhaps he wouldn’t last long, not now, not with how she gripped his cock. “By the Gods,” he gasped softly, hips rolling, chasing both hers and his own release. Her hands reached up, one tangling in thick onyx locks, the other scrapping blunt nails down the expanse of his back. The sharp shock of pain drew a surprised groan out of him, much to her amusement.

“Good boy,” she teased, only to gasp a moment later at the feeling of teeth digging into the sensitive flesh of her neck. “Mad-” her voice cut off by a loud moan as he moved his weight onto one arm, his free hand slipping between them to brush against her clit. Wordless sighs and moans spilled free as she rolled her hips against his, creating a wonderful fiction that had them both beginning to become consumed with the flames that threatened to burn them alive.

Madara pressed heated kisses along her throat as he felt her shudder beneath him. “Close, darling?” He murmured in her ear, lips brushing against the shell as she whimpered. “Will you be a good girl and come for me, then? Come around my cock like I know you want to?” His voice was no longer smooth, growing more haggard as his own completion began to burn at the base of his spine. “Come on, Tobi, you know you want to.”

“Shut- shut up,” Tobirama panted, even as she tossed her head back as he gave a particularly hard thrust. So close, so close. “Don’t stop, Madara- oh- oh, there! Please,” her voice pitched into a whine as her hand abandoned his hair to clutch at his back. Her walls pulsed around him once, twice, three times before she stilled, her back arching, mouth dropping open to release a sob of his name, tears spilling free at last from garnet hues.

Madara pushed himself up to watch, searing the image of her coming around his cock into his memory. The way her cheeks were flushed red, her brows furrowed, her nose scrunching up- she was beautiful in that moment. She was always beautiful, but this was a new type of beauty, something so delicate and precious that he hadn’t ever imagined being privy to. He moved slowly, the thrusts dragging against her walls, dragging out her pleasure and inching him close to his own. It hit suddenly, coming over him like wildfire consuming brush that lay in its path. He stilled above her, his head hanging low as he groaned out her name like a prayer.

She lay beneath him, panting and whining at the feeling of him filling her- hot, so very hot, it threatened to send her over the edge by the feeling alone. Shaky hands reached up to brush through surprisingly soft onyx tresses as he began to slowly gather himself. A moment longer, she thought to herself- let this last for a moment longer. The feeling of him settled over her, shuddering, panting, the heat that radiated from his skin so very pleasant, it had her relaxing into her bed.

But all good things must come to an end. Madara was careful as he pulled out, rolling his weight to the side to settle beside her with a breathless laugh. “Oops,” he hummed, reaching over to drag his fingertips along her thigh, watching as her leg jumped. He traced the red tattoo up, along the top of her thigh and onto her hip. “Was I supposed to pull out?”

“Doesn’t matter,” she murmured, reaching over to brush her fingers against his cheek, brushing away his hair. So messy… “Mito taught me how to make tea that will… Ensure it won’t take.”

“How soon do you need to drink it?” An innocent question as he rolled onto his side, propping his head up on his palm.

Tobirama hummed, shifting and grimacing at the feeling of his seed leaking. Oh, that’s why she hated it. “I’ll have it with my breakfast,” comes the simple response as she dips a hand down between her thighs to drag her fingers through the mess. “No wonder why there are so many of you Uchiha,” she comments idly.

A snort escapes Madara as he sits up, gaze drifting to the apex of her thighs. “Could always clean it up for you,” his fingers tap a slow rhythm on her thigh.

“Who said I wanted to be cleaned up?” Tobirama shoots back, legs slowly spreading. “Or are you just a one-and-done kinda guy?”

A grin spread across Madara’s lips as he slipped back between her thighs, pressing kisses along her stomach. “Do I look like the kind of man to leave a woman unsatisfied?”

“No,” she sighs, reaching down with her clean hand to brush his hair back from his face. “I feel that I will never be unsatisfied with you around- oh!” The feeling of his tongue brushing against her slit had her jolting in surprise, a chuckle rising to meet her ears.

Fires are awfully hard to extinguish once they grow out of control and consume everything within its sight.

[apparitionism]

Why

I want to wish a very happy Gift Exchange Day to @mysensitiveside ​ ! This gift, a short and sweet AU, will keep on giving for a while, in that I wasn’t able to fling the whole thing across the finish line for you today. (No surprise, I’m sure, given my posting pace over the past... um... some time.) A second part will appear sooner rather than later, however, and I hope that the whole thing will be to your liking. Thanks of course go to @kla1991 for the organization of the whole  @bering-and-wells-exchange extravaganza... and I do just want to say that, as for my own reasons (reasons as such being quite relevant to this story), I still love Myka and Helena, and everybody in this bar, very much.

Why

“Why are you here?” Myka Bering asked of the dog she discovered in the hallway, gazing up at her, when she opened the door of her apartment one Saturday morning.

The dog blinked.

“Aren’t you Sam’s dog?”

The dog blinked again.

Things happen for a reason.

Myka had always been sure of that. So much so that it had shaped her idea of heaven: surely, the experience of paradise was nothing more, less, or other than finally being in possession of all the reasons.

When she was small, her “WHY?” refrain hadn’t distinguished her from her peers, but while most other children eventually gave up the incessant repetitions of that question, she never did. She discovered early on, however, that knowing whom to ask made an enormous difference in the quality of the answers she received: her mother’s exasperated “Because” was endlessly frustrating, as was her father’s equally unsatisfying “It’s magic.”

Which was why she became a research chemist, her choice of career happening for just that reason: it was always going to be a science of some sort, for the “why” questions—which she tended to ask internally now—had answers, if she put enough effort into finding them.

So it struck her as strange, that morning, to find herself asking “why” of a neighbor’s dog, out loud. The quality of any answer she got wasn’t likely to be high.

She had never seen the dog this dirty before. He... was it a he? maybe? she thought she’d heard “boy” at some point... had always seemed a little disheveled, his coat fluffed but lopsided, like he always slept on it wrong and nobody bothered with a comb. But never like this. Never with actual dirt.

She picked up the dog—he weighed less than she expected; she hadn’t realized how much of him was fur—and with some trepidation went to knock on Sam’s door.

No answer.

Myka took the dog back to her apartment. “Are you hungry?” she asked him. He blinked.

She had no idea what dogs ate, other than dog food, and she had no dog food.

She discovered that dogs ate several slices of cheese, a ham sandwich, a peanut butter sandwich, and a corn tortilla. Then dogs took a nap, no doubt exhausted from all the eating.

After numerous fruitless attempts at Sam’s door throughout the day, Myka called Mr. Nielsen, the super. “Sam moved out,” she was told. “Couple weeks ago. No forwarding address.”

“But I have his dog.”

“That’s nice of you,” Mr. Nielsen said.

“You don’t understand. I didn’t intend to have his dog.”

“Then maybe it isn’t nice. It’s not my problem either way.” He hung up.

Myka hadn’t liked Sam. He had asked her out, and she had said no, because he made her nervous. Anyone asking her out made her nervous, but this felt... different. She sensed she’d been right to turn him down, for he got visibly offended, in a way that made her even more nervous, such that she avoided him as much as possible afterward. He didn’t seem like a good person. But to move away and leave his dog behind?

She considered taking the dog to the animal shelter. What was she going to do with a dog? “What am I going to do with a dog?” she asked the dog in question. He blinked.

“I guess it’s you and me, dog,” she said after that Saturday turned into a weekend, the weekend into a week, one week into two.

And he looked at her as if to ask not “why?” but “what took you so long?”

She bought a leash. A bed. Actual dog food. So many products. “I’ve never shopped this much for myself,” she told him. She couldn’t decipher his blink in response to that information. Was it “But of course you should buy more for me” or “You should buy more for yourself”?

As it happened, he was a responsibility in ways she had not expected to enjoy. She had to leave work at midday, every day, to go home and walk him. She had that thing to do, and she did it. Her lab neighbor Abigail teased her about the dog being just an excuse to escape the lab, an excuse who probably didn’t even exist. “He’s real,” Myka protested. “I even had to come up with a name for him.”

Abigail laughed. “Sure you did.”

“Leukotriene.”

Pause. “Okay, now I’m convinced. Mostly. But I still want photo evidence.”

It hadn’t occurred to Myka to take a picture of the newly named Leukotriene, but she did so that night. She included a ruler in the photo for scale, lest Abigail mistake him for a Pomeranian, which was the breed—as far as Myka could tell, given her limited dog knowledge—he most resembled. The next day, “That’s him,” she said.

“Your dog.”

“I guess so.”

“He’s really... pretty.”

At home that night, she told him, “Abigail thinks you’re pretty.” He did the blink. “Yes,” she affirmed, “I do too.”

She shortened his name to “Leuko.” He didn’t seem to hate it. Then again, he wasn’t very vocal, positively or negatively.

She took him on walks, increasingly long ones, on the winding trails of the city’s largest park. She had never been a walker, but Leuko was... well, no: he was a trotter. A delighted, peppy trotter. Myka tried to match his bright energy, but she didn’t ever feel the same shine. It made her unaccountably happy, though, to see him that happy.

When she bathed him, he suffered it (no bright energy there), but she had a sense that he knew how impressive he looked when he was clean. His fluffy tan coat expanded into even greater glossy magnificence, an invitation to sink fingers in, and it rewarded the venture.

The best part, though, was when she would sit on the sofa, reading a journal or, less frequently, a novel, and he would lie against her, sighing as she rested her hand against his soft, warm body.

It was easy to forget that Sam had ever existed. Easy to sink into the belief that she and Leuko had always been a team. That this new texture of her life—this sneaky, responsibility-laden velvet—was a reality that had simply been held in abeyance until the right time. And now was that time.

One Saturday, as they walked in a nearly empty park, enjoying an early cold snap, Myka heard from a great distance an exclamation: “Monty!” She wouldn’t have thought anything of it, but suddenly her leash hand was empty, and Leuko was tearing across an open field, toward a solitary female figure, barking, making noise like he’d finally learned, or just remembered, that he had a voice.

Myka took off after him, drawing near at the moment he leapt—yes, leapt—into the woman’s arms.

She was striking, with dark eyes that rhymed with Leuko’s... in fact, she rhymed entirely with him, with his beauty. She looked up from him to Myka, those dark eyes widening, seemingly shocked to find another person present. “This is my dog,” she said, a little halting, as if she were trying the words out. Or as if she were coaxing them back into her mouth from far away.

Myka’s breath seized. “No,” she said, forcing the word out. “He’s my dog.”

“He is not. He’s mine. You can see it.”

Myka could see it. It drove ice in her heart to see it, to see him so ecstatic to see someone else, but it was there to be seen. It was there to be heard, too: Myka would never, she was sure, forget that declarative bark.

“He was lost for so long. How did you come to have him?” the woman asked, and Myka, trying to hide that heart-ice, explained about Sam. The woman said, shortly and with pain, “So that’s what happened.” She didn’t offer anything more, and while Myka wasn’t the most sensitive of souls, she could tell that this was not the sort of thing a stranger could ask any question about, not why or wherefore or anything at all.

A stranger. She was a stranger to both of them now, this woman and her dog, a stranger in their way, on the path in front of them—on a path she never should have been on in the first place. And if there was one thing Myka knew how to do, it was get out of the way.

She tried, mightily, to tell herself that that was what she should do: just step away. Let them carry on down the path. You didn’t have a dog before, and you were fine.

Leuko—Monty—looked at her from his perch in the woman’s arms. He blinked.

In response to that, Myka found herself babbling, “Can I... I mean, would you maybe let me... walk him sometime? Because he and I. I mean, or maybe just me. I. I’ll miss... it all.”

“I’m disinclined to let him out of my sight,” the woman said, with seeming care.

Myka didn’t have to ask why. “I don’t mean alone,” she said. “Just to see him.”

The woman looked at the dog in her arms. Did he blink? Whatever he showed her, it was enough. “All right,” she said. “Next week?” At Myka’s nod, she continued, “I should introduce myself. I’m Helena Wells.”

Myka understood even that was a matter of trust. “I’m Myka Bering,” she said, “and let me give you my number so you—”

“I’d rather not,” Helena Wells said, with the same care.

Not overmuch trust. “I can bring you what I bought for him,” Myka said, and maybe it was a flail to show that Helena Wells did not need to doubt her intentions. “If you want.”

“Thank you, but I still have all his things. Always holding out hope.” She said that with a quirk of her lip that Myka envied. Hope—what was it?

But of course Helena Wells had held out hope. Even after Myka’s own short time with Leuko—Monty—she would have done the same thing. Had he suddenly been gone, had she not known why.

The next Saturday morning, Myka spent some time pondering a very strange question: what do you wear to walk your ex-dog with someone who probably wants to forget that you exist?

The relief Myka felt when Helena and Leuko—Monty—appeared... it nearly felled her. There he is, she thought, and he’s all right. Not that she had expected anything different, but it was a relief. After a week she had not understood as a ratcheting up of anxiety, she at last felt relief.

They walked, side by side, Leuko—no, Monty—leading the way, shining even more brightly than Myka had known he could. “I didn’t intend to have your dog,” Myka started. “I didn’t mean to keep him... I mean, to keep him from you. The super can testify to the timeline, and I—”

“It’s all right,” Helena said. “I see that.”

“But I’m trying to tell you why this happened.”

“It doesn’t matter why. He’s here, and I told you, it’s all right.”

“Of course it matters! You’d care if I did try to steal him.”

“But you didn’t,” Helena said, and her words were gentle. “You cared for him. You didn’t have to.”

That left Myka strangely perplexed, because now, in retrospect, what else could have happened? “Of course I did.”

And Leuko—no, Monty—looked up at her, and he did the blink, and Myka knew what it meant: “Of course you did.”

Meeting, walking. They fell into a regular Saturday-walk schedule. As the weeks progressed, Myka’s anxiety gave way to, made room for, anticipation. Leuko—Monty—never barked when he saw Myka, but he did pull on the leash as she approached and gave her a nuzzle when she knelt to greet him.

“Why did you name him Monty?” Myka asked, one Saturday.

That made Helena smile. “I didn’t. His breeder did.”

“His breeder?”

“He’s a Mittelspitz.”

“He’s... a medium? A medium spitz?” Well, that explained his looking like a Pomeranian.

“Precisely.”

Myka felt dim. “But what does that have to do with being called Monty?”

“Nothing, as far as I know. The breeder named his litter after the stars of A Place in the Sun; he’s Montgomery Clift. His sister is Shelley Winters, and his brother is Elizabeth Taylor.”

“His brother? Why?” Myka really did try to limit the asking of that question out loud, but this seemed extra-justified.

“He’s even more beautiful than Monty.”

Did Monty the Mittelspitz turn his head and harrumph at such blasphemy? Myka surely was imagining that. He must have just seen a squirrel. “Poor Shelley Winters, though,” Myka said.

Helena laughed... and Myka felt that she should name that laugh “Elizabeth Taylor” as well. Helena said, “No, no, she’s pretty too. A remarkably lovely litter, and in fact Shelley was the only one who was show quality. If beauty were all it took, Liz would have ruled the circuit.” Another harrumph. “Don’t pout, darling,” Helena said to the dog, then to Myka, “Why did you name him Leuko?”

“After a peptide,” Myka admitted. “Well, a group of peptides.”

“A peptide.”

That was an implicit “why,” and Myka was strangely comforted. “I’m a chemist,” she said.

“A chemist.” Helena furrowed her brow. “How funny that I didn’t know that. How have we not got around to professions?”

Myka wanted to say, “Because when we get close to anything about our real lives, one or both of us backs away.” They still had no contact outside the park, and even as they shared and deepened this strange long-walk familiarity, Myka did not know where the line was. Had it shifted? If not, would it ever? She tried, very cautiously, “I don’t know. Will you... will you tell me yours?”

“I teach writing.”

For some reason, Myka couldn’t hold back her next question, even though it was not justified: “Why?”

“I have knowledge and expertise to impart. Due to having studied writing. And having made a living in the past as a writer myself.”

“That’s a good reason,” Myka said, and she thought, That’s more than you’ve said about yourself in weeks of walks. Was something different about this day?

“Thank you. Though I may not need your imprimatur, I’m pleased to have it.”

Was she... teasing? “I like good reasons,” Myka tried to explain.

“Good reasons. Recognizing them is not inapplicable to the craft of writing.” Helena said this with a funny little bow of her head.

Myka’s facial capillaries flooded with blood.

She knew why, but she hid the answer in her heart, for she remembered all too well Helena’s desolate “So that’s what happened.”

On one of their earlier walks, they had run into Abigail. “How’s little Leukotriene?” she asked. “Or I guess he’s not so little. That’s weird; I thought he was a Pom.”

Myka resisted the impulse to remind her of the ruler in the photo.

The next day, “Who’s your girlfriend?” Abigail asked.

It was the first time Myka really registered that she had continued her habit of going home in the middle of the day. To no purpose at all, she went home, stood in her kitchen, ate a sandwich that no one else wanted any of, and then went back to the lab. It was not a responsibility anymore, and it did nothing for her. She resolved to stop.

“Not my girlfriend,” Myka said, but she was appalled at herself: for a rash moment, she had wanted to let Abigail believe otherwise.

“Walking your dog with her?”

“Not my dog.” On that point, of course, Myka wished she could let herself believe otherwise.

“Pretty sure the dog matched that picture you showed me.”

“He’s her dog.”

“You were trying to pass your girlfriend’s dog off as yours?”

“She’s not my girlfriend. And he was my dog... for a minute.”

Walking in the park every week was not a responsibility. It was a reward.

And as Myka enjoyed her reward, each week, she studied Helena’s face, listened to her words. She tried to tell herself she was merely continuing to assess Helena’s relationship with Leuko. No: Monty. And she was doing that... but she was doing so much more.

How much could Myka continue to hide in her heart? And for how long?

As if in answer, the Saturday following their “professions” discussion, Helena (and Leuko—no, Monty) failed to appear. Myka, desolate at the absence of them both, walked by herself. It was terrible.

The park was empty of them the following week as well. Still, Myka walked, taking the isolation as her punishment for having misunderstood lines and crossing them, for having been so foolish as to let any part of her secret heart show on her face.

The aftermath of that second lonely walk left Myka restless, anxious. Should she try to find Helena and ask her why she had so abruptly decided against... whatever they were doing? Could she then beg her to reconsider walking a dog together to no purpose? “I’ll stop wanting anything more than that,” Myka thought to tell her. “I promise.”

But of course trying to find her was out of the question; if Helena didn’t want even to walk with Myka, she surely didn’t want to be stalked by her.

So Myka did the only thing she could do: the next Saturday, she returned again to the park. And she hoped.

TBC

[ezgithechaotic]

The Parent Trap | Chapter One; two sides of the same coin

pairing: Harry Styles x Reader

AU: The Parent Trap,  dad!harry

series summary:  Identical twins Benjamin and Edward, separated at birth and each raised by one of their biological parents, later discover each other for the first time at summer camp and make a plan to bring their wayward parents back together.

chapter summary: Benjamin and Edward tries to convince their parents that they aren’t children anymore, but it’s harder than they think.

author note: I’m sorry in advance if I have any fault. English is not my first language. But please let me know if you see anthing that doesn’t seem right. And an important note about Harry and Y/N; They probably won’t see each other for a long time. But I plan on mentioning their thoughts about each other from time to time as I did in this chapter. So, buckle up, It’s gonna be a long way :)

Please leave a comment about what you think, love you.

The Parent Trap Masterlist 

Between all the paperwork, Y/N was feeling like she could go crazy any minute. When she had decided to work from home, she didn’t think that anyone could reach her at any minute. It didn’t matter whether it was weekdays or weekends. She was either answering some phonecall from her customer or choosing the right fabric for her designs. Well, except the times she was with her son, Edward. 

Y/N loved her job. She started at a very early age, it would even be proper to say that she had nothing or no one but her family when she had started this job. Now, she was one of the best designers across the world. She truly loved her job. But if there was one thing she loved more than her job, it was her son. The only person who could brighten her after a long day in her study room. He was the best thing Y/N had. So, when he brought her a cup of hot coffee while she was dealing with her job's most boring side, paperwork, he brought the sunshine inside the room with him.  

When Edward knocked on the door she was so focused she didn't even hear it. So little boy quietly sneaked in and gently put the cup on the big desk. When Y/N realized, she looked up and saw her son, smiling at her. With his bright green eyes and long brown locks, Edward reminded everyone of his father. At least, the ones who knew him. Y/N was very cautious about her son’s and her private life. He was her treasure that she kept away from the whole world. 

"Since when are you serving coffees, young man?" Y/N smiled as she raised an eyebrow to her nine-year-old son.  

Edward shrugged and made himself comfortable at one of the leather sofas. "I thought you could use some break. I know you wouldn't stop if I didn't come in." 

"You know I don't need you to be the mother, it's my job." 

"It's not like I'm the mother every day. I'm okay with being the mother every once in a while. I know you love your job." Y/N got up from her chair as her son kept talking. Watching him talk was like watching a flower bloom. She would give everything to stop him from growing old. "Plus we have Nate to be the mother, I'm more like, the cool aunt of family." 

"Don't ever let Nate hear that. Poor guy would be devastated." 

"I think he would prefer my sassy remarks rather than yours." 

Y/N sat beside Edward on the leather sofa and raised an eyebrow. "What is that supposed to mean?" She couldn't help but laugh as her son giggled. "Well, you can be very mean sometimes, mom." 

"Ouch, I'm bruised, Eddy." 

Y/N hugged her son with one arm. He laughed as he let his mother embrace him. Edward loved physical contact even though he didn't show it. He loved resting his head on his mother's chest as they did nothing. He wasn't a very social child, he liked staying inside and being alone. He didn't have friends at his age and was never a team player unless he trusted the people around him. But with Y/N, he felt safe.

"I haven’t seen you around today."

"Well, it's because you spent your whole Saturday trapped in here. I planted those flowers in the garden with Nate today. It was fun until he started to give me lectures about being responsible." 

Y/N knew her assistant could be a bit much sometimes. But he still helped her a lot, not just as her assistant, but as her friend too. Edward loved him. He was one of the best friends Y/N had. Y/N knew growing up without a dad was hard for Edward. So she was grateful to him because, after her father, Nate was one the father figures for Edward. 

"You know he loves you." 

"Yeah, I know." 

They sat there in silence for a moment. Y/N closed her eyes as she stroked her son's hair and listened to his breathing.  

"Mom?" Edward said as if he was checking his mother. 

"Yes, baby?" 

"You know, my birthday is coming..." Y/N frowned but still kept her eyes close. 

"There are still two months until your birthday, you know. Not two days." 

"I know, mom." He rolled his eyes. "I was thinking... Since I'm turning ten this year maybe you could buy me a computer. I'm not a child anymore." 

"You will always be a child for me. Your age doesn't matter." 

"Moooom." 

Y/N laughed at his son's reaction. "I thought we talked about this before, honey. I'm not comfortable with you interacting with social media. People can be cruel." 

"I'm not saying I want to have a social media account or something. But, you know, it would be good to have a computer." 

Y/N took a deep breath. "I will think about it." She said and smiled. Edward hugged her with joy and thanked her for even considering it. Y/N knew people on the internet could be cruel. All she wanted was to protect him but she knew she couldn't keep him to herself until forever. He was already homeschooled and didn't have as many friends as children of his age. People were eventually going to find out. She knew it was inevitable. 

"If you want to be more social, you can always think about that summer camp that Zayn was talking about." 

"Mom, I don't want to be social. I don't need friends." 

"Friends can be very helpful. I had a lot of friends when I was your age." 

"We both know that they were Aunt Abby's friends." Edward laughed when he saw his mother's face. It wasn't wrong. Her big sister, Abigail, had been her best friend through childhood. And she was still her biggest supporter. "Plus, I have Becky. She's my age."  

"Becky isn't always around." 

"Yeah, because Aunt Abby isn't always around." 

Since Abigail was always traveling her daughter, Becky was traveling with her too. Becky was two years younger than Edward. And Edward loved his cousin like a sister. He was happy to be her big brother. 

"They won't be here for summer. So, you can always take the opportunity and go to that summer camp." Although Edward wasn't eager about it, his mother wanted him to have friends. "I will think about it." 

With that, Nate stuck his head through the open door and eyed two of them. "Sorry for interrupting your mom and son time. But are you guys hungry? Because I'm dying over here."

Y/N groaned as she rested her head against the sofa. "I'm starving."

"So, tacos?"

"You know I will never, ever say no to tacos," Edward said.

Y/N laughed but before she could answer her phone started to ring. She got up and found her phone inside the whole mess. "I need to answer this. Why don't you guys go ahead and order?" 

Before he got up, Edward looked at her mother with meaningful eyes. "You will think about the computer, right?" Y/N smiled and planted a kiss on top of his head. 

"I will, baby." 

While Edward made his way to the kitchen, Nate stayed back.

"How long are you planning on keeping it secret from him?" 

"As long as I can, Nate." 

"He deserves to know." 

Y/N took a deep breath. "I don't need a lecture about it. I know he will eventually ask. I will just let future Y/N deal with it." 

"This is one of the worst answers you've ever given." 

"You're being very helpful, Nate, thank you." 

"You're welcome." Y/N shook her head and answered the call as Nate returned to the kitchen. 

At the same time, Y/N made her way to the kitchen, Harry was walking towards Benjamin's room to wake him up, in a completely different country. 

Harry knocked three times on his son's door. Even though he knew it was going to take more than three knocks to wake Benjamin up, Harry still had faith. But Ben was still asleep at the other side of the white-painted door. After a second or two, Harry opened the door with a sigh. 

"It's time to wake up, buddy!" 

Benjamin was tangled between his dark blue sheets. His short curly hair lying on the pillow, his green eyes shut. It was still mindblowing how much he looked like his father. At times like these, Harry never wanted to wake him up. If someone looked at him from where he stood, they would think that he was an angel. The only thing was that his son was the devil himself. And he didn't know if he should be proud or disappointed.  

"Benny, breakfast is getting cold," Harry said as he opened the curtains. "Get up, now." 

Benjamin groaned into his pillow. If there was one thing he hated most, it was waking up. He was never a morning person. The resemblance between Benjamin and his mother always made Harry a little bittersweet. It was like the universe didn't want him to forget her. As if forgetting her was an option. She was in every song he heard or wrote. 

"Why can't I sleep more?" Benjamin asked, his eyes still closed. "Why do you have to be so cruel to wake me up at the crack of dawn?" 

"It's almost noon, Ben." 

"Well, still the crack of dawn." 

Harry laughed at his son's reaction. Benjamin had always been sassy, but he always found a way to people's hearth, especially Harry's. He was something Harry couldn't explain. Benjamin was everything Harry had and he would give everything up for him without a doubt. 

"So, should we let Jeffrey eat all the pancakes?" 

Benjamin peeked through one open eye with a smile on his face. "Pancakes don't sound so bad. I like Katty's pancakes." 

Katty was Benjamin's nanny and she usually helped Harry around the house with chores and dinner. She was one of the exceptional people around Benjamin. He liked her, and she helped him when he needed some woman influence. 

Benjamin never held back what he thought about the person across him. Whenever Harry found some nanny he either scared them with his pranks or his remarks. But Katty was the only nanny who could have fun with him rather than running away from him. She was more like a sister to Benjamin. And Harry was happy that Benjamin could trust Katty as much as he trusted Gemma. 

"Sorry, pal, you have to settle for my pancakes because Katty won't be here today."

Benjamin sighed. "So we're eating burnt pancakes, again?" 

Harry acted like he was annoyed. "You weren't saying that before Katty." 

"Because I didn't know chocolate chip pancakes existed." 

"You always have something to say, don't you?" 

Just like your mother.

" And I'm not even awake, yet. Think about the things I would say if I was awake." 

"You sound pretty awake to me, buddy." He let Benjamin free from all the sheets. "Time to get up."

After five pancakes and two glass of orange juice, Benjamin was awake more than ever. While he was playing a game on the big television, Harry and Jeffrey were talking about upcoming projects. 

"...for June we'll be recording the album and then you have that project with Gucci in July." 

"I thought we were going to go to Holmes Chapel and see grandma this June," Benjamin questioned, suddenly not so interested in his game. 

"I don't think we'll be able to do that, buddy. We'll be in Los Angeles." 

"Will Camille be with us?" 

Camille was Harry's current girlfriend. And Benjamin did not like her at all. After Y/N, Harry didn't have any relationship for a long time. Not just because he thought it would be hard for Benjamin if it didn't work out, but also he wasn't ready for getting heartbroken again. Camille was his longest relationship despite Benjamin's dislike for her. 

"Yeah, probably." 

Benjamin grunted with vexation and let himself fell on the couch again. 

"Do I have to be there?" Benjamin looked at his father with hope. "Can't I just stay with grandma?"

"A month is a long time Benny." 

"Yeah, dad, I know. That's why I don't want to spend it with Camille."

"I would appreciate it if you just tried to like her." 

"Or you could just send me to the summer camp I've been talking about." 

Harry took a deep breath. "We talked about this, Benny. I can't send you somewhere I've never heard before." 

"But Freddie is going too." Benjamin whined.

"What's up with this summer camp?" Jeffrey asked when he couldn't help his curiosity. 

"Something he heard from Freddie, I guess. He's been talking about it non-stop." 

"Why don't you just let him go?"

"You know why, Jeff."

"You're just being paranoid, Harry. Let him have some fun. It's already hard to be the son of a famous pop star." 

Jeffrey made Harry hesitate. He was right and Harry knew that. It was just scary to be away from him for more than a month. And since Benjamin wasn't a calm kid, it made it harder for him to decide. He wasn’t going to be there when things were going to go bad. But when he saw his son sitting there not even giving attention to the game all devastated, he couldn't help but say yes. 

"You can go as long as you promise to be nice." 

"Really?" 

"Really."

"You're the best, dad!"

Benjamin hugged him so tight and smiled so bright that it made every bad thought Harry had, vanish. He hugged his son back. Apologizing to him without words for everything he took away from him, for everything he could have if he and his mom hadn’t been so stubborn.

If he only knew that Benjamin would take everything back with a simple summer camp. 

[marybethsjournal]

Always

Summary: Molly has hit a wall with Dutch and doesn’t know what to do; she feels completely lost. Not to mention that she has started to have complicated feeling towards another gang member.

Pairing(s): Dutch Van Der Linde x Molly O’Shea, Molly O’Shea x Sadie Adler (strongly implied)

Word Count: 1903

A03 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29265912

It was barely noon and the girls were day drinking yet again. This didn’t impress Molly much, but she had come to realize that nobody, not even Dutch cared about what she thought. Molly pushed the thought away. If she thought about how Dutch had been shutting her out and treating her badly in general, she would be driven to drink just like these harlots. And then she would be no better than them, which seemed to be the most humiliating thought possible at the time.

Molly was not surprised that Karen was leading the drinking charge of the day. That’s all the wench knew how to do, that and seduce men. She tried not to blame Karen too hard for that, though, because everyone knew Dutch was strongly encouraging her to put herself out there and if Molly verbalized her bias against working women, she’d have to implicate Dutch in the whole thing and she didn’t feel like doing that. Anything to exonerate her man from wrongdoing. What did surprise Molly was that that girl, Sadie, had joined the women for once. And not in the way Abigail had, coming over to get one drink and then gone back to her business (Molly didn’t blame her, she deserved a drink, especially since Jack had asked about 50 questions today already and the Marston man had tried to pants Bill and got a fist in his face in return). Sadie was downing the drinks faster than anyone else; she seemed to have no shame. Molly supposed that maybe she shouldn’t have been so surprised. Sadie had gone through a significant transformation over the past few months. When Sadie had been brought in by Dutch, Micah, and Arthur, she seemed weak and quiet. She had worn dresses and otherwise modest garments, although nothing too fancy. Now, she had the audacity to yell at the men and one day, when out on the town with Arthur, she had bought a shirt and pants and she hadn’t taken them off since. Quite offensive, in Molly’s opinion, but Sadie objectively pulled it off quite well. Molly had noticed herself staring at Sadie quite often, observing the woman. She couldn’t pinpoint quite why, but she assumed it was normal. Sadie was pushing boundaries and was overall quite an interesting woman, more interesting than herself. Not to mention, Sadie was very beautiful. Anyone could see that, it wasn’t an odd thing for her to think.

Molly found herself in the same situation yet again. She was staring at Sadie, who was downing another drink and laughing at some joke Tilly (or maybe it was Karen??? Molly wasn’t doing a very good job focusing on anything other than Sadie at the moment) made. Molly smiled, seeing Sadie throw her head back in laughter. Her smile was so huge and genuine. It was only recently that she had started smiling again. Sadie had taken it rough, just like any woman would, when her husband died. Molly knew the pain hadn’t gone away, but Sadie seemed to finally be letting herself enjoy life with little guilt. She thought about Sadie’s smile a little longer than she probably should have and her mind ended up drifting to a few nights ago when she and Sadie had danced. The whole camp was ambient with laughter and music, coming both from the gramophone and Javier’s guitar. Everyone seemed to have found a partner and was dancing: Mary Beth with Arthur, Jack with Uncle (their form of dancing was far different than everyone else’s slow dancing, the pair were waving their arms wildly and running in circles together), Karen with Sean, Tilly with Lenny. Hell, even Abigail and that fool John had put aside their differences for the night and were dancing up on each other, a bit too provocatively for Molly’s liking. Molly had actually been really excited about the spontaneous party that night. She felt the distance growing between her and Dutch the past few weeks and she was convinced that that night could make it all better. She had put on her finest dress, fixed her hair, and perfected before asking him. But to her surprise, he told her that he was too tired and maybe they could try another time. Her surprise had turned to horror when she later saw Dutch dancing with Susan. The worst part was, Dutch didn’t even seem to care when Molly noticed. It was like he didn’t even care about her feelings.

Molly had run into the nearby forest to cry. She knew her makeup would smudge and usually she would refrain from crying to the best of her ability, but she didn’t care anymore. It only took a few minutes before Sadie had snuck up behind her and asked her what was wrong. She had been sitting on a rock nearby, not in a party mood, when she had heard Molly crying, she explained. How embarrassing.

“So, are you going to tell me what happened so I can fight a bitch?” 

Molly, despite her sadness, laughed. “It’s not really a bitch. It’s Dutch. Wouldn’t dance with me but he sure is dancing with Susan right now.”

“That old fart? Ah you can do better than him.” Sadie seemed to get an idea and clapped her hands together. “In fact, let’s show him what he’s missing. I’ll dance with ya.”

Molly was taken aback by Sadie’s proposal. 

“I’m not too sure that’ll make him jealous. Maybe if I danced with Charles or something…”

“Oh come on! Sorry I’m not Charles.” Sadie grabbed Molly’s hand and drug her back into camp

Molly was confused as to why Sadie seemed so insistent to dance with her, but she was certainly pleased by the attention. She rarely got attention from this gang.

The dance went wonderfully; Molly almost felt something resembling butterflies in her stomach, which she dismissed as simple indigestion. It was perfect until Molly apparently got too close to Sadie and she asked, “Miss O’Shea, do you expect me to kiss you or what?”

Molly was horrified. She gave some phony excuse and ran away from the situation as fast as she could, ignoring Sadie calling after her. Things had been pretty awkward between them since then.

Molly was startled out her daydreaming when Karen yelled at her, “Hey Molly, what are you looking at? You wanna drink or something?” Oh great, Molly thought after realizing she had been staring this entire time.

Molly walked over to where Karen was and for just a brief moment, allowed herself to look at Sadie again. Unfortunately, Sadie seemed to have the same idea. Their eyes locked and Sadie subsequently excused herself to go talk to Abigail. 

“What the Hell is her problem? Anyway, wanna drink? I’ll share mine. It’s the good kind of whiskey.” Karen offered some strong whiskey to Molly. There’s nothing Molly wanted less than to drink after Karen.

“I try not to drink outside of social settings.” Molly informed Karen, politely declining.

“Then WHY were you looking at me earlier?”

“I wasn’t.” Molly responded curtly.

“Then you were looking at Sadie. Cause I know you weren’t looking at these here two fools.” Karen made rude gestures at Mary Beth and Tilly. 

“I wasn’t looking at anything, Karen. Just thinking.” Molly couldn’t find it within herself to look anywhere besides her feet.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to offend you. You two, get out of here. I need to talk to Miss O’Shea alone.” Molly tried desperately to get the other two girls to stay but Karen insisted they leave. Apparently, Karen had much more pull among the other women than Molly did. That wasn’t one bit surprising, but it still seemed wrong.

“Wow, you really don’t wanna talk to me. My feelings are so hurt.” Karen took another swig of her drink before continuing. “Listen Molly, you know just as well as everyone else that I think you’re lazy and entitled. Just all around a nasty person.”

Molly nodded. Karen generally was straightforward and rude when she wanted to me, but it still seemed the drink must be doing a number on her for her to be able to say what she just had said.

“But for some reason my the dumb bitch in me has started to care. I didn’t think I had an angel on my shoulder, but here she is, annoying as ever, telling me, ‘Karen, you have to warn Molly. You don’t wanna see her get hurt.’ And then I tell them back that I don’t care if you get hurt but I still feel like I do care afterwards.”

It didn’t take much of an intellectual to make the observation that Karen had had too much to drink. Molly honestly couldn’t understand what she was saying: it sounded like a whole bunch of incoherent rambling in which she said a whole bunch, yet nothing at all at the same time.

“I’m not sure I follow.”

“Of course you wouldn’t. You don’t have a heart of gold like myself. But at least you do have a heart. Listen, I just wanted to let you know Dutch don't care about you.”

‘“Leave me alone, Karen. You’re drunk and I won’t hear anymore.”

“See, you know it’s true! He sees you as a toy more than anything. You’re gonna end up hurt and he’s not going to care one bit.”

“If you think he’s so bad, why are you still running with him?”

“A lot of us don’t have a choice, miss society lady. Besides, I know better to get involved with him.”

“Sure, Karen. Thanks, I guess.”

Molly had walked away and pretended like she hadn’t cared but even days later, the short conversation haunted her at every turn. Even late at night, lying in bed next to Dutch, she replayed the whole ordeal over and over again in her mind. She hated to admit it, but Karen was right. The man lying next to her didn’t feel much for her anymore, if he ever had in the first place. It was just cold lying next to him. Like sleeping with a complete stranger.

She had spent several consecutive nights not being able to sleep out of worry. Late into the night, she would search Dutch’s face for any sort of sign that maybe he cared about something, maybe not even her. She always came up with nothing.

It had become all too much for Molly. She found herself crying yet again. She had never known herself to be this emotional. Part of her wanted Dutch to wake up and see her in pain, but she knew in her heart that he wouldn’t care. He would just be irritated that someone interrupted his beauty sleep.

One night when Molly couldn’t control her crying any longer, she left their tent so as not to disturb Dutch. She walked towards the rock that she usually sat on while she read a book during the day. On her way, she noticed that Sadie was sitting on another rock on the other side of camp. What was she doing out this late. She supposed she would have to find out. Now was her chance to finally talk to Sadie and apologize for whatever had happened between them.

“Can I sit here with you?” Molly asked Sadie when she approached her.

“Always.” Sadie smiled at her.

“That would be nice.”

[hs-devote]

 4. M A R C E L

Moodboard // Content // Masterlist

Disclaimer:

All characters and situation in this story are fictitious. Resemblance to any person living or dead is only God knows.

Previous chapter :

Harry's finger still wandering around her face, thumbs caressing her lips slowly. The air started to feel getting more intense, while Y/N began to be allured by Harry's soft touch. He slowly leaned in, pulling her chin until his lips touch hers. Y/N froze, eyes blinking. His hand cupped her jaw while the other still on her chin. She slowly closed her eyes, kissing him back, trusting him. It was getting way too intense while her arms grabbed his neck, deepening the kiss.

Harry bit her lips with hand rubbing her exposed thigh wildly. Y/N let out a soft moan when Harry was stroking her inner thigh, another hand caressing her bare back.

4. MARCEL

“You scared her, Marcel.”

“Did I ?”

Harry sat on the edge of his bed, hands locked to each other. It was 1 o'clock in the middle of the night, yet he did not feel sleepy at all. His bedroom was pitch dark, the only light was from floor lamps and reflections from building lights from outside. The curtains were wide open. He didn't like the darkness.

Harry's eyes staring deep at the person in front of him. He's too tired to argue with him. Harry never knew why he loved to meet him in the dark night. Always. Only one time he met him when the sky was bright. Blinding lights was not the thing he likes, he didn't like the crowd too much either.

“It's almost two weeks. Every time I talk to her, she always has that look in her eyes.”

“Well, it's your fault then.”

“How come it was my fault? How can it be my fault if you were the one who did it?”

“Harry..” He chuckled mockingly, “You meet her every day, do you? Just use your charm and she will be fine. If your smart enough, you can take advantage of her. How long have you been since got laid?”

“I don't like you talking like that to her. She's my employee, Marcel.”

“But you like her, do you? You have to thank me, Harry. You will never know if I didn't start it. Sadly, you messed it up.” He smirked, “I had almost forgotten what it felt like to taste a woman.”

“Fucking hell, Marcel!” Harry growled, “I am grateful I was able to arrive at the right time. God knows what you would do that night.”

Marcel was laughing, a laugh that Harry hate. A sinister laugh. “Don't bring God in this situation, Harry. He won't listen to you.” He stood up, with a look of pity, smiling devilishly. “Did you know, she saw you killed that person?”

“You were the one who strangled him, Marcel. Not me. What even were you doing there? Don't you know that's her apartment complex?” Harry asked lowly, still glaring at him.

“But, what she knows.. it was you.” He grinned, “I was curious about her. When she was walking out of the building, that son of a bitch was following her. He knew I was behind him, and he didn't like that so... he thought he could rob me but the poor man didn't know what was coming to him.”

“And you killed him, Marcel. I can't believe you.”

“He already saw my face, I couldn't let a single witness roaming around with free, could I? I don't want you to go to prison, Harry.”

Harry could feel the burden on his shoulders, he was tired of this problem. A trivial matter for Marcel, but not for him. “Where did you throw the body?” He sighed, rubbing his face.

“Don't worry too much. Just calm down. No one will find it. Trust me.”

“Trust you?!” Harry screamed, “How could I trust you if every time you do something, I always take care of that? Just stop it, Marcel. You always did that but never think of the consequences!”

“Don't be loud, your housemaids is sleeping. Well, I don't know why you let Suzanne stay the night.” He snickered, “That's why I have you, Harry. Use your connection, Harry. Use your brain, your power.”

Right now, Harry really wanted to throw things but he couldn’t do that. Poor Suzanne was exhausted and Harry had let her stay overnight. After all, she would be home alone because her son didn't come home tonight.

“One question.” His eyes sharp, looking at Marcel's dark one. For a moment, he could see the reflection of his face. “If I didn't lose the count, you came a lot lately. 4 of them when I was with Y/N. Why?”

“We both know what triggered you, Harry. Sometimes I think, why you can be a weak person? You're weak, Harry. Not like me. Yes, you are powerful, rich, handsome. But I am too. What if, I'm there? You can rest, until whenever you want.” He laughed, not caring the look of Harry's disgust, “I swear to God, Marcel..”

But Marcel keep laughing like he just had been told the funniest joke in the world. Harry couldn't contain it anymore, he grabbed the floor lamp and throwing it to the full-length mirror. Shattered glass falling to pieces on the floor along with a loud bang. He couldn’t see Marcel any more, yet his sinister laugh still haunted him.

Every time Harry tried to get rid of Marcel, he couldn't. Every time he saw his reflection in the mirror, he saw those eyes, eyes that resemblance him, but darker then ever, that was when Marcel came suddenly with the same figure as him. He was aware, Marcel was living with him, and he couldn't just get rid of Marcel.

. . . .

“Mr. Styles?” Y/N ask slowly when she pushed his door open. Her hands gripping some bundles tightly. Her feet step inside very carefully, like afraid of something.

That night moment in the car, made her couldn't sleep all night. Her feelings were crumbling. On the one hand, she couldn't lie with her feelings. She had crush on Harry, from the first day she laid her eyes on him. On the other hand, she felt unprofessional. Yes, she knew they did that outside work area, Harry's still her boss.

“Yes, can I help you with something?” Harry asked, watching her pulling a chair in front of him. A couple of weeks working in here, Harry saw significant progress in the way she handles her tasks. To be honest, she was the assistant he liked the most from the people before. Not only because of work, but she also had nice character, and extraordinarily smart for women her age.

“Err, I have bad news. Polygram calling off the contract unilaterally and withdraw all funds from Erskine.”

Harry couldn't digest every word that came out of her mouth, like her voice slowly fade away. He just stared at her dumbfounded. Y/N not sure either if Harry really listening to her. “Legal counsel is on discussing right as we talk now, looking for cause if Erskine can sue them.”

“Harry?” Y/N called him when Harry didn't budge. Slowly, she waved her hand in front of his face. He jumped instantly, “Yeah, yeah? I'm sorry.”

“Did you hear me, sir? You were spacing out.”

“How much funds did Polygram provide during the contract?”

“$900,000 equivalent £730,000. They withdrew almost full funds even though the contract had been running for six months out of the year.”

“Not too much, but still.. it’s breach of contract.”

“But, from the news I heard, their affiliated company will most likely do the same with thing to Erskine. A total of four companies are under Polygram, with worth $3,000,000”

Harry felt like something was suffocating him. One of their biggest clients walking away from his company. He didn’t understand what happened. Everything was all right before.

“Do you know what is the reason? Maybe we can persuade them? I don't want to lose a client. I don't want to let go of them with prejudice, if something isn't right, we can talk about it.”

“I will arrange the meeting immediately, sir.” Y/N nodded. She felt sorry for Harry now, he looked stressed, clearly visible from the look of his face. “Do you need anything, sir?”

In fact, Y/N was waiting for Harry to talk about what happened that night. After they kissed, Harry never brought it up.

To this day.

Y/N didn't know what Harry was thinking at the time, and right now. Whether he did it because he just wanted to kiss her, or because of his emotion, or because he indeed like her.

“No, thank you Y/N.” Harry forced a smile. Y/N could only sigh softly with disappointment. If she could be honest, she had a lot of hope of him. She just didn’t want to be disappointed before it's too late. She excused herself, going back to her office.

Plopping herself into her chair, Y/N opened her email. Quickly typing away a meeting invitation to Polygram, hope they would cancel their intentions. She knew how mad Harry would be if that really happens.

Her phone ringing loudly, making her slightly jump in her seat. Sliding the screen up, she brought her cellphone to her ear, “Hello?”

“Don't sound too happy, what's wrong Y/N?”

“Hi to you too,  Abbie.” She shrieked, “I'm sorry, I just.. well kinda busy at the moment. How are you?”

“Oh, do I bother you? I can hang up and call you in another hour maybe?”

“Nah, I'm fine.” Her other hand lifted from the keyboard, “Now, I'm free for the next ten minutes, I guess.”

“Well, I just wanna check up my best friend. How's Erskine, anyway? Everything good?”

“Worth the benefits, obviously. I'm sorry we rarely hang out together even on weekends. It's been a long time since I've seen you. For God's sake, we are in the same city!”

“Don't worry about that. I could just pay a visit, you know?”

Abbie or Abigail, was a friend from high school. When they were in college, they went to London together but with different universities. She settled in London after that, while Y/N coming back to her home town.

“Any romance involved in the office?”

Y/N giggled, not really know what to answer. “No.. not really. Not yet.”

“Whoa, so.. there's someone? Who's that?!”

“Abbie, please.” She sighed, “I don't know really, it's difficult with.. the situation.” Y/N muttered, toying her pen. “I don't know if he likes me.”

“Okay then if you don't wanna talk about it. I will ask for the progress  next week.” She laughed, “Can we talk about your hot as fuck boss? How's him in the office?”

Y/N shifted awkwardly in her seat, her mind went to their kisses memory. “Oh, Harry? He's nice. Very nice person. Unlike most bosses –stern, creepy. Not at all.”

“Does he have a girlfriend? What is his girlfriend like?”

“No, he's very very single. A fit bachelor. Why?”

“I just curious. I mean.. he's a fucking CEO at THAT age. Fucking handsome like a Greek god. Tell me I'm freak but I love to search him on Google. Did you know that Erskine is one of the top companies with the biggest revenue? Who doesn't want him? He could easily spoil her girlfriend with buckets of diamonds. There's nothing he can do.”

“All I know is Harry works his ass off every day.”

“Hold on.. Did I just hear you call him Harry? So, we are in the first name basis, huh?

“Shut up.” Y/N chuckled, her eyes raking her email.

Polygram agreed to a meeting, but today.

“Can I call you back later? I have a meeting to do.”

“Right then, talk later!”

After she hung up the call, Y/N read the Polygram email carefully. They would love to hold a meeting this afternoon. She dialled Harry's extension right away, he picked up on the second ring.

“Mr. Styles? Polygram agree to a meeting, today at 2.00pm in Erskine. Do you have time? I already check on your schedule , you have no meetings today.”

“It's fine. Please take care of it.”

“Will do.”

Polygram team arrive exactly at 2 o'clock, while Y/N have waited ten minutes ago. She immediately called Harry while the participants were enjoying some snacks offered. Harry's arrival was greeted with handshakes and short small talks.

“I'm aware of this purpose meeting, Mr. Styles. We apologise for contract withdrawal but that was all orders from the council.”

“What is the reason if I may ask, Mr. Roberts? We have never committed violations, haven't we?”

“Yes yes, we are very aware, Mr. Styles. The reason is...” Mr. Roberts glanced at his colleagues, like he was hesitant to say it. “The council doesn't want to work with companies led by.. arrogant young people, they said.”

“Pardon?” Both Y/N and Harry stared at them dumbfounded. Really didn’t get what he meant.

“Our council got the news that you attacked one of our loyal colleagues at an event, and they are not pleased with it.”

Harry? Attacking someone?

Y/N rolled her memories to a few days back, remember that it was true that Harry attacked someone that night. But he was the one who started it, not Harry. It was Dale.

Dale...

Loyal colleagues...

Of course, Machtig.

“Where did they get it from? There's no news about it.” Y/N asked slowly.

“We don't know exactly, we just know that one of the councils' members really close with Machtig.”

“They don't know what really happened.” Harry muttered

“But the news about you, Mr. Styles, punching a man in public areas spread very fast.” This time, a lady with her black short hair opened her mouth after a long time silence. “They only question your performance if you like beating people up. Sure the council wants to keep their image.”

“Do you guys know you're breaking the law? We could sue Polygram but certainly, we don't want to if you cancel the withdrawal.” Y/N exclaimed, trying to speak for Harry. Because from the corner of her eyes, Harry began to look pissed. Everyone sunk into silence, as if just understood the consequences. Y/N was even more infuriated when no one spoke. “Isn't it unprofessional to bring together between work and personal matters? If Mr. Styles here wants to do something outside his office, it becomes his privacy. I mean, he didn't commit a crime.”

“The council also wondering why the police had not been involved in the incident.”

“Denise..” Mr. Roberts hissed at his co-worker, ask her to stop it immediately. Y/N wondered why this woman named Denise really coming at Harry.

Police...

Then Y/N realised, when Harry threw his fist to the robber, they had approached by the police. But after that, they were never been called. Did the police really forget them? Her or Harry could have been designated as witnesses if they wanted to proceed to court. There's no way the police just let him go.

“I understand your worries, Mr. Styles, Ms. Y/L/N. We'll try to talk to the council, especially with the charges if we break the contract.” Mr. Robert spoke, while collecting up his stuff.

“We're waiting for the good news in a week, tops.” Y/N stressed her words, waiting for a definite answer. Harry – who was sitting next to her, was completely indifferent. His chest rose up and down, ready to explode soon.

“I'll try my best.”

“Thank you, Mr. Roberts.”

After bidding them goodbye, Y/N was going to go back to her office when Harry's hand gripped her wrist. She let him speak first, didn’t know what he wanted to talk about, but she hoped Harry could control his anger right now.

“Thank you for that.” He said lowly, hand still gripping her wrist. She just smiled while her other hand rubbing his knuckles, “For what?”

“You speak more than me, thank you for defending me. I appreciate that, really.”

“I think it's an employee's obligation to defend their company. Plus their boss is being cornered like that.” She shrugged, “I don't like that Denise lady, but I appreciate Mr. Roberts.”

“Fun fact, Denise used to work here. I fired her because she was caught having sex with one of the employees in the office bathroom.”

Harry was laughing when he found Y/N scrunched her face, “That's.. disgusting.”

“Mhm, no wonder she was bitter towards me.”

“Mr. Styles?”

“It's Harry.”

Y/N bit her lips, well that's new. They still in the office but Harry let her call him his first name. Then she looked down her hand, swinging them back and forth with Harry's, like kids holding hands.

“Come get something cold and sweet. This time is on me. Where do you want to eat ice cream?”

“Ice cream, really?” Harry chuckled, hand still swinging with hers. “Pretty sure your head now is about to explode, ice cream will cold it down, definitely.”

“All right,” Harry stood up, gathering his laptop. “Pack your bag, we'll go to Soho.”

. . . .

“Hi, can I get Tiramisu Sundae and..” Y/N looked at Harry, who still looking at the menu. “Harry?”

“Oh, I will go with... Sticky Toffee? Thank you.” Harry smiled.

Y/N swore that the cashier lady was swooning over him, she bit her lip when punching the cash register.

“That would be £15.” Y/N handed her cash, after saying thanks, her and Harry step aside while waiting for their order. Less than five minutes, they walk to a vacant booth with ice creams in their hands.

“This is delicious.” Y/N moan softly, licking her spoon. Harry quietly watched Y/N enjoying her dessert, her face looked adorable while concentrating on her ice cream. He let five minutes pass without conversation. He just wanted to enjoy a moment of time, being someone who's carefree for a second.

“I want to apologies.”

His words made Y/N lift her head, wrinkles visible on her forehead. “For what?”

“The moment in the car a few nights before. I’m sorry if I was freaking you out.”

“Oh.” Well, she never thought Harry would apologise. Did he feel any guilt? For kissing her?

“Erm, I.. I think it's... it's okay, Harry.” She mumbled, looking down her cup which now looked more interesting. No. She just feels intimidated by Harry. She didn’t know why.

“No, it's not okay Y/N. It's not... it's not like I feel guilty. It's just that I feel like using you in that situation.” Harry fumbled his finger, panic began to fill his body.

“Did you enjoy it?” Y/N averted her gaze to Harry, she could see Harry's nervous too. “Because I did, Harry.”

“Glad to know that.” He smiled softly, “At least I'm not the only one felt it.”

“Let's just say this is a date. I'll take you on another date.”

“A date?” Now, Y/N could feel her heart rumbling. This wasn’t something she expected. Her mixed feelings made her dizzy. A date? Harry was asking her out, again? She didn't listen to it in the wrong way, did she?

“I really... really like you, Y/N. And I'll look forward to getting to know you better than ever.” His blinding smile made her knees weak, her bones turn into jelly. Harry Styles asked her for another date? Her inner goddess slacking her jaw.

“I'll wait then.” She returned his smiled, feeling shy because Harry kept smiling at her with his prominent dimples.

Soho that night was the same as usual nights. When Londoners prefer to spend time in club or bars, the tourists with their cameras engrossed in capturing every corner of the area – to share with their loved ones. Or maybe just shop for souvenirs to take home. Or couples who wants to watch a show at the local Soho theatre.

Walking down the street, Y/N really enjoyed London – again. Since she moved from Swansea, she had never been back to Soho. Soho and its atmosphere, not much had changed. She chuckled when passed a gay couple who had just exited from one of the bars, stumbling in drunk while pointing their sex toys to one another.

Spending the afternoon on feet in Soho, Harry drove Y/N home when his watch showed 10.00 pm. He felt more human and normal when he could spend his little time outside without having worries over work. Harry totally turned off his cellphone, didn't want to be disturbed for a moment –didn’t care if an urgent call comes in. What he cared about was how he could have quality time with Y/N.

Harry didn't realise that Y/N had fallen asleep during the trip back home, it seemed like the music from a radio he played made her sleepy. He was silent for ten minutes after arriving in her building, couldn't bear to wake Y/N up –she looked tired. He just stared at her, doing nothing.

Her closed eyelids to mouth slightly open. The small things like that made him smile . She stirred slightly in her sleep, before her eyes flutter open. The first thing she saw was his eyes, not the desk clock that usually woke her up every morning.

“Hi.” She murmured softly, hesitate to move from her comfy position.

“You were asleep.” Harry whispered with his fingers straighten her hair.

“Looks like. ” she yawned, “'m sorry.”

“Don't be. It's okay.”

Y/N straightened her upper body, fist rubbing her eyes. “I have to go inside, it's already late. Have to work tomorrow.”

“Mhm.”

“Thank you for today, Harry. I really really enjoyed it.” She said before opening the car door, her sleepy eyes made Harry shake his head. She looked adorable. “I should be the one thanking you for the ice cream treat.”

“It's nothing, really.” Y/N smiled, leaning in and give his cheek a small peck. “Drive safe, Harry. Good night.”

“Have a good rest, love.”

Harry was smiling like idiots when his door slam shut softly, leaving him alone. He sighed, It's been a long time since he felt like this.

. . . .

Full name: Styles, Harry Edward Mr Age: 25 Date of birth: Sparkhill – Birmingham, February 1st 1994 Occupation: Confidential Address: Chelsea Waterfront, Waterfront Dr, Fulham, London SW10 0QD, United Kingdom Diagnosis: Confidential Medical complaints: Excessive anger, Loss of self-control

Health professional: Horan, Niall Mr Specialities: General Psychiatry Treatment action: TBA.

“What's wrong now, Harry?” Niall put his glasses down the table. Hands locked, while staring at his friend. His index fingers tapping at Harry's portfolio.

“I attacked people.. a few.”

“And?” Niall raised an eyebrow, waiting for Harry to finish what he said.

“In public..”

“Something must be triggering you.”

Harry paused, choosing the right words before leaving his mouth, “One of them killed.”

“Jesus Christ, Harry..” Niall looks at his friend in disbelief, hand massaging his forehead. “I understand you attacked someone, but.. killed them?”

“I just found out days after that, the body was drowned in Gallion Reach. I don't know how but the body hasn't been found around there yet.”

Niall let out big exhale, “Fucking mental.” His hands taking notes and pen from his desk, “How often have you attack people in the past couple weeks?”

“Five times.”

“It doesn't all end with a loss of life, right?”

Harry shook his head, feel ashamed of his behaviour. But at least he could calm down because the doctor was his own best friend. Niall wouldn't judge him carelessly.

“Now, tell me. I'm all ears.”

“Well, he appears more often. I don't know why. I still take medicines, sometimes forgotten because I'm busy with my work. But before that.. it was no problem. He has become more aggressive since I'm being close to Y/N. He even appeared when Y/N's first day of work with me, without doing anything. Only creeping at her within a few centimetres.”

“Did.. he do something brutal to her?”

“Just.. snapping at her while she trying to help with my wounds.” Of course Harry didn't want to tell him about he kissed her that night after he punched Dale.

“I read the news about you assaulted a robber in Canada Square, and.. rumours about you broke someone's nose from Machtig at that gala night, is it true?”

Harry just nodded, looking at Niall who was writing something in his notes. “You fixed it, right?”

“I think Mario is tired of helping me. He always said.. this is the last time, Harry. But every time I come to ask for help, he also said  if you weren't my friend and battling with yourself Harry, I wouldn't want to help you.”

“Good things that he's a member of NCA's council. At least your name will be safe from the records.”

“Are you trying to insult me, Niall?”

Niall fell silent, seemed he pressed the wrong button. Harry's facial expression become hard. But, he was indeed serious. “Am I talking to Marcel now? Or Harry?”

“No, but I can feel he's watching you right now.”

He gave Harry a small smile, folding his arms together while looking at his friend carefully. Right now, the man sitting in front of him, something was different on him, Niall felt that. Bright green eyes, soft yet firm expression.. well, this was Harry. Marcel had darker eyes, he had something strange with him.  If Marcel was in front of him right now, he wouldn't be able to speak so quietly and slowly.

“When you said Marcel was more aggressive when you were with Y/N, I wondered if he had.. a certain motive?”

“He had never hurt her.”

“The keyword: had never. If that happens, what would you do? I guess you haven't told her, have you?” Niall asked curiously with teasing smile.

“If I do, she will definitely decline the date. One day I'll be honest with her. I can't lie for too long.”

“So, is there the date you didn't tell me huh?” He wiggled his eyebrow, making Harry laugh. One that Harry liked when he came to visit Niall, he would never treat him like a regular patient. They would talk like usual friends who were chatting in the pub. Niall would always spend more time on him.

“Well, you know how the cure works, Harry. I can only give you a prescription to help you reduce your stress level and blood pressure. If you think Marcel is ready to take over, try to think something makes you happy.”

. . . .

Going home to an empty house was not a pleasant thing for Harry, even though he had lived alone for a few years. When he was still living in Manchester with his family, whenever he opened the front door, his mother's voice would the first thing he heard.

His mum, Anne, would like to keep her eyes open and make sure her son arrived home okay, rather than going to bed and finding him not in good condition in the morning. Young Harry was the same as other teenagers, he could be stubborn whenever he wants or being spoiled whenever he has the chances.

Sometimes he thought, his penthouse way bigger than he needs. He lived alone, his home would be empty when he was working even though his million pounds home would be occupied for a short time when Suzanne did her work. He wouldn't risk his safety and privacy if he moved to another place.

As usual, Harry unlocked his door. If normally the hall was pitch dark, not this time. A few lights were turned on, created a dim atmosphere. It was strange. Did Suzanne forget to switch the lamps off?

“Why the confused face, Harry? Never see the lights on?”

. .

[un-official-artist]

Silver and Gold

Rdr2 werewolf AU

Takes place before Blackwater

Warnings: Angst, Gore

Ships: None

Parts: 1, 2, 3

The moon hung high in the sky and illuminated the forest floor of Tall Trees. Arthur sat near his camp fire, staring up at the sky and admiring the stars. It wasn’t often Arthur let his guard down, but the night was so peaceful and the sky was so beautiful, he relaxed himself and let the calmness consume him. The moonlight illuminated his ocean blue eyes, turning them silver and giving him an ethereal look.

He was distracted by the shimmering starlight and bright full moon, that he didn’t notice the large creature watching him from behind.

The creature began to crawl towards Arthur. It’s paws touched the ground silently, as if it wasn't even there. It started to quicken its crawl, turning into a fast walk, and eventually a run. Arthur’s head turned around to see the beast. It’s razor sharp teeth were bared in a slow, deep snarl. The kind of snarl that started in the back of your throat, and ended up in the throat of another.

Arthur screamed in fear at the top of his lungs and desperately attempted to run away from the creature, but it grabbed him by the leg with its fangs. Arthur yelled in agony as the creature’s teeth sunk deeper into his flesh. It felt like it was burning away his skin at the very touch. Arthur grabbed a gun from his belt and shot the thing in the head, causing it to let go and run off into the forest.

Arthur pulled his leg towards him and inspected the wound. A strange golden-like substance was left in the bite marks, as if that creature was venomous. Arthur whimpered and grabbed a bandage from his bag, then wrapped it around the wound in an attempt to keep the blood in. Tears rolled off of his cheeks and onto his lap. The pain was unbearable, like there were hot needles being buried into his leg, deeper and deeper. The blood poured out of the wound, and bled through the bandages. Arthur’s vision began to blur. “Oh god, oh god, I’m dyin’..” he cried to himself, “this is it, this is the end!” Tears streamed down his face harder. This wasn’t how he wanted to go, not bleeding out after being attacked by a savage beast. “I don’t wanna die...” He cried to himself, before falling back onto the ground and fainting.

The sun was what woke him up. It landed on his face, and got into his eyes as he opened them. He quickly sat up and looked around, panting heavily. He had been brought home to camp, where he was laying on his mattress in his wagon. Next to him say Mrs. Grimshaw, reading a book. “Mr. Morgan, you’re finally awake,” she spoke as she looked up, “you feelin’ alright?”

“I-I’m... I’m fine, yeah...” Arthur stuttered out. He felt dry tears and sweat beads roll down his cheeks. Was it all just a dream? He thought to himself. He shook his head and turned to Susan. “H-How’d I get home?”

“Mr. Smith found you. It was a week ago, actually. You were passed out by a tent with your leg bleeding,” Grimshaw explained. She set her book down and looked at him.

“A week?!” Arthur yelled one surprise, “I’ve been asleep for a goddamn week?!”

“No, you were awake sometimes at night. You didn’t move, but I’m surprised you don’t remember,” Mrs. Grimshaw laughed, “You were making a whole fuss! Talkin’, yellin’ nonsense. Swanson swears he heard you growl once! We were scared you’d gone insane!” Arthur’s eyes were wide with disbelief. Naw, I couldn’t have done that... I couldn’t have.

“How’d you even get that bite, Arthur?” Mrs. Grimshaw asked. She pointed at his injured leg. The bandages had been freshly replaced, but some blood still seeped through.

“I was attacked by... something.”

“What do you mean by something?”

“It was huge, Susan!” Arthur suddenly yelled, causing Grimshaw to jump a bit, “Bigger than a bear! It had razor sharp fangs and golden eyes and pitch black fur! I almost didn’t see it because it was so dark!”

Mrs. Grimshaw chuckled. “Bigger than a bear, huh? It might’ve been a werewolf!” She joked. Arthur felt himself relax, and he laughed with her.

“Naw, it couldn’t have been one of those. Everyone knows werewolves don’t live in the west,” he added onto her joke.

Susan laughed again. “You’re right, Arthur,” she smiled and got up, “You know, you should rest. I don’t think you’re gonna be able to move with a leg like that anytime soon.”

Arthur huffed and nodded. “You’re right...” he grumbled. He laid back down in bed, and decided to get some sleep.

He stayed in that bed for ages, being watched by various camp members. It was agony to him, being trapped like that. All he wanted was to move. To explore. To run. But, he wasn’t allowed up until they were sure he would be okay on his leg.

Then, about a month after the attack, he was finally free to leave camp. He grabbed onto his horse and began to run as fast as possible around the plains. Arthur had never felt this much energy before. It was felt as if he were stronger, faster, and more powerful than ever. He loved every second of it.

He ran from dawn to dusk, wearing poor Bodecia until she could no longer stand to go. “You did real good, girl,” Arthur reassured her, and leaned down to feed her a carrot, “We can head back to camp now. It’s gettin’ dark.” Arthur gently kicked Bocedia to jostle her towards home. He didn’t expect for her to bolt towards camp as fast as possible. Arthur laughed and held onto his hat as his mare slid into the camp, suddenly stopping at the hitching post. He climbed off of her and fed her a carrot, before walking back to his caravan to head to bed. The energy from earlier had suddenly worn off as he neared his bed, leaving Arthur tired and weak. He collapsed onto his mattress and quickly drifted off to sleep, not noticing the rising full moon behind him.

Arthur stood atop a giant hill, surrounded completely by a tranquil sea. Next to him, sat a wolf with its back faced towards him. Arthur slowly approached the creature, curious about why it was here with him. He leaned down and touched it slowly. The wolf shot around and snarled at him. It’s eyes were glowing silver, and it’s fangs were dripping with gold. Arthur backed up, trying to get away from it. The wolf grew as it approached him, changing appearance to be the size and shape of the creature he had seen that night. Arthur looked around frantically, trying to find a way off the island and away from the beast. But the hill turned into a mountain, and the ocean turned into a whirlpool beneath them, revealing giant spikes at the base of the hill. Arthur was trapped with a monster, and the only way to escape was to jump to his doom. The wolf suddenly pounced onto the man, pinning him to the hard ground and trapping him. Arthur struggled beneath its weight, and stared into its silver eyes. The creature opened it’s mouth to bite down, and...

Arthur suddenly bolted awake. His head was killing him, and the world felt fuzzy. He got up to try to walk off the pain, but the bite on his leg suddenly ignited with fiery pain. Arthur grabbed onto his wound and crumbled to the ground. He called out in agony as the fiery burning suddenly spread throughout his entire body. His head nearly bursted from the pain. “Dutch! Hosea! John! Anyone! I-I... I need help!” Arthur called out in a desperate attempt to alert someone of what was happening, “Oh god, please! Anyone! I need help!” Tears began to stream down his face. He grabbed his head and pulled it towards himself and nearly screamed in pain. It hurt more than any bullet he had ever been hit with, or ever will be hit with.

The camp awoke with Arthur’s cries for help. They ran out to find the man in a ball on the ground, crying and screaming in pain, begging for someone to help him. Dutch rushed to his side instantly. “We’re here, son, we’re here,” he reassured him, “what’s wrong? What’s wrong, Arthur?”

Arthur shook and cried, still whispering for someone to help him. It was almost as if he didn’t hear them, or couldn’t hear them.

“Maybe his wound got infected,” Hosea guessed, “Bad infections can damage the brain... He might be too far gone for us to help him, Dutch.”

Dutch frowned in sorrow. “Oh, Arthur, my boy...” He gently rested his hand on Arthur’s shoulder. Suddenly, Arthur lifted his head up to meet Dutch’s face and snapped at him. Dutch gasped in fear, and quickly backed away from the man.

Arthur’s eyes had turned silver, and his teeth were sharp, like fangs. He looked wild, and dangerous. He fell back onto the floor and held his head in his arms, revealing that his nails had turned into sharp claws. His screams of pain became inhuman, and turned into howls and snarls. His bones shifted, broke, and grew, changing the size and shape of Arthur’s body. His hair turned silver, and fur started to sprout from the man’s skin, giving him a grey pelt.

“Everyone run and hide!” Dutch yelled. The gang scattered, climbing into trees and hiding in John and Dutch’s tents. They tied the door flaps shut, but left one notch open so they could see what was happening to their friend.

Arthur’s ears became pointed and moved to the top of his head, and his spine grew to resemble a tail. His teeth became the size of daggers, and they oozed a strange golden substance. It was terrifying to watch, but no one could look away. Abigail hid Jack behind her, keeping the young boy from seeing this monstrosity take place.

Arthur stopped moving. He lay on the grass floor, whimpering quietly. He was at least ten feet tall, and looked like he could kill a man with a single blow to his paw. The men, all hidden in different places, grabbed their guns and began to aim at the beast that lay in the center of camp.

Arthur slowly began to move, rising to stand on his back legs like a normal man. He fell forwards onto his front paws, then collapsed back onto the ground. The air was deathly silent, as the gang watched as Arthur began to walk, waiting for him to do something deadly. He slowly rose to his feet again, this time using his arms to help him stand. He sniffed the air, and slowly crawled towards John’s tent. Abigail began to gasp, but John covered her mouth before she could make a sound.

Arthur sniffed the curtain, trying to see who’s scent was on it. John studied him through the small crack, and saw that Arthur’s eyes were shut, almost like a newborn puppy’s.

The beast slowly moved away from John’s tent, and faced towards the exit of camp. He neared a shriveled tree that had been scorched by the desert heat, and laid underneath it to rest. Suddenly, a bullet rang throughout camp. Micah, was in the tree, and he had gotten too scared with Arthur around him.

“No, Micah, you fool!” Dutch yelled as he ran out of his tent. Arthur’s silver eyes shot open. He threw his head back to the moon and leg out a bone-chilling howl, that struck fear in the hearts of those for miles around. He looked up the tree and saw the man. Arthur snarled and bared his teeth, then leapt up the tree, grabbing the man with his claws and dragging him onto the ground. Micah screamed, and bullets flew from his first gun. Arthur took hold of his shirt collar and flung the man around like a rag doll, but never touched his skin. He slammed Micah onto the desert ground and bared his teeth. Golden ooze dripped from his fangs and onto the man’s red shirt. Suddenly, bullets began to fire from around the camp.

“Whatever you do, do not hit him! Arthur’s in there!” Dutch commanded. Arthur spun around in confusion as to where all the bullets were coming from. Why are there so many loud sounds? Where are they all coming from?! The beast though to him, Run, find shelter, run, run, run, run!

He began running towards Dutch’s tent in an attempt to hide from the storm of bullets. He dove through the tent flaps and looked around. Inside, he saw the women huddled together, all shaking from fear. They’re scared of the noises too! The wolf though, I can hide with them. We’ll protect each other.

Arthur slowly crawled to them. The woman began to panic as he approached, but he didn’t notice in time. The women suddenly scattered like a herd of started deer. They screamed and ran out of the tent, leaving Arthur all alone. He whimpered and ran out of the tent, trying to find a safe place to hide. He looked around frantically. The bullets continue to ring through the air. Arthur’s head began to spin again. He whimpered and fell to the floor, using his massive paws to cover his head. We can’t run. We have to fight. We have to live.

Arthur’s pupils turned to needle-thin slits. He suddenly got up and seemed to roar at the men, causing them to flinch in fear. He began to charge towards Dutch, teeth bared and oozing with golden venom. His silver eyes focused in on the older man, targeting him. He knew this was the pack leader. Take him out, and they’ll scatter, the wolf said. Arthur bowled over Dutch and used his paw to pin him to the ground. He leaned back, getting ready to go for the throat. He started to plunge his head forwards to take the deadly bite.

“Arthur, please!” Dutch yelled. Arthur froze. His eyes became more human, more whole. All his memories, all recollection of his human life, came flooding to the front of his mind. Arthur shook his head and looked around. He saw John, Hosea, Bill, Charles, Seàn, Javier, Lenny—His friends—with their guns focused on him. He saw Mary-Beth, Karen, Jenny, Tilly, Molly, Mrs. Grimshaw, Abigail, and Jack all cowering in fear and hiding from something. He slowly turned his head and looked at Dutch on the ground, begging for his life without even saying a word.

“Dutch, what?-“ Arthur tried to speak, but instead of words, his language came out in a bark. Arthur shook his head and looked down at his paw on Dutch’s chest, and then the one risen in the air, poised and ready to kill.

Arthur shook his head and began to back up. “Dutch I’m sorry I didn’t- I didn’t mean to- I don’t-“ Arthur whined and whimpered I’m a desperate attempt to apologize. He looked around at all the eyes focused on him. All the people whom he loved, terrified of him. Ready to shoot him at any moment. “I didn’t mean for this to happen! I didn’t! I don’t want to hurt anyone!” He cried, but all that fell on the gang’s ears were whimpers and barks.

“What are you all doing?! Shoot it!” Micah screamed as he stood up. He aimed his gun and let fly at Arthur. The bullet landed in his shoulder, causing Arthur to yelp in surprise, but not pain. He stumbled back and shook his head. He could feel control slipping away from him. He struggled to hold on, then looked to the west to the setting moon. “Please, just a little longer, please... please...” he begged himself. Tears began to stream from his face. Micah shot more, hitting him in the neck, back, leg, and arm. He yelled and cried out in pain. It wasn’t the pain of a physical injury, but the agony of slowly loosing himself. He was loosing this battle and the only thing he could do was fight. He was struggling to fight. Struggling to stay himself. Struggling to survive. Struggling. Struggling.

Suddenly, beams of the sun started to rise over the eastern horizon. Arthur laughed in sweet relief, feeling the battle fade away, and relaxing. But that relief was stopped by the intense feeling of burning spreading all over his body. The bullet wounds burned, the bite mark burned, everything burned. His bones began to relocate themselves, and his fur vanished back into his skin. Arthur’s vision began to blacken, and he fainted onto the ground.

[arthur-morgan-slap-my-ass]

The Progress of Arthur Morgan | Chapter 2

A/N: I’m pretty satisfied with the response to the fic!!!! I really really REALLY enjoyed writing it and quite frankly, it’s my baby! Special thanks to @verai-marcel​ for chatting briefly about it with me, you rock??? Also, remember this fic has a playlist! You can see it below!

Playlist

Word Count: 5,200 words

Chapters: 1 | 3

After a number of sessions in, roughly three months and half of having gotten to know him, Arthur entered the room slowly, somewhat avoidant, but he did offer a half-smile when you greeted him. The man seemed disheveled, a creased t-shirt with a perhaps too beaten shirt on top, his hair tousled to the side like he had just woken up and bags under his eyes. You shifted somewhat uncomfortably after he sat down, quiet as a hermit.

“You seem quiet today,” you said in a soft voice, taking your place across from him, “would you like to talk about that?”

He looked to the side, hesitant once more, deciding on keeping silent.

You watched him with a clinical eye. Arthur seemed… tired; through and through, clamped up and unwilling to breach — but he wasn’t moody, per se, as if he could snap at any given second, leaning more towards a difficult sort of upsetting, like he longed for some kind of emotional break.

Arthur sighed, shaking his head almost imperceptibly, seeming as if he wanted to talk, before growing silent once more.

With a twist of your lips, you cocked your head to the side in an understanding manner. “We can keep quiet too, if that’s what you want. Sometimes, peace and quiet is nice too, isn’t it?”

At that, he smiled half-heartedly. “Would you look at that,” the man croaked, almost to himself, “not even half of the appointment in ‘n you can read my mind.”

You giggled, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, “forgive me for not bringing the tarot cards and the crystal ball for the session, I’m told some patients find that rather upsetting.”

Arthur laughed then, moving his hand to hide the free smile that had appeared on his face after your humorous quip; and you noticed he had a hearty laugh, easy to the face by the lines around his eyes and how his shoulders shook slightly. It almost made you sad to see him hide it.

“Yeah, don’t think that’d be very nice,” he said in a good-hearted voice, “walkin’ in here to see ya in a black robe, with candles ‘n shit.”

Shaking your head, you felt more at ease to see him smiling now. It gave you some kind of satisfaction, as a therapist. “How are you, Arthur?”

He kept smiling, although sadly now. “That’s a tough question now,” he picked up the same pillow he had the last time, setting it on his lap and draping his arms over it in a protective manner. “Would be nice to avoid it, but I feel like yer not havin’ it.”

“Does that make you uncomfortable?,” you asked honestly.

“Not particularly.”

At this, you raised your eyebrows at him. Arthur huffed, then.

“Mary has asked me to leave the house,” he confessed, nodding sagely as if reflecting long and deeply on the matter. His eyes cast downwards, towards his clasped hands, “she wants to sign the papers, this week.”

This came as an icy-cold water bucket and you couldn’t help but feel bad for him.

Some patients would confuse the therapy as some sort of silver lining to save their own sinking marriage, something that you’d have difficulty explaining at times, as you had gone through the same thing not too far back. Your heart clenched painfully.

Before you could open your mouth, he continued. “Not surprised, not really, I knew it’d come to this, but…,” he trailed off, shrugging, “she says I’m too closed off.”

You nodded at him, genuinely concerned. “Are you, though?”

He shook his head, clearly wanting to clamp up once more. “Am I?”

“I’m asking you, Arthur,” you pressed on, feeling somewhat cornered yourself. It resembled a younger version of yourself, scared and helpess. “You don’t have to rely on the opinion of others about yourself.”

He stayed silent instead, settling for watching you with a distant look in his eyes. The man seemed to be at loss, searching for something to say after your upfront commentary. “I can’t really tell,” Arthur said with finality, resting his eyes on a sunflower painting to your right, “don’t wanna know neither.”

“I see,” you said gently, blinking slowly at him with something akin to sympathy. “Where are you staying, Arthur?”

His teal colored eyes widened slightly as if surprised by the question, clearly not expecting you to ask about something so trivial. “My brother’s,” he shrugged, “John’s fixed me the guest bedroom, said I can sleep there.” The silence stretched for a while, his hands fidgeting with the strands of the pillow and you feared that he’d pull the threads apart before the end of the session. “My dads don’t know ‘bout that yet.”

Nodding, you tried to give him your best understanding look. “How’s it at your brother’s home?”

“It’s nice, ‘suppose,” he answered quietly, thankful that you didn’t focus on the last thing he said, “Abigail is a good woman, his wife. Jack’s a good kid too, he pesters me a lot to teach him ‘bout art n’ stuff,” Arthur smiled at that, obviously fond of the boy, “he’s five now.”

“I’m glad you could find comfort at such a time,” you smiled placidly, keeping the professional composure even though you felt terribly sorry for him. “Your brother seems to care a great deal about you.”

Arthur sneered, amused by your speech. “The way you put it sure is weird, but I can’t really say it’s a lie,” he stated lowly, giving you a quizzical look, “if you were to ask me, I’d say John’s too lucky to have Abigail in his life, but that ain’t none of my business.”

“Why do you say that?”

He closed one eye, grimacing slightly, as if the subject was a tad bit too touchy for him before he remembered about being able to talk freely to you. “They been on and off a couple times,” Arthur commented off-handedly, “Abigail is stubborn alright, but John is even worse than an old mule if you were to ask me.”

That made you chuckle half-heartedly, keeping close track of his expression. Arthur seemed torn apart, like he wanted to say something before finally deciding to speak up.

“I guess ‘s just hard to take in, you feel me?,” he frowned at you, somewhat antsy. “John’s fucked up a lot of times, but…”

“But?,” you prompted him on, curious to see where this would lead. Maybe you knew where.

Arthur closed his eyes, clearly upset. “Abigail’s been nothing less than comprehensive with that old ass,” he offered, as if it were a secret, “I guess I’m just touchy Mary ain’t had to worry about less than half of John’s bullshit from my part n’ even then, I’m the one getting divorced.”

He stayed silent for a bit, eyes trained on the tissue paper on the coffee table. You felt sorry for the man, but also somewhat glad at how he seemed to quickly open up to you, jumping from one subject to another with much more ease than the first session, even if you had to coax him a little at the start.

“Getting divorced isn’t the end,” you said softly, smiling when he looked at you with a doubtful face. “You can always meet new people, Arthur.”

He snickered, reluctant at accepting your advice. “Like you know what that’s like, doc.”

“I’m a divorcee, Arthur,” you said in a levelled voice, watching as Arthur’s eyes flickered to your left hand and then back to your face. “Things don’t always work out and that’s not the end of the world, you can still keep going. Life keeps going.”

Arthur shifted his gaze to his hands pressing his lips together for a moment. He stayed quiet as you allowed the silence to stretch for longer. “I’m sorry,” he started, voice slightly flustered, “I didn’t mean to say it like that.”

“It’s okay,” you said mildly, following the rimming of your glasses with your fingers, “I’m sure you wouldn’t do that on purpose,” a quick smile and you could tell he still felt guilty over having said such a thing. “I promise you I’m not upset over it, I’ve heard far worse,” you chuckled, pushing your hair back with steady hand, “you don’t have to worry.”

He sighed, somewhat dissatisfied, “major fuck up right there.”

“I’d say minor, but whatever floats your boat.”

Arthur smiled slowly at you, surprised at your demeanor. “You’re a weird type, doc.”

Laughing softly, you rubbed your hands together, as if appraising his words. “In a way, we all are weird. Don’t you think so?”

He shrugged lightly, shaking his head in amusement. “Guess you’re right.”

Arthur was easy enough to get to know and even easier to entertain, you’d come to find out. Every minute with him felt like more and more unraveled from the complicated threading that made him whoever he was. You cocked your head to the side, smiling softly.

“Have we given the journal some thought, Arthur?”

With a sigh, he shook his head. “Didn’t have much time to think about it, if I’m bein’ honest,” he confessed, with a dissatisfied press of his lips. “Not sure if I will, neither. Feels like with everything that’s happenin’ it might be a lil’ too dark for my likin’.”

“Voicing your feelings is important, Arthur,” you reminded him, “even if only by doodling. You don’t have to write.”

He grimaced, looking away — this was always a sign that he felt uncomfortable about you being right, but would rather not agree upfront. “I’m still thinking ‘bout it.”

You offered him a gentle smile, crossing your legs and leaning to the side in the armchair. “When do you plan on letting your parents know about you and Mary?”

Arthur blinked a few times, as if trying to push away the tears from welling in his eyes. “After… everything is signed off and dealt with, I suppose.”

“How would you feel about telling just Hosea, then?,” you asked, aware that Arthur found it easier to speak to the silver-haired man rather than Dutch — you had come to learn his name through Hosea himself, after a fleeting call to discuss Arthur’s progress.

Arthur stopped for a second, weighing your words. “I could tell him,” he said painfully slow, “but I’d rather not worry him. ‘s not fair on Hosea…”

“He raised you, Arthur,” you reminded him gently, “how come he wouldn’t want to know what’s happening with you?” He didn’t answer at that, instead clasping his hands together. “You’re here because Hosea asked you to. He cares deeply—“

“I know,” he cut in with a crack in his voice, allowing the tears to well up in his eyes and streak down as he blinked rapidly, “I know, it just— I just—,” he trailed off with a shuddering breath, wiping roughly at his face as he cried quietly. It was the first time you had seen Arthur cry in your sessions and his shoulders shook with the might of it, months’ worth of pent up emotions coming out all at once.

You couldn’t help but feel bad for the man. You had gotten to know him, in the sessions — and he was caring, you had deemed, and warm, easy to get along with and even more so to please; he literally asked for so little in return it was difficult to believe his marriage had been falling apart. With every client, you tried not to get too one sided, but it was inevitable as you never got to hear the other side of the couple — and you were quite frankly thankful you didn’t have to. Things always tended to get messy in marital counselling and you were glad for never striving towards that branch.

Arthur was far too closed up, you had to remind yourself sometimes, he only opened up to you because it was your job to listen to him. He didn’t have enough self-confidence to reach out for the things he wanted, to initiate situations he thought he deserved or call out someone who has wronged him. He rode his life as a side character in his own book. He was far from perfect.

In a sympathetic streak of sympathy, you reached out for the small tissue box and got on your feet to stand beside him as he tried to keep his emotions in check. With a murmur of comfort, you rested a hand on his shoulder, offering the tissues to him — which he took gratefully as you rubbed his back in a gentle motion.

“You deserve nice things too, Arthur,” you said in a quiet voice, ignoring the better judgment at the back of your mind that screamed at you to back off, “you deserve kindness, remember that; you just need to realize it.”

He took the tissues rather hesitantly, sniffling loudly in the quietness of the room as you muttered soothingly at him. The impropriety of the moment fueled by your own personal feelings went by unnoticed or preferably ignored by you both, and you resumed the gentle touching of your hand on his shoulder. You wanted to deny it, but you felt Arthur ease down a little bit as you stood there, your mind racing until he fixed you with a thankful look.

“Thanks,” he croaked with a teary face, smile wavering slightly before he turned away to wipe his face as he commented in a humorous quip, “ah, that’s quite embarrassing, ain’t it?”

You tried to smile at him, managing only a sad quirk of your lips. With a reassuring squeeze of his shoulder, you let go of the tissue box opting for leaving it on the arm of the loveseat. Your mind buzzed slightly — you weren’t quite sure if you saw too much of yourself in Arthur, but…

“It’s okay to show feelings, even to your therapist,” you commented off-handedly, trying to remind yourself from your own position.

You ignored the nagging sensation and giddiness of having gotten away with something wrong.

Arthur snickered, huffing out a breath of laughter through his tear stricken face, “yeah, guess that ain’t gonna kill me.”

“How are you feeling right now?,” you asked tentatively, smiling encouragingly when he risked a glance at you.

“Well, you know,” he started with all the propriety of a gentleman, “like shit, if I’m being honest.” The man chuckled slightly, rubbing the pad of his thumb over the palm of his hand as if in thought. “Doc?”

Your heart skipped a beat. “Yes, Arthur?”

He seemed to be hesitant to ask, “did you really mean that?,” he asked tentatively, focusing on you finally, with a look that could be translated by a mix of confusion and doubtfulness, “… ‘bout the nice stuff n’ all that shit, that is.”

Letting out a sigh, you rested your face upon your hand. “We’ve talked about this, haven’t we?,” the man nodded in response, fleeting his gaze away, “you know the answer.”

Arthur dallied himself, instead busying his mind with the intent focus on the tissue paper box. “Sometimes… it feels like it’s the wrong answer, ‘s all.”

With a press of your lips, you felt like you had made a breakthrough. This was going into the patient log, definitely. “I see,” you offered in an understanding voice, “have you ever felt like that or is this just redirected towards Mary?”

He seemed to look up at you in surprise, as if caught off guard by the question and sudden reality of it all — and then he frowned, not knowing the answer.

“It’s okay if you don’t know, Arthur,” you said softly, “I’m just here to help you realize things. You don’t have to tell me everything, you know that.”

Arthur nodded slowly, easing down again. “No, ‘s alright,” he added, pinching the bridge of his nose with a slight smirk, “jus’ wanted yer to say it to me, ‘s all.”

Ah, so he was in search for reassurance. Your mouth dried up slightly as you offered him a placid smile.

“You don’t need me to tell you that sort of stuff, Arthur,” you said quietly, highly aware of how clinical your voice sounded, holding him at an arm’s length. You could tell he seemed dissatisfied by your approach, but you kept going. “Therapy is about realizing your own self-worth without the need of third parties on that.”

He grimaced slightly, as if expecting that sort of reaction even though it displeased him. “I know,” he paced around the question like a particularly stubborn cat who insisted on climbing the countertop. “Just… forget it.”

Your heart clenched painfully and you spoke up against your better judgement. “I’ll say it to you again, nevertheless,” you offered in a mellow tone, a gentle smile on your face as he looked up at you. “You deserve the good things that come to your life, Arthur,” you noticed he listened to you avidly, almost leaning forward as if to hang onto your every word, “and once you realize you do deserve them, you should go after it. Learn to reach out for what you want, it’s not forbidden to be selfish every once in a while.”

Arthur closed his eyes, as if meditating on your words, your voice being a beacon of reason for now. “And what if I don’t…,” he muttered tentatively, stopping to clear his throat, “what if I don’t know what I want?”

“We all do,” you spoke quietly, cocking your head to the side in a pensive manner, “most of the time we’re just too afraid to admit that to ourselves.”

“I want to divorce Mary,” he stated in a matter of fact voice, as if compelled by the serenity in yours. Then he flinched, tearing up once again.

You nodded your understanding, allowing him a moment to catch his breath.

“I’m not happy,” he continued, frowning at the way his voice wavered again, “maybe it has worked before,” Arthur commented, casting his eyes to the fluffy rug, “but it hasn’t, at least for some time now.”

The silence stretched and you allowed yourself to watch Arthur for the time being. It felt like he still wanted to say something more. He shifted in his seat, dabbing at his eyes to collect the unshed tears there, otherwise still as a rock.

“It feels to me,” you started tentatively, to see if he’d speak up, “that you were too afraid to admit that to yourself in fear of hurting her feelings.”

Arthur huffed out a breath, clearly amused. “Thought you’d said you had left the crystal ball at home.”

You smiled at his little remark. “Sometimes I do a reading before a session,” you shrugged with nonchalance, “do a spread of tarot, prepare a potion or two.”

“With newt eye and thyme?”

“You know my deal,” you turned your hands up in defeat and Arthur chuckled warmly. “How does it feel to voice that one out, Arthur?”

“Different,” he limited himself to say, smile still playing on his lips. “Never thought much of it that way.”

“Different in a good or bad way?,” you inquired sincerely and Arthur’s eyes shifted towards you.

“Good,” he admitted promptly, with a tone of vulnerability in his voice you couldn’t remember having heard, “definitely good.”

You rinsed the soap from your face slowly, the warm water a comforting presence after a long day.

Finally, you had allowed yourself to reflect on what had happened today — your hand on your patient’s back. Not that it was forbidden to touch, but most of the time it could lead to a misunderstanding of roles and feelings in therapy — a place where patients felt safe coupled with a good listener who was, perhaps, too gentle to them, usually ended up badly. You weren’t a rookie in this, you knew the Code by heart. Maybe it’d be for the best to pass him along to another therapist?

Staring at your own reflection as the mirror fogged with the running water, you frowned slightly. There had been some serious advances, nevertheless. Arthur was opening up, he trusted you, and you felt like referring him to a colleague would only further his feelings of inadequacy.

Rubbing the back of your neck, you tried to plan your next decision. Arthur’s next session were to happen in about 10 days from now, you reasoned; and even then, you found yourself worrying about him. When would he be signing the papers to settle the divorce with his ex-wife? You closed off the tap water.

You hoped he’d get a good deal.

Frowning, you sighed loudly. This wasn’t none of your fucking business. As if to get your mind off of it, you tied your hair up and moved towards the kitchen for a glass of wine. You needed to relax.

Arthur was your patient — nothing more.

“Hey,” you heard Arthur’s voice call from behind in a hesitant voice above the chit-chat and white noise.

You turned around, somewhat taken aback at the prospect of meeting a patient out of the listening room and, surely enough, Arthur Morgan stood there with a half-smile. His beard was maybe an inch too long, although the eyebags under his eyes seemed to be disappearing and his clothes were way less unruly than a few days ago.

He also smelled nice.

“Oh,” you gasped, recovering with a slightly sheepish smile, positively out of your element, “hey, Arthur. How are we doing?”

Arthur smiled back, holding the supermarket basket a little higher against his hip. “Didn’t expect to find yer ‘round here.”

“Well,” you tried to say casually, ignoring the burning questions at the back of your mind about his life, not really aware where to draw the line between the relation of patient-client and acquaintances — because you were not friends. “Believe it or not, we as therapists have to eat like everyone else.”

He snickered, amused by your teasing answer. “That came out as a surprise, thought you lot lived off of our eternal despair as human beings.”

“Oh, no,” you with a half-mocking surprised lilt in your voice and a smirk, “you have found out about my secret!”

“Nah,” Arthur shifted his weight from one foot to another, shaking his head slightly, “your secrets are safe with me, ma’am.”

You felt the urge to throw your shopping cart at him and run away, but resisted bravely. He regarded you in a warm manner, like one would to a close friend, before speaking up again.

“Signed the papers yesterday,” he commented off handedly, showing you his left hand, where a silver band of a ring rested up until your last session; now the only evidence of it being the slightly pale skin. “Could’ve gone worse.”

With a nod, you resisted the urge to ask how he felt about it — you weren’t in a listening room. You weren’t even supposed to be talking to him about life matters, to be honest.

“Not gonna ask me anythin’?,” Arthur teased and you felt the nervous lilt in his voice, the slight strain to it.

“I…,” you started, shaking your head slightly as you cocked your head to the side, “didn’t mean to intrude, is all.”

Arthur seemed confused at that. “I tell yer everythin’ ‘bout my life,” he shrugged, trying to act nonchalant, but you could see the tension is his body language, “why’d I shy away from it now?”

“It’s not recommended for patients and therapists to maintain a relation outside of the listening room,” you said tentatively, trying not to sound too closed off, “I’m just trying to preserve your… privacy.”

He twisted his lips slightly, trying not to seem too upset at your demeanor. “I see,” he said quietly, shifting his gaze from you to his own basket, nearly empty. He tried not to seem too hurt about it. “Didn’t mean to put yer in a tough position, doc.”

“It’s—,” you started, reaching out to touch his arm in reflex, before recoiling, “it’s okay Arthur.”

The man refused to look you fully in the eye, uncomfortable. “Yeah,” he agreed quickly, looking around, “’s alright. Should be getting goin’ now, doc. See yer next week, yeah?”

With a tightening sensation in your throat, you watched as Arthur shuffled away from you and the cereal aisle. Closing your eyes, you pressed your cool hand to your forehead in a feeling not too far from despair.

Blinking slowly, you stared at the journal. It was leatherbound, with a thin leather strand to tie it up and keep the pages from being pried open when put into a bag. As if by reflex, you reached out and touched the coarse pages, thick enough to hold watercolor paintings without the color seeping to the next pages.

So much for a trip to the paper store to buy new markers.

You gnawed on your lower lip, taking the journal in your hands and running a hand over the smooth polished leather cover. Your mind immediately wandered to Arthur, obviously — the journal was simply beautiful, in a rustic sort of way, with a lovely simplicity and level of thoughtfulness that pleased you. On the inside, there were small pouches, sewed into it, for pencils and even a bigger one for what you guessed was to be placed a small case of watercolors.

“It came in just last week,” the cashier boy said lightly, with a well-practiced smile, “do you want me to add in to your list? It’s really good for scrapbooking or journaling.”

With a sudden wave of bravery, you smiled at him, passing the journal over. “Yes, please. Thank you.”

Arthur sat across from you in the listening room, with the airs of someone who’d rather avoid talking for the time being. He seemed cleaner, his beard had been trimmed and his face had adopted a healthy shade of pink that was common to people with a good disposition. He also dressed a little more neatly, with a light blue button up shirt and jeans.

You clasped your hands together, above your knee as if planning what you were about to say.

“I know you’re upset with me,” you started, annoyed at how soft your voice had sounded, “and I apologize for it.”

The man sighed and you caught the slight tremor at the corner of his lips. He seemed displeased, upset at nothing in particular, and a long pause issued before he spoke up again. “Ain’t nothing to it, doc.”

Cocking your head to the side, you gave him silence until he put his thoughts back in order. Arthur seemed to appreciate that, finally looking up at you, somewhat hesitantly.

“I’m sorry, Arthur,” you repeated, doing your best to convey the feeling into words, “therapists aren’t supposed to maintain a relation of friendship with their patients outside of the listening room. That’s why I didn’t prod you with questions.”

He looked away, examining the sunflower painting beside your armchair. “I was just trying to be friendly.”

“I know,” you sighed, crossing your legs, “but it’s considered unethical.”

“From my side or your side?,” Arthur asked suddenly, turning his teal colored gaze to you.

“Mine,” you confessed with a sad smile, “we can’t be friends while I’m treating you. And even then, when I’m no longer seeing you, it’d be considered morally ambiguous. You’re not in the wrong here, don’t worry.”

The silence stretched for longer with Arthur picking at his nails to avoid talking about it. “’s alright,” he said finally. “Just needed to tell someone about it at the time, saw you there and thought that… well.”

You couldn’t help but feel guilty as you got up on your feet and moved to the tiny desk at the corner of the room. “I know this, Arthur,” you said in a gentle voice, “and I know you’d never do this on your own,” you pulled the leatherbound journal from the drawer, “that’s why I did you the favor.”

Arthur’s eyes widened a bit at the sight of it, shifting to look at you with something not too far from bafflement. “That for me?,” his voice rose an octave with his eyebrows, not really reaching to take it from your hands when you offered. “That… I’m sorry, yer didn’t have to—“

“It’s okay,” you waved your hand in dismissal, setting the journal on the arm of the loveseat, “consider this a peace offer, will you?”

He smirked, shaking his head slightly, looking at you as if to ask for permission to touch the gift, “you sure?,” he squeezed his eyes a little, lightening up a little, “that sounds highly unethical, doc.” Stopping on your tracks, you turned to watch him like a deer caught in the headlights until he broke into a warm chuckle, smooth and hearty. “Ah, just teasin’ yer, no need to look at me like that.”

Cocking your head to the side, you gingerly sat back down on the armchair. “It’s a good way to put your thoughts in order,” you gestured to the journal that Arthur now inspected, slightly surprised at the thickness of its pages, “at least until next session and keeping in mind that you won’t be in therapy forever, it’s a great alternative.”

Arthur shifted uncomfortably at the mention of it. “I suppose it is,” he closed the book, tying it up with the leather strand, “you still shouldn’t have bothered, but…,” he smiled now, setting it beside him with a warm smile your way, “I’m glad you did, doc.”

You smiled back, trying to keep the tenderness out of your gaze as you did so. “Me too, if I’m being honest,” you crossed your legs again, pushing your hair back. “Do you want to tell me how it went now? Signing the papers?”

He shrugged, still somewhat giddy. “Could’ve been worse, I guess. She left me the car n’ the apartment, but I think I’ll sell it, move to a house,” he shrugged. “Think she can afford to do that, what with all the money her daddy has.” Arthur rubbed his chin, trailing off, “never liked me much, her father. But at least it’s settled now.”

“How are you feeling about that, then? About going separate ways?”

“I still miss her,” he said quietly, not avoiding your gaze like he would before, when you inquired about his feelings, “now and then. But sometimes… it feels like I miss what we had, before.” The man shifted, hand slipping to his side to make sure he wouldn’t sit over the journal, “Guess I just didn’t wanna be alone.”

“There’s nothing wrong about being alone,” you said gently, blinking slowly as your chin came to rest on your hand, “some people prefer it that way, even.”

Arthur watched you as if he knew what you were talking about before deciding to indulge into his curiosity. “Are you of the kind, doc?”

“My company is delightful,” you limited yourself to say with a huff of laughter, to which Arthur replied with a smirk.

“Can’t argue with that,” he said in a tone of voice that made something flutter in your chest and left your head fuzzy. Did Arthur just flirt with you?

[shyeehaw]

S/O dies giving birth HCs

Hello fellow cowboy lovers, I’m deeply sorry (or not, I’m into angsty stuff) about the amount of sadness there’s about to be written below. Enjoy (if you like that and all)! <3

Request: An angst HC with Arthur, Charles and Sean where their s o dies giving birth and the guys are left to raise them alone.

Arthur:

Isaac. That’s the first thing that came to Arthur’s mind when you told him you were pregnant.

She made sure to tell him the news on her favorite place: the beach.

What happened had a deep impact in his personality, and now life gave him another chance. To know better, to do better.

In the Saint Denis doctor, he learned that it still had time until the baby was born.

So he would to town with the biggest smile on his face, buying things to the baby. 

Unaware of what waited for him when he got to camp.

Arriving at camp he saw Ms. Grimshaw pale as ghost. His mind trying to make sense of things.

The baby wasn’t expected until another two more months. That’s... that’s why he was out.

He didn’t knew, he couldn’t have predicted it.

“Mr. Morgan, I’m truly deeply sorry, me and Mr. Pearson did...”, Arthur could no longer hear, the buzzing in his ears silencing those awful words.

His dreams once again turned into a nightmare.

Hearing the shaky baby’s breath nearly broke his heart.

He would look at that small, innocent boy and wonder how he would ever raise him without his partner.

Confusion and guilt would take over his mind. Thoughts so dark that he would never dare to write in his diary. Arthur did that to her, he wasn’t there.

He grew more apart from others, focusing all his time on the recovery of his baby.

The boy had some many aunts and uncles, the whole gang loved and protected him with all their hearts.

In the early years, he had no interest in hiding how miserable he was feeling.

Even though he was clumsy, Arthur managed to turn his fragile baby into a strong boy.

He made sure to tell his son how good of a woman his mother was. Always making him say her name.

The boy was very sensible, picking up when Arthur was feeling down and trying to cheer him up by doing all kinds of silly things.

His diary was his most treasured possession. When his son got a bit older, Arthur would read some parts about her.

It was really emotional, but a way to keep her memory alive.

Time is a cruel, but blissful thing. 

Blissful because with the years, Arthur could notice, without hurting so much, the resemblance between the boy and his mother.

And cruel, because he started forgetting the little details. The portrait he draw being the only thing left to compare the her with his son.

Sitting by the seashore, he would reminisce about how much she loved that place. 

“This is stupid, Y/N, but if I could just talk to you... tell you about our boy.”

He would be interrupted by the big curious eyes of that tiny little boy. “Are you talking to mother?”

Arthur would just nod, and take him by the hand, leaving some flowers on the grave just above the dunes. He knows she would love that view.

Charles

When she began go into labour, Charles was there holding her hand.

And when life began to leave her eyes, he held her hand too.

Charles had heard about that before, but he never thought he would need to experience it first hand.

And the blood...her warm blood, the blood that nurtured their baby, now was everywhere.

He just kept concentrating on the baby’s cry, for her, he would just listen to that sound and get his strength from there.

“It’s a baby girl!”, said Ms. Grimshaw, holding his daughter.

But Charles could not do the same, he had no strength left to take her.

He remembers falling into the ground, the first time anyone saw him displaying such raw emotions. He would sob for minutes, without stopping.

Searching for any meaning in that, he would think of how life is always balanced, how the spirit and body were different things.

But that knowledge didn’t brought him any consolation at that point.

It took him a day or two, to go search for his baby. Abigail had been taking care of her. Charles was ashamed of being weak and not being able to see her before.

He never felt this scared in his life. His fingers were too big and rough against the baby‘s soft skin.

Charles learned pretty quickly how to take care of the girl, bringing her along when he went fishing or hunting since she was a baby.

He would strap her around his chest and go on with his chores.

The baby girl was very peaceful, much like her father. Looking at her would silence all the noises in Charle’s head.

In her first birthday, everyone threw a big party, getting the girl gifts and playing with her.

It was supposed to be a happy moment, but Charles could not forget that it also meant he had lost his love for a year now.

The thought that this would always be the case robbed him the joy to celebrate that day.

But he loved his daughter deeply, her life gave his more meaning.

Charles was a pretty patient father, teaching his girl to talk and walk, and as soon as she could, to use a bow.

A wooden carved horse was her favorite toy, her father gave it to her.

His kid would always surprise him with how smart she was beyond her years. Not only being able to read, but knowing things not even adults understood.

“I’m not sad Cain died, papa, he is not in pain anymore. Mom is with him now, right?”

Charles would take her every now and then to visit her mother’s grave, by her request.

He felt like he had a lot to learn with his kid, she didn’t felt sad, just glad to be a living part of her mother.

She grew to be such a sweet and caring girl. Who loved braiding her father’s hair.

Charles would look at her and see his own appearance mixed with the one he would forever love. It was painful, but a beautiful reminder of how life goes on.

Someday he would meet her again, but for now, his girl needed him. And he would always protect her.

Sean

When his s/o told him she was expecting a baby, Sean was helpless.

There’s no denying that at first he was terrified! Too young and too dumb, in his own words, to take care of another human being.

She got apprehensive that Sean didn’t wanted the kid, but that’s not at all what he meant.

Passed the initial shock, he got really excited at the thought of playing and being the fun dad.

A little person to teach everything he knew , all the pranks, joke, songs!

He started dreaming about the life the three of them would have. It wasn’t so scary anymore.

With his love’s scream piercing through his ears, Sean fetched Ms. Grimshaw in a blink of an eye. His heart jumping on the chest.

He never seen someone giving birth before, so he couldn’t know all that screaming wasn’t normal.

It wasn’t a regular “push” scream, something was terribly wrong.

“My chest!” she would say with her clenched fists turning white “Oh god! Please, it hurts so much.”

That’s when he noticed something wasn’t right. Kneeling beside her, he would wipe the sweat of her face.

“Love, talk to me. What’s wrong?”

“I’m sorry Sean, you didn’t wanted this and now I’m going to leave you with” she would scream in agony “with our baby.”

“Yer not leaving me, don’t say that.”, he said with tears falling into her face. He knew it was true.

Ms. Grimshaw handed him the baby, already wrapped in a blanket.

“Look at her! Stay with us, please”

“There’s another one coming!”, Pearson shouted.

The body of the woman he loved turned pale, with a last gasp, she squeezed Sean’s hand.

It would be his last laughter in a long time. Sean was hysteric, guffawing without any emotion.

From day to night, he transformed in a whole different person. He would be restless, taking care of both babies.

He had no clue what he was doing, so everyone would help out as much as they could.

Abigail would teach him about diapers and common diseases, Arthur would watch out for the kids while Sean ate or when he fell asleep, exhausted.

Mary-Beth would entertain them with beautiful fantastic tales, they loved that auntie.

The twins were the gang’s kids. Although, Sean did the best he could, turning a bit more responsible over time.

He would focus all his, once endless, energy on his children. That way he would be too tired to think about their mother.

When they got a little bigger,Jack would play with them for hours, while Sean was out on jobs.

One time, when arriving to camp, his kids sat him down and started reading to him. It made Sean so damn proud.

“Your pa can’t read but you two can? Where did I go wrong!?” He would say, playfully.

His little girl was the most troublemaker of them. She would always be up to something mischievous.

When she pranked Micah, Sean like pretending nothing happened.

But his  boy was more like his mother, kind and pensive.

“Pa, I feel bad that mom died because of me and sister.” he would confess.

“Yer mom loved ya, and your sister! If she could choose, she would always pick you two over her. That’s how us parents are!”

But hearing his son saying that, got his facade down. Sean had been pretending for too long that he was healed from what happened.

But how could he ever move on?

By learning how to play the guitar with Javier, his son got him a bit jealous.

“Yer spoiling my kid, Javier. He just wants to spend time with you now! I’m his pa!”

He found very odd how only his daughter picked his accent up, the boy talked like Arthur and made Sean a little mad. 

Even though they were everyone’s kids, the twins were super attached to their father.

Wherever Sean went, two red-headed shadows would follow.

[welllpthisishappening]

All Was Golden in the Sky (23/27)

Magic is dying.

Emma knows it. She can feel it, the emptiness rattling around in her, like it’s trying to make sure she disappears as well. What she doesn’t know is what to do about it, because, suddenly, there is a man in Storybrooke claiming she’s the Savior and a seeress certain a prophecy promises the same and the last thing she expects is for her minimal amount of lingering power to pull her away.

To New York City.

And another oddly familiar man with blue eyes and a smile that sinks under her skin and makes magic bloom in the air around her. Things are about to get interesting.

—

Rating: Mature AN: Everyone is an exceptionally bad royal. 

|| Also on Ao3 if that’s your jam ||

Elsa calls a council. 

It’s incredibly proper and entirely royal, a meeting of minds and titles and probably a few more adjectives that are less complimentary because, it seems, when those minds and titles get around a table in one of the rather large halls in the Arendelle castle, they are incapable of agreeing on much of anything. 

David keeps mumbling diplomatic under his breath. 

“Do you think it’s possible for Regina’s face to get stuck like that?” Emma mumbles, leaning to her right and Killian has to bite his lip. It’s distracting. 

He glances at her, not much more than a passing look, but there’s amusement mixed in with the blue in his gaze and Emma lets her hand reach forward. Her fingers twist around the curve of his hook, cool metal that’s almost enough to center her because, really, this council has been nothing short of ridiculous. 

She supposes that’s how politics works. 

Even when they’re being diplomatic. 

“No, I think she’s just got a few extra muscles there,” Killian says. He’s incredibly bad at whispering. And Regina is very good at glaring at them. 

“If you two are quite done.” Emma scrunches her nose, a quick shake of her head. Regina rolls her eyes. 

It’s the third day they’ve done this and a little more than a week since the Misthaven royal family appeared in a cloud of purple smoke in a different hall in a castle that is, seemingly, overflowing with a variety of large spaces. 

There’d been questions – mostly about how Emma had managed to get that bird to agree to fly to Misthaven, but Mary Margaret had been impressed by the whole thing and claimed Evan was very enthusiastic about his mission and--"Now, here we are, ready and willing to save the kingdom.”

And that was that. 

There were more birds sent out and missives, envoys in well-tailored uniforms sent on several different horses in a variety of directions, requesting the presence of every ruler of every kingdom. To save the kingdom. 

And set some ground rules. 

For the rest of everything. 

Emma nearly falls over when she hears the chair on her other side squeak, Ruby’s soft grumble barely audible over whatever kind of reaction Regina is currently making. Maybe they should have discussed how to act while taking part in a royal council. 

As it were, they’d spent most of the last week recounting adventures in seaside ports and Neverland, introducing Henry and trying to remember how, exactly, to move without tripping over the far-too-long hems of the dresses they were all wearing again. 

That might have been Emma. 

She really misses pants. 

She’s going to wear pants to the next royal council. Just to see what it does to Regina's face. And Arthur. She still kind of hates King Arthur. 

He’s most of the objections they’ve sustained in the last three days. 

“What are we talking about?” Ruby hisses, elbowing Emma in the side roughly. 

She groans, gritting her teeth and Regina has started to glare at the ceiling. “Why do you not know how to whisper?”

“I’m not really trying, if I’m being honest.” “That was rather obvious,” Killian mutters, and Emma is not surprised when Ruby sticks her tongue out at them. 

They are a picture of royal perfection. 

“I am bored,” Ruby whines, rolling her whole head with enough drama that Emma is sure they would be able to harness its power for good. “Arthur is suggesting that we need to redo the treaty again.”

Emma is going to sprain her jaw. She clenches it, tight enough to send a ripple of pain down either side of her neck and, possibly, up into her head, neurons firing in something resembling fury because he keeps doing this and she hadn’t really been paying attention. 

Like, at all. 

She’d been far too busy flirting. And trying to covertly look at Killian’s jacket. It’s new – everything they’re wearing is new, meetings with the official Arendelle seamstress, which, is, apparently a thing and Emma’s only a little annoyed that her meetings have led to a mostly all-white wardrobe, something about the savior and meaning, but it had made Killian’s eyes widen slightly that morning and she likes this jacket a lot. 

Maybe the tension in her jaw is doing permanent damage to her psyche. 

She’s fairly positive the vest he’s wearing is leather too. 

It’s absurd. 

“I can hear you, you know,” Arthur drawls, seated at the other end of the table. That’s probably not a sign. He’d picked that seat anyway. 

And that’s probably because is he, at least a little, terrified of Emma. Or the sword strapped to Killian’s hip. 

“Yeah, I don’t think she was all that worried about it, really,” David shrugs. He leans forward, an appraising look on his face, like he’s getting ready to challenge the king of Camelot to more than one duel. 

Mary Margaret bites back a smile. “What is it this time, Your Majesty?”

“Oh shit, that was almost scathing,” Emma whispers. It’s not really a whisper. Regina looks like she’s about to slide out of her chair, directly onto the floor and blow a hole in the ceiling with a very large fireball. 

Killian grins. 

“His Majesty appears to be concerned about the decision to, simply, send Prince Hans back to the Southern Isles,” Ariel says, a forced calm in her voice when her fingers have started tapping an impatient rhythm on the table. 

“We’ve discussed this,” Elsa sighs. “I’m not interested in doing anything else. Hans is nothing more than an upstart and a mistake. He saw an opportunity to seize control of something that wasn’t his--” “--Sound familiar, Arthur?” Killian cuts in. There is no calm in that question. It’s unspoken threat and narrowed eyes, but he leans back towards Emma like he can’t help himself and, eventually, she’s sure, she’ll be able to have a single, coherent thought about the state of his jackets. 

Will snickers, feet propped up on the edge of the windowsill on the other side of the room with Henry and Belle a few feet away, books strewn around them, and he’s doing that chair-leaning thing again. “He does bring up a very interesting point, Your Majesty,” Will says. “And I do believe you’re harping. It’s inefficient.” David hums in agreement, Regina throwing her whole arm over her face because, for the third straight day, this has dissolved, rather quickly, into a rather large farce.

Merida – the heir to the throne in DunBroch, or so Regina explained when the redhead appeared at the Arendelle gate with a quiver strapped to her back and a questionably large horse – scoffs. “Who are you again?” 

“Oh, that’s just rude,” Will grumbles. “We did introductions several days ago.”

“You’re not exactly a royal though, are you?” Princess Abigail, Midas’ daughter, asks archly. “I can’t understand why your opinion should...well, count.”

“Ah, so the rude thing, is just a sweeping pandemic now, huh?”

Mary Margaret tries to turn her laugh into a different noise, a spectacular fail that she does her best to wave off. “What?” she challenges. “That was actually funny.” “Oh, don’t tell him that,” Killian sighs. “We’ll never hear the end of it now.”

“Too late, Jones,” Will calls, slamming the feet of his chair back into the ground so he can pull out a deck of cards from his back pocket. Henry’s eyes practically light up. 

“And he does bring up a good point,” Ella admits. She and Thomas had arrived almost as soon as they’d sent out the missives, quiet smiles and curt nods that Emma hopes is, actually, some kind of sign because they seem nice and they could use some nice at this point. 

Will lets out a triumphant noise. “Thank you ma’am! That’s exactly what I was trying to do. Make a point. A good one, in fact.” “He can’t remember his point,” Killian mutters, barely loud enough for Emma to hear. 

Abigail’s eyes narrow, lips curling into something that can only be a little aggressive and maybe Emma will slide out of her chair before Regina. That would be impressive. 

“Alright, let’s get several things straight,” she bites out, frustration turning into anger and anger turning into words and her voice doesn’t shake. 

Killian is still smiling. 

“Hans is a non-factor,” Emma continues, “The only thing we need to be concerned with is getting him the hell out of Arendelle.” “Hear, hear,” Anna shouts, and Emma hadn’t seen her move away from the table, but she’s already got cards in her hand and a slightly disgruntled look on her face. “Wait, wait,” she adds, “what did you say was wild?” Henry groans. “Jokers, Ms. Joan. And what was the other one, Mr. Scarlet?”

There’s a collective laugh from the entire Misthaven contingent, lips tugged behind teeth and Killian’s whole body shakes while he does his best not to fall over. “Ok, don’t start,” Will warns. “At least the kid knows where to show some respect.” “And you still think you deserve that?” Arthur asks. The room goes incredibly quiet. 

Except for David’s mumbled oh shit. It’s not exactly mumbled. 

Regina pulls her arm away from her face slowly, sitting up straighter and turning so slowly Emma wonders if there’s actually magic involved. She can’t imagine having that kind of control over her limbs. 

“Too many muscles,” Killian mutters, Emma letting out a huff of something that isn’t a laugh, but may just be generic exhaustion and there’s been no mention of boxes or dates and she’s going to make him get several versions of this vest. 

“Thank you, Captain,” Regina says, eyebrows arching impossibly high. He salutes. And Regina keeps moving, twisting towards a wide-eyed and suddenly pale Arthur. “You have thoughts, Sir? Would you like to share them?” Arthur's eyes look like they’re trying to fly out of face. “Sir?” he echoes, voice managing to crack on each letter. “How dare--” “--No, no, no,” Regina interrupts, and she doesn’t actually stand up, but she somehow looks more intimidating this way. Her shoulders roll back, head tilted and a spark in her eyes that brokers no discussion. The flames crackling between her fingers help too. “You want our respect, Arthur? You get it when you deserve it.” “And you what? Assume that you can return here and take over again? Demand we all fall in line and fear you, the same way we did George?” “Oh my God,” David groans. “How many times do we have to go over this? George was an asshole. No one is trying to be him.” “The opposite, in fact,” Elsa adds, several nods from the Misthaven royal family. 

Arthur still doesn’t look convinced. He’s standing, palms flat on the table and enough tension between his shoulders that it almost looks like he’s actually carved of wood. Maybe they could just turn him into wood. 

Emma’s fairly certain she remembers a story like that from when she was a kid. 

“You took your men out of Misthaven, Arthur,” Mary Margaret points out. “You’ve met with Emma and David and Killian more times than we can count. But you’ve still got that fear in your eyes--” “--I’m not afraid of anything,” he shouts, but having to use those words kind of defeats the purpose of them. 

“We both know that’s not true, Sir.”

Anna laughs, the sound bouncing off walls and windows that are, mostly, clear of snow now, nothing more than a soft frost in the morning because it’s autumn and things are changing and shifting and Emma wants to stop thinking in metaphors. 

“What is it you’re looking for, Arthur?” Elsa asks. “Emma told me. They’ve given you every inch you’ve asked for, aside from letting you run rampant through their kingdom.” “A kingdom they deserted,” he growls. 

Killian runs his free hand over his face, fingers carding through his hair roughly. “This isn’t getting us anywhere,” he sighs. “Answer the bloody question, Arthur. What do you want?” The doors at the far end of the hall swing open –– a man and a woman and Arthur gasps loudly enough that they’ve almost circled back around to comical. “What the--” Emma starts, but she nearly chokes on her own tongue when she notices the look on Mary Margaret’s face. “M’s...what’s going on?”

Mary Margaret shakes her head slowly, jumping out of her chair and sprinting forward, crashing into the man’s chest. He catches her, tight arms and words mumbled into her hair, and Emma doesn’t know where to look. 

Her eyes flit towards David, surprise etched onto every inch of his face. 

“So, uh,” Ruby says, “this is something, huh?” “I thought you were dead,” Mary Margaret exclaims, working back onto her feet so she can rap her knuckles on the man’s armor. He’s wearing armor. The woman next to him looks incredibly amused. “George, he said--once he knew I wasn’t the Savior--”

Her breath catches, tears obvious even from the other side of the hall and David is half sitting, half standing now, hand drifting towards his sword like he’s getting ready to defend Mary Margaret if needs be. 

“It’s alright, Sparrow,” the man says, lips curling up into a smile when his thumbs brush away Mary Margaret’s tears. Emma isn’t sure how she moves, doesn’t remember deciding to shift her legs or unbend her knees, but she’s not sitting on her chair anymore, perched, instead, on Killian’s thigh with an arm tight around her waist. 

“That doesn’t exactly look particularly royal, Jones,” Will calls. Killian flips him off. 

“What are you doing here?” Mary Margaret asks. “How are you even here?” “And how did you get past the guards?” Elsa adds. 

The woman laughs – soft and almost tinkling, eyes flitting towards Arthur. He’s getting paler by the second. “Oh, your guards are perfectly competent,” she promises. “But we heard that you were looking to have all the royals in the Enchanted Forest here and--” She shrugs. “It seemed rude to decline the invitation.”

“You are not the rulers of Camelot,” Arthur sneers, and, really, that’s the last thing Emma expects to hear. Like. At all. 

He pounds his fists on the table, shaking the wood and leading to several swords drawn his direction. “I’d reconsider your next few movements,” David suggests, Kristoff half a step behind him with a look that makes it obvious he’s still not over being denied the chance to stab Hans.

“Can someone tell us who these people are?” Emma demands, waving a free hand towards the strangers. “And if we need to actually be braced for an attack.” The man chuckles. “No, no, Savior. Far from that. My name is Lancelot and--”

“--No, it’s not.” “I’m sorry, what?” “Are you kidding me?” Emma balks, drawing a quiet laugh out of Ruby and Killian’s head falls against her shoulder. He kisses her back. That’s not very royal either. 

“I don’t believe so, no.”

“Ok, ok, I--well, ok. Mary Margaret, did you know Lancelot the whole time? Honestly?” Mary Margaret blushes slightly. “First of all, I was cursed. Second of all, do not ask me questions about Excalibur because, we all know, that’s a myth here and Ariel--” “--Those were good clues,” Ariel argues. “It’s not my fault Hook didn’t remember who he was, so he couldn’t appreciate them!”

“Thank you Fisk,” Killian mumbles, not lifting his head away from Emma. “Once again, you’re the biggest help in these conversations.” She makes a face oddly similar to the one Ruby pulled earlier, and it’s no wonder these other royals are convinced none of them are fit to rule anything. 

“I’m not disputing any of this,” Mary Margaret says. “But, um--well, our stories, our lives, really, are a lot different than the fairy tales they told in the Land Without Magic. And Lancelot--” She nods back towards the man who is starting to look a little stunned and Emma didn’t realize he was holding the other woman’s hand. Her gasp of understanding is impossibly loud. “--He’s the one who brought me to George.”

David leaps out of his chair, fury practically flickering around him, and Killian has to tighten his arm around Emma’s waist to make sure she doesn’t join him. “No, no,” Mary Margaret continues, “it’s not like that. It’s...Lancelot and I grew up together. But I had magic and George was always good at finding magic, wasn’t he? And making sure people would bring it to him.” “What does that mean?” David hisses. 

“My mother disappeared,” Lancelot answers. “Quickly. No trace. I’d never seen her use magic, but there were whispers--when I was young, that she had a connection to the power of the lake near our home and I--I knew what Mary Margaret could do. I thought...well, maybe if I gave George what he wanted, I could get what I wanted. I could get my mother back.” The silence echoes in the hall, most of the Misthaven contingent staring at him with open mouths and something almost resembling hatred. 

“Damn,” Ruby curses eventually. “That’s awful.” Lancelot nods. “It was. Is. I regretted it as soon as I decided and then there was no word of my mother, even after. I--I’m sure George had her killed.”

“He told me he’d gotten rid of my friend,” Mary Margaret whispers, more tears and a quiver to her voice. “He was...he was disappointed that all I could do was talk to animals.” “That’s impressive enough,” David shouts, and Mary Margaret flashes him a watery smile over her shoulder. 

“For you, maybe. Not for George. But I--I don’t understand. What happened to you, Lancelot? Are you part of Arthur’s court? I didn’t think there were actually any knights of the round table here. That’s just…” “...More legend,” Belle finishes. She’s holding cards as well. 

“It could have been real,” Arthur mutters, and every head in the hall turns towards him. His tone has shifted, low and calculated, the kind of voice that invades a desperate kingdom looking to cement his own power and Emma is running out of air to properly gasp. “That part of it’s true,” she muses. “Isn’t it?” “I don’t know what you’re suggesting.” She hums, turning slightly and Killian’s fingers have started drawing absent-minded patterns on her stomach. “Are you Guinevere, then?” Emma asks, more than a few curses from previously cursed royals who believed a different legend and managed to defeat darkness that way. 

The woman nods. 

“Holy shit,” Emma breathes. “Ok, ok, so, um, let me see if I can get this straight. So, everyone here knows George was a dick, right?” There’s a general murmur of agreement, although there are also a few stunned expressions and Killian mumbles colloquialisms into her shoulder blade. “He was, that’s not up for debate. So...as we’ve told you all several thousand times, George was working for the Dark One the whole time. The Dark One wanted, well--me, I guess.” Killian’s arm tightens, David standing up straighter and Mary Margaret’s tears are falling for a different reason now. Will puts his cards down. 

Emma does her best to look consistently confident. 

“We tried to fight that,” she continues, “realized what was going on and did our best, but, well, you can see how that ended up. Anyway. We were gone. There was still dark magic in this realm and Arthur saw it as an opportunity to add some real estate to his kingdom.”

“He’d been obsessed with the Dark One since we were children,” Guinevere says softly. “Wanted to understand how to control him, harness that power and--” “--Harness it?” “Oh, yes. Was equally fascinated and terrified by it. And when all that was left in this realm was that darkness, Arthur saw it as a chance to assert himself, seize control as it were.” “By burning Misthaven,” David fumes, another nod and soft sound of pity from Guinevere. “And he’s what? Never going to agree to anything now that we’re back?” “He’s angry at us,” Lancelot adds. “All of us.” “Because of the what?” Will asks. “If I ever I should leave you, shit?” Lancelot blinks. 

“That reference went over everyone’s head, Scarlet,” Killian mutters, Will making a noise in the back of his throat. “You did take your men out of Misthaven though, Arthur. What is that? Conceding defeat?” “There is no defeat,” Arthur snaps. “Because we are not signing your treaty. Camelot is its own kingdom, functioning on--” “--Us now,” Guinevere smiles. It’s not exactly sweet. “That’s why we’re here, Arthur. Because the kingdom deserves a new chance, enough of the darkness and the desperation.” “Can someone explain what the hell any of you are talking about?” Ruby asks. “If this guy is the one who brought Mary Margaret to George, how’d he end up in Camelot?” “Guinevere just told you,” Lancelot says. “Arthur has been obsessed with the Dark One, his whole life. And when you lot were gone, that sentiment only grew. It’s one I shared for a time.” “Why?” “I regretted what I’d done to Mary Margaret. Knew I’d given her up to a man who--how did you word it, your highness?” Emma grins. “He was a giant and absolute dick.” “Yes, that, exactly. But once Misthaven was emptied, it was clear that darkness was still here. And stronger than ever. I thought I might be able to atone if I did my best to fight it. Only Arthur--he went too far. Started organizing the other kingdoms, even after the magic in this realm changed again. It never stopped. So, I--” “--Ran away,” Arthur screams, face going blotchy and Abigail makes another pointed noise at that. It’s not particularly royal. 

Emma wonders if this is all a dream. That would almost make sense at this point. 

“You didn’t stop, Arthur,” Guinevere says. “It was never enough. Another quest and another piece of research, all of it coming to nothing because the only one who could defeat the Darkness was her.” 

She nods towards Emma, still sitting on top of Killian’s leg. She should stand up. She should say something, smile or give some kind of allusion that she’s got a handle on any facet of her life, but mostly she just wants to come up with a few rules for all of these kingdoms and make sure the people in her kingdom are happy. 

Emma just wants to be happy. It doesn’t seem like that big of a request. 

“And we did that,” Emma adds. “The Dark One is gone, Arthur. There’s no threat of that coming back. The only thing that is back, is us and we are--” “--Heroes,” Elsa says suddenly, sliding to the edge of her chair and she’s got a crown on. She’s been wearing it since that tomorrow she’d mentioned, a shimmer that is absolutely a byproduct of her own magic. “That’s it, isn’t it? It wasn’t perfect and it didn’t all go according to plan, but the prophecy is true now. The Swan and the Knight. Saving the future of magic and ensuring that we’re safe. We are safe now, Arthur.”

“Hear, hear,” Anna calls again, the card-playing, decidedly unroyal group around her throwing their hands up as well. 

“We’ve told you several times now, Arthur, all we wanted was to come home,” David says. “To protect our home. That’s it.” He sheathes his sword, but there’s still a hint of challenge and Emma can see the magic hovering just over his right boot. 

Mary Margaret reaches for his hand. 

“I think everyone deserves that,” Merida mutters, a return to the conversation that’s equal parts surprising and helpful. 

Another woman – dressed in head to toe armor with more than a few weapons buckled to her side and shiny, black hair that reflects the light in that hall – hums in what Emma hopes is, at least some, agreement. “The Dark One was a threat to all of us,” she says. “His defeat is something we should rejoice. Not a reason to question the royal family in Misthaven.”

“You weren’t so sure of that before,” Arthur says, accusation ringing in the statement. “Your king and queen were just as worried as I was. The same goes for your parents, Merida.”

“Oh, look, at that I was right,” Killian muses, hooking his chin over Emma’s shoulder. She leans back, not really trying to burrow further against his chest, but his arm does tighten and she has to rest her hand on his thigh to keep her balance. 

Or so she’ll keep telling herself. 

“I told you that,” Kristoff mumbles. 

“Don’t take this victory from me.” “He’s showing off for the princess,” Ariel grins. She’s sitting on a windowsill again, cross legged with her elbows digging into her knees and, every now and then, she flashes a few fingers in Henry’s direction. 

They’re cheating at cards. 

It’s strangely comforting in the middle of a royal council that has dissolved into chaos. 

“That is kind of true,” Killian admits, pressing the words into the skin behind Emma’s ear and she would probably be embarrassed by the whole thing if she weren’t also half certain Merida and Mulan are currently also making eyes at each other. 

That’s also rather comforting. 

“Huh, so that is happening, right?” Ruby asks, Killian’s cheek brushing over Emma’s hair when he nods. “Right, right, ok, I just wanted to make sure.” “Things have changed, Arthur,” Mulan continues. “The Dark One is destroyed. The Savior has won. Misthaven has a royal family again. A warrior of true honor would understand that. He would not continue only to serve his own self-interest.”

Both Anna and Will shout hear hear that time before Will grumbles are you cheating as soon as Henry puts his cards down. 

“No, no,” Henry promises. “Not at all.”

Emma moves so quickly she nearly elbows Killian in both ribs with each of her arms. “Ah shit, sorry, sorry,” she babbles, but he just presses another kiss to her shoulder and it would be easier for his fingers to find skin if she weren’t wearing this dress.

Seriously, pants. Soon. 

One of the witches from Oz –- Emma genuinely can’t remember her name, but she’d appeared in a bubble and that was a lot, honestly -- makes a noise of agreement. “There’s goodness here,” she announces, as if that doesn’t still manage to sound a little menacing. “A desire to help and they--” She waves her hand towards Emma and Killian. “Are at the very center of it.”

Arthur scoffs. “Them? Please. We know what he was. Even if it’s not true anymore, the pirate was half the reason Camelot had to defend itself!” “No, no, Arthur,” Lancelot objects. “That was only ever you. That’s why we’re here. The people have started to realize what you’ve done. A broken kingdom, sire. And it won’t be mended by you. Not now. Not after everything.”

“The Savior and her pirate have already done more for this realm than you could ever begin to dream,” Guinevere adds. “Look at this kingdom! Hans was--well, he was also a bit of a dick, wasn’t he?”

Mary Margaret’s hand flies to her mouth, still not able to keep her guffaw from flying out of her, and Emma’s eyes get so wide they actually start to water. Ruby’s head falls forward, landing with a thump on her forearms, while both David and Regina sport matching looks of surprise. 

“Aye, exactly that, your highness,” Killian says, smile obvious in every syllable. 

“I wasn’t sure if I was using it in the right context. It’s a very catchy saying, isn’t it?” “Something like that, absolutely.”

“Right, well, as you say. Hans did not belong on this throne. But you and the Sav--” She closes her mouth when she glances at Emma, gaze turning appraising and almost understanding, as if she realizes what that title weighs. “You and Emma,” Guinevere corrects. “Made sure that he couldn’t maintain it. You brought back Princess Anna, brought back Queen Elsa, even. At great personal expense.” “Something like that,” Killian repeats, Emma squeezing her hand lightly. 

“A good warrior knows when to retreat, Arthur,” Mulan says lightly. “Phillip and Aurora agreed to your terms in a different world. Those terms don’t hold anymore.” “Almost like your reasoning for attacking us to begin with,” David mutters. 

Arthur gapes at them, eyes darting from one royal to the next like one  will, eventually, return to his side. None of them do. None of them say a single world, in fact, which doesn’t seem to bode very well for any of them, but then Regina coughs softly and her chair scrapes across the tile when she pushes back, enough royalty to ensure several treaties get signed in the next few seconds. 

“Let’s make a few things clear, shall we, Arthur?” He doesn’t answer. Of course not. “You were obsessed and fascinated and terrified by the Darkness? So were we. We lived it, you coward. We were shaped by it, groomed for a battle that wasn’t ours until it was on our doorstep. We were bartered and captured, kidnapped by even those with the best intentions.” She glances over her shoulder at a repentant-looking Lancelot, a strange string of limbs with one hand still wrapped up in Guinevere’s and the other laced with Mary Margaret’s. Mary Margaret is also holding David’s hand. 

“You made mistakes,” Regina continues, “we all did. We--Gods, that curse was a disaster, wasn’t it?” “It wasn’t the best,” Killian agrees, the feel of his upturned lips obvious on the side of Emma’s neck as soon as she leans further back. She’s started toying with the edge of his jacket. 

“We’ve been over this, Arthur,” Emma adds. “Our magic isn’t something to be feared. It’s the deck we were dealt, that’s it.” Will groans. “If you keep making jokes, I’m not going to have a job, Em!” “You are not actually the court jester,” Ruby points out, but Henry is laughing loudly and Belle looks consistently charmed by this and maybe they can just be good royals by being themselves.

That’s a kind of a nice thought. 

“I mean, we could probably do something about that if he’s really determined,” Regina muses. “Maybe after all of this though. Priorities.” “Regina, was that actually a joke?” Emma asks, both Ruby and Mary Margaret exclaiming in what may actually be delight. 

The other royals look stunned. 

So, maybe they’ll have to temper back some of their honest personalities. 

“It happens,” Regina mutters, David already objecting and Killian mumbling what sounds like that’s never happened, ever under his breath. Regina blushes. This may actually be a dream. “Oh, whatever,” she grumbles. “The point I am trying to make and really--not just to Arthur, to all of you, is that we understand your anger. We’re still angry. At everything done to us and done because of us and by us and if we could change things, we would.”

She turns to Emma, the ends of her mouth tugging up. “But,” Regina says pointedly, “the past is something that is, unfortunately, set in stone. Not a sword in a stone, but--” “--See,” Ariel cries. “She would have understood my references.” “I was cursed, Fisk,” Killian hisses. She ignores him, far too busy trying to make the clubs symbol with her hands. 

“We aren’t asking for anything from any of you,” Emma says, sitting up straighter. That only pulls her back closer to Killian’s chest though and it probably shouldn’t make her feel more confident, but that’s another deck she’s been dealt or however the metaphor about True Love should work. “Honestly. And we--well, prophecy lasts a lifetime, doesn’t it? We all have magic, we all have power and we’re not opposed to using either one of those things in the future. For good.”

There’s a murmur from the other Misthaven royals, encouraging smiles and even Elsa nods, promises on their lips that Emma fully expected them to make. It’s nice all the same. 

“These kingdoms were allied before,” Emma continues, “but only because George was a threat. And the Dark One was looming. Those are gone. We’ve made sure of that.” “What are you asking us for, Emma?” Merida questions, and she can’t help the laugh that flies out of her. 

Killian’s hand stills, understanding even in the lack of movement. 

“Nothing,” Emma replies. “There’s no bartering here. No back and forth. No magic for magic. I--I’ve seen that already and I’ll be honest, I’m not all that interested.”

“And you’ve got the authority to do that?” Abigail counters. “If memory serves, even before you lot disappeared, after George had locked himself in his tower, you weren’t the acting monarch were you, Emma?” And, that time, the murmur that comes out of the Misthaven royals, and Elsa, is a little less understanding, an edge to the noise that’s reminiscent of defenses and a childhood spent protecting each other. 

“Oh, you may want to try that again,” David suggests. “Killian, take a deep breath.” Emma doesn’t have to turn around to know how thin Killian’s eyes have gone narrow. She can feel his chest shift against her though, Abigail’s expression turning timid the longer no one else says anything. “Well,” she reasons. “It’s a fair question.” “Is it, though?” Ruby asks. “Honestly?”

“Are some of you worried that we’re actually...going to fight each other?” Mary Margaret whispers. “For the rule of Misthaven?” Arthur clicks his tongue. “It’s been known to happen before.” “Fucking hell, Arthur, shut up,” David roars. “Abigail, that is not something that’s going to happen. We’re--well, we’re a family. Our only interests are the ones that benefit the future of Misthaven and--” “--Emma has all of that power, though,” Abigail objects. “Even Glinda said it. The Swan and the Knight. We’ve all heard the prophecy. What’s to say we agree to your terms and she suddenly decides she wants a little more?” David exhales. That’s probably the best reaction. Until Killian reacts. 

“She’s the bloody Savior,” he shouts, loud enough that Emma winces at the sound reverberating in her ear. “You think she’s suddenly going to turn into a power-hungry royal? No, no, we’ll leave that to the rest of you.”

Abigail seems very interested in her hands all of the sudden. “There has never been a kingdom with multiple rulers,” she mumbles. “It just--it simply isn’t done that way.” “Oh, that’s not entirely true,” Belle objects, Killian’s quiet laugh bordering close to pride as soon as she jumps up and leaves a small pile of cards in her wake. “It’s happened several times in history. A whole family and mutual interests being served, I mean...think about England.” “England,” Abigail repeats dubiously. “Which part of the Enchanted Forest is that in?”

“Is that honestly the real name of this place?” Will crows, nearly falling back in his chair again. 

Emma sighs. She hopes they don’t have to actually use the guards to escort Arthur out of Arendelle. “That’s not the point,” Emma says. “The point is, and seriously, this is the last time we’re doing this, I am not looking to take over anything. I was supposed to defeat Darkness, I--” 

She twists, not entirely comfortable, but absolutely necessary and Killian’s smile feels as if it slinks its way down her spine and settles her magic. 

“We,” Emma amends, “did that. And so we’ve done enough. We’ve done Neverland and getting Hans out of Arendelle. We’ve comforted people whose entire homes were destroyed by Arthur. We understand what you went through and know some of that was our fault, but that’s different now. All we’re looking for is for you to trust us. No one is coming for your kingdoms. No one is looking for magic or the chance to intimidate anyone. All we’re looking for is exactly what David told you, to return home and start over. For the better, for all of us.”

No one says anything. 

No one even moves. 

And for a moment Emma doesn’t dare to breathe, eyes wide and lips parted slightly, but then she can feel the flutter of fingers tracing over the curve of her hip and her magic rises, a soft wave that’s a bit like the tide and a hint like the waltz she’s determined to get at some point and--

“Camelot pledges its loyalty to the royal family of Misthaven,” Guinevere says, nothing but confidence in her voice and Killian’s exhale makes Emma’s magic soar. 

Arthur pales. “You can’t do that!” “Ok, but I--I just did, so…”

Guinevere shrugs, Lancelot chuckling lightly with a kiss pressed to the top of her head and Emma’s jaw drops even further. She glances a Ruby, an almost identical expression on her face. Mary Margaret’s got her hand over her mouth again. 

“You’ve gone too far, Arthur,” Guinevere continues. “And you’ve known this was coming for ages. All of it, you--” “--I am the king of Camelot,” he shouts, stumbling back with hands that can’t seem to grasp his sword. “This is my decision and you’ve all agreed to stand with me and--” Arthur nearly trips over his own feet, a clack of metal from the chain mail under his shirt and the hilt of his sword slamming into his stomach when he manages to get it out of its scabbard. 

“That was different,” Merida says evenly, but Emma can see her fingers fluttering at her side and maybe next time they hold a council they’ll make everyone forego their weapons. 

“You’ll regret that!”

Merida hisses in a breath, standing up with an arrow pinched between her fingers. Mulan’s sword is half pulled out and even David’s trying to move Mary Margaret behind him.

“Oh my God,” Emma mumbles, a soft laugh on her neck when Killian shifts her off his leg. He stands slowly, not trying to move her any further, and, eventually, she’ll think that may be her favorite part of the day, but then he pulls his sword out and tilts his head slightly, narrow eyes and a certain set of his mouth that’s nothing short of a threat. 

He smiles. 

And it’s not kind. It’s not Emma’s. It’s sinister, almost, a sneer and every single one of his teeth, the tip of his tongue swiping across his bottom lip. 

“I’d put the sword down, Arthur,” Killian murmurs, a slight flinch when Emma’s magic sparks. The ball of light in her palm doesn’t touch her skin, but it’s bright enough to reflect of the metal of his sword and she needs to get him a new sword. 

Maybe she’ll ask in Arendelle. They did such a good job with the jacket. 

“Or what?” Arthur challenges. “You’ll kill me? That’s only proving my point. You do not belong here. None of you do, not anymore. This realm doesn’t need you! And we certainly don’t want you. Especially,” he adds, voice dropping with the weight of the next few words, “a villain and a pirate who destroyed everything he--” “--Enough,” Emma snaps. The light in her hand explodes, bathing the entire room in a near-blinding glow and she’s never moved that quickly. She nearly over-spins, the ends of her dress fluttering around her heels and she’s got to get used to heels again, but she’ll worry about that later. After her hand lands on Killian’s cheek, stubble on the inside of her palm and the feel of his jaw clenching against her skin. 

“Shit,” Will muses, entirely un-royal and absolutely accurate. “You’re a total asshole, huh?” Guinevere still hasn’t moved, but her eyebrows shift slightly. As if she’s not surprised. At all. “You never understood, Arthur,” she mutters, “never. That there’s more to this. Being alive...being in love. Caring about anything except your own interests. Camelot will be better off without you. And this realm is better now that they have returned. All of them.”

“DunBroch agrees,” Merida says. She tosses the arrow on the table, a move Emma hopes is some type of respect. “We’ve already seen magic change with your return.” “As have we,” Mulan adds, and Glinda nods in agreement. Emma’s still really curious about the bubble thing. She’s fairly certain it personally offended Regina. “You have our loyalty as well.”

There’s a hum of agreement around the room, Arthur sputtering and stammering until David pulls his sword away from him, but Emma keeps her hand in the same spot, eyes tracing across Killian’s face, looking for something she hopes she doesn’t find.

“I’m fine, love,” he breathes, a quick kiss between her eyebrows. 

“Arendelle as well,” Elsa says, and Killian’s arm wraps around Emma’s waist when she spins again. “Our full support and alliance and any other politically correct word or description you can come up with.”

“I could probably figure out a few,” Belle grins. “I defer to your expertise.” Emma’s smile feels impossibly large, a surge of hope and burst of magic directly underneath Killian’s hand, but then goddamn Glinda starts shaking her head slowly and she’s certain everything is going to go to complete and utter shit again. 

Mary Margaret’s eyes widen. “What?” “I’m afraid Elsa won’t be able to agree,” Glinda explains, “without actually being crowned queen. Despite his departure from the kingdom, King Hans is still, technically, the ruler here.” “Departure,” Kristoff echoes and Belle mumbles politically correct under her breath. “So, what? You’re saying we have to have some kind of ceremony?” “A party,” Anna cries. She nearly knocks over the cards when she jumps up again, Will and Henry grumbling in displeasure. “Oh, stop, I was winning anyway.” Will huffs. “That is not how poker works at all.” “Poker, Scarlet?” Killian asks. “Honestly?” “Don’t go all royal on me, Jones. You’re just frustrated you didn’t get to play.” Killian doesn’t answer, Emma’s smile still there and turning a little teasing when she tries not to laugh too loudly. It’d be inappropriate in their current situation. David’s still trying to restrain Arthur. “Better at dice anyway,” Killian mumbles. 

“And not quite a party,” Glinda corrects, Elsa’s face dropping with realization. “A coronation. You need to make this official, Your Majesty. After everything that’s happened, I think following protocol and tradition will serve us well.” “This is my kingdom, though,” Elsa argues. “I shouldn’t be crowned for show.” “I’m afraid the only way Oz will agree with this is if there is a coronation. You open the gates, allow the kingdom in, invite every land. Show that you are committed to running Arendelle, instead of running from it. Again.” Ruby lets out a low whistle. “Wow, that’s super harsh.”

“And true,” Elsa mumbles, glancing at Regina. “What do you think?” Regina makes a noise in the back of her throat – a little frustrated, a little accepting, entirely royal. Maybe that’s a step in the right direction. “It might be a good idea. Let your people know you’ve returned, have no intention of leaving again and make sure that the cut between Arendelle and Hans is severed completely.” “The past must be discarded,” Glinda continues, and Emma does her best to keep her face even at the absurdity of that particular sentence. She can feel Killian’s chest shift against her back. “A new era in this realm, with optimism and--”

“--So, it’s really a party, then?” Anna interrupts. “Because we should probably get some chocolate or something.” Glinda’s mouth parts with a soft pop, Elsa shaking her head slightly and Kristoff’s laugh may actually do permanent damage to the structural integrity of the hall. It’s loud and joyful and party might not be a bad word. 

“Let’s cross that bridge in a little while,” Elsa says. “Maybe after we’ve all gotten something to eat first?”

It’s a dismissal without actually saying the words, the doors opening by guards who are very good at reading their soon-to-be official queen’s expressions, and the table clears out slowly. There are muttered acknowledgements, hopes for a treaty very soon and Mulan apologizes that Aurora and Phillip couldn’t be there. 

Again. 

She does it every time they disperse. 

And then they’re gone. Arthur is escorted out by a different set of guards, Guinevere and Lancelot promising to take care of it, which is only a little menacing, but Emma’s gotten used to very menacing, so this is almost a victory. 

David drops into the nearest chair, barely making it in the seat, legs splayed out in front of him. He lets his sword clatter to the ground. “Well,” he mumbles, head in his hands, “that went great, didn’t it?” “It definitely could have been worse,” Regina reasons. 

“How? How is that possible?” “We got people to agree with us, David. Pledges of--oh, shit, fealty sound archaic doesn’t it?” “Something about tradition, probably,” Elsa grumbles. She’s moved away from the table, dropping back-to-back with Anna and there are half a dozen snowflakes fluttering between her fingers. “How long do coronations normally last?” Ruby’s lips twitch. “Long. There will probably be trumpets.” “Oh Gods.” “Can we focus on the positives, please?” Regina sighs. “A lot of good things happened and--” “--A lot of stupid things,” Emma cuts in. 

Killian tugs her back with him when he sits down again, nipping at her shoulder blade. “It’s definitely Scarlet playing poker during a royal council.” “As has been pointed out several times, I am not royal,” Will argues. “And, I am doing the kid a service here.” He nods in Henry’s direction, curled against Belle’s side now with her fingers in his hair and his eyes obviously closed. “Real, useful life skills.” “You’re turning him into a degenerate.” “King Arthur of Camelot called you a pirate today. As an insult. Let’s keep degenerate where it belongs, huh?” Killian scoffs, chin bumping Emma’s back when he nods. “Plus,” Will adds, “if you and Emma are going to adopt this kid you just---found, then we’ve got to make sure he’s well-rounded.” “We’re not adopting him,” Emma objects, not sure why that’s suddenly so difficult to say. Her stomach lurches, though, a spike in her center that’s a little painful and very magical. 

Will doesn’t look convinced. Mary Margaret looks offended. “Arthur won’t be a problem,” she promises. “Guinevere’s got just as much power in that kingdom as he does. So if she’s decided to align with us, then I think we’re ok?” “You think,” Ruby repeats dubiously. “Are we not going for sure?” “And we’re really going to trust the guy who turned you over to George?” Emma asks. 

Mary Margaret clicks her teeth. “Ok, this is kind of mean,” she wavers, “but uh--” “--You kind of did,” David finishes. His head is hanging over the back of the chair now. “Technically, you know.” “Killian is not Liam,” Emma points out, and those words hurt too. Damn. She wants to go back to their rooms. “I guess I just wasn’t expecting to be thrown into the middle of some Camelot love triangle. The whole thing is getting very complicated.”

Will starts humming under his breath – lyrics to a song Emma is only vaguely familiar with, but Ariel looks overjoyed and--”I know that song,” she cries, more than a few exclamations of quiet thrown her way when Henry stirs. “And that whole thing is wrong. The legend in the Land Without Magic is far more dramatic. You know, Hook, maybe that’s it. Arthur’s just jealous of your very fancy sword.” “You’re the one who made it seem like Excalibur, Fisk.”

“Ah, I set that joke up for you so well and you just...left it there.”

He hums, a shift in his eyebrows Emma doesn’t have to see to be aware. “I’ve grown, you see. Matured, even.” “Gotten less...Dark One’y.” “Aye, that too.” “Still a pirate though.”

Killian doesn’t answer, but David’s head snaps up, eyes wide like he’s only just remembered something important. “Also, it hasn’t been said yet, but we’re all a little annoyed you didn’t invite us on your pirate adventure.”

“None of us were upset by that,” Regina promises. 

“Mostly that you just didn’t tell us,” Ruby amends. “Tell us before you adopt the magic kid, ok?” “You’re being ridiculous,” Emma says. 

“Am I, just?” “Do you want to plan a coronation or not?”

“No,” Elsa responds at the same time Anna shouts “yes” and they wake Henry up almost immediately. 

They spend a few more hours in that hall – Elsa calling for food and an impossible amount of chocolate because, as Anna continuously points out, I was stuck in a cage, I’m going to eat my weight in chocolate and no one seems to able to argue with that. There are decisions made and more than a few debates, Belle combing through comically large tomes that burst with dust every time she flips a page, trying to find out how the last twenty Arendelle monarchs have been crowned and each discovery suggests more grandeur. 

By the end of it all, Elsa is lying on the floor – in between Emma and Anna, more snowflakes falling in soft piles by their head – with Mary Margaret curled into a different chair and Ruby perched on the windowsill next to the one Ariel has claimed. Belle’s legs are draped over Will’s, a book still in her hand, while Killian tries to translate something that may be ancient runes and David paces a small circle into the floor. 

“You’re going to ruin your boots,” Emma muses, and while he doesn’t break stride, his lips do twitch up, a quick flash of his eyes her direction. 

“You’re not a cobbler.” “And you’re worrying. What about? Lancelot?” “No,” David says quickly. His pace picks up, and Killian makes a contrary noise on the other side of the hall. “Oh, shut up, Jones.” Killian salutes, Emma propping herself up on her elbows and trying to level David with her best accusatory stare. It just makes her head hurt. That may be all the chocolate she’s had. 

“It’s going to be ok.” David stops pacing. “Is that positivity I hear?” “It is an attempt.” “It’s impressive.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Emma groans. “Your compliments are really ringing true. I’m just--I don’t know, maybe Glinda was right. We’re always going to be everything we were. Magic and makeshift royal and out-of-place pop culture knowledge, but focusing on the past is only going to drag us down and then everything’s going to suck.”

David chuckles, a click of boots moving towards Emma that aren’t his. Emma takes Killian’s hand as soon as she sees his fingers. “Eloquent as always, love,” he says, pulling her up with ease. “C’mon, if I look at anymore of those symbols, I’m going to go cross-eyed.” “It’d be a look.” “Gods, do you two ever stop?” David whines. 

Emma shakes her head. “I hope not.”

She doesn’t let go of his hand while they walk down the hall, torches lit with a slightly different glow than the one she’d caused that afternoon. He has to twist around her to open the door to their room, and there’d never really been any discussion of that, no questions about propriety or that pesky tradition that Arendelle seemed so fond of. 

It just was. 

With a bed Emma is considering stealing when they leave. “How difficult do you think it would be to commandeer a feather bed?” she asks, appreciating whatever her question does to every inch of Killian’s face. 

He arches an eyebrow, eyes drifting up her body like he’s taking stock of each part and the twist of his lips is entirely unfair. There are a few pieces of hair stuck up in the back, and Emma knows he’d been running his fingers through it, trying to figure out what, exactly, Elsa has to hold in order to assume the throne, but the whole look makes him a little unruly and decidedly piratical and she yanks on the front of his jacket. 

At first, it’s mostly just to get him closer, but then Emma can see the flash in his eyes and the want in his gaze and she tilts her head up and he bends his neck down, the curve of his hook digging into her back and making her arch further against him. He groans. She kisses him.

Hard. 

Emma pulls in a breath, heartbeat turning staccato in her chest and she’s thankful for the heels now. It makes it easier to move her arm, a hand in his hair and the other flat against his chest, memorizing the beat of his pulse in a way that’s only kind of weird and possibly possessive. 

“Gods, but you are distracting, you know that?” Killian mutters, and Emma must make a noise because she can hear something, a laughter that flutters out of her and bounces off the walls.

“Ok, but that’s not an answer to the bed question.” “I’m sure we could get a very similar bed at home, Swan.”

Her eyes close of their own accord as soon as she processes that word, one that never really had much meaning before and it’s still not enough. Not years and a field or the smell of salt in the air, stolen toffee and fingers dancing on her skin. It’s not leather or a glint of light bouncing off the edge of a sword. 

It’s more. It’s bigger. And it’s...again. It’s soft and easy and it’s always been that. 

From the very start. 

“The one normal thing,” Emma whispers, repeating words from a life that feels like a dream now. Until. Until she lets her eyes flicker up to find Killian staring at her, wonder and love and--"You’re trying to figure out how to get this bed out of here, aren’t you?” “It was your idea!” “You’d probably have to use the window, right?” “Or magic.” “You want me to magic a feather bed? Where?” Killian shrugs, nudging her closer to the bed and Emma doesn’t try to temper her magic. “Be easier with a ship,” he mutters, an admission that might not be that, but her magic jumps anyway and she’s going to fix that too. 

Save it, as it were. 

Emma hums, flopping back on soft blankets and cloud-like pillows, half a plan and a smile that makes her cheeks ache, Killian catching her lips again as soon as he lets the jacket fall to the floor. And she’s not sure how long they spend in that bed, roaming hands and that goddamn tongue thing, but his breathing evens out eventually, her smile still there and the soft heat in the very center of her makes it feel as if her heart expands, warding off the chill in the air and the past that isn't quite as formidable anymore. 

[let-it-raines]

Second in Command (Epilogue - Part Ten)

Summary: Life as the “spare to the heir” isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be when you’re the supposed screw-up of the family, but people don’t know what really happens behind closed doors.

Rating: Mature

A/N: It’s just fluff. Seriously. That’s all. Thank you guys for continuing to be the best! :D

AO3: Beginning | Current

Tumblr: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14| 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 

Epilogue Parts: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15

Tag list: @in-spirational @nikkiemms @resident-of-storybrooke @kmomof4 @wellhellotragic @ekr032-blog-blog @bmbbcs4evr @onceuponaprincessworld @jennjenn615 @a-faekindagirl @mayquita @captainsjedi @captswanis4vr @kristi555 @teamhook @skyewardolicitycloisdelena91@branlovesouat @dreadpirateemma @alys07 @andiirivera @emmas-storybook @superchocovian 

She walks out of the bathroom and into the bedroom, her robe loosely tied around her waist, to find Killian stretched out in bed with Andy curled up on Killian’s bare chest. He must have gotten fussy while she was taking a shower for Killian to have gotten him out of his bassinet, but now he’s conked out…and so is Killian. She laughs a bit to herself before grabbing her phone off of her bedside table and snapping a few pictures. She wants to show Killian later, but she also wants to keep this for her.

Her boys, she thinks. They’re awfully cute together, and she has far more pictures of them on her phone than any sane person should. But she gave birth three weeks ago, so she’s pretty much got a free pass for being insane and dramatic all of the time. That’s what she has to remind herself several times a day. She still can’t get over how she fell apart more than once after they came home from the hospital, but it’s normal. She remembers being pregnant and thinking about how much she liked knowing Andy was safe and sound inside her. She remembers wanting to meet him but having just this…fear. Yeah, it was definitely a fear of not wanting him to leave her. And that fear manifested itself when she realized he was a week old.

She’d sobbed, absolutely had a breakdown, and her crying had made Andy lose it too. She remembers seeing Killian in between her tears looking absolutely terrified, gently bouncing Andy around while he spoke in a gentle tone to her, trying to encourage and remind her that it was okay. Everything was okay.

It had taken awhile for her to calm down, but she eventually did, trying to push down her slight embarrassment and get her breathing back to normal. So she knows that she has a free pass on being emotional, but that doesn’t mean she’s not going to feel odd about it.

Hormones are weird.

She definitely has to keep reminding herself not to beat herself up over things.

It’s more difficult than it sounds.

Being a mom is more difficult than it sounds, which is weird because it sounds incredibly hard. You read the books, you go to classes, and you talk to all of the moms you know, but nothing prepares you for it. Absolutely nothing. It’s like you think you know what you’re going to do, and then your doctor hands you an actual human being while you’re still bleeding and basically says good luck, you’ll figure it out.

She’s really hoping that she’s going to figure it out.

Her son is still breathing, he eats, she thinks all of his insides are working well, and he keeps getting bigger, which she wants to stop. Logically she knows that it’s healthy for him to grow, but he needs to stay small forever.

Okay, so maybe leaving her alone with her thoughts is not the best idea.

For a moment she thinks about crawling into bed and joining them in their nap, but she’s starving and just wants to get something to eat by herself. Maybe she’ll watch some TV too. Actually, that’s about all she does every day, but she’s pretty sure Killian has some leftover brownies in the fridge and eating those while watching TV sounds like the dream right now. So she grabs the baby monitor and heads downstairs, finding the brownies and settling down on the couch.

It’s glorious.

And it does not surprise her at all when she falls asleep, the brownies forgotten on the coffee table and Netflix not even playing a show. She never got around to picking anything out. But she’s woken by the sound of Andy’s cries through the monitor, and she practically jumps off the couch, nearly falling to the ground. She doesn’t even remember that he’s with Killian until she’s back in the bedroom and finds Killian walking around with him.

“He’s hungry,” she tells him, already loosening her robe. “He was supposed to eat, like, an hour ago, but you guys were sleeping.”

“Aye, I know. I didn’t mean to. It just happened.”

She smiles, shaking her head back and forth as she walks toward the bed and settles down, getting all of her pillows ready. “Babe, it’s fine. You’re tired. I’m tired. We’re all tired. Hand me the little munchkin before he breaks our ear drums.”

“A good idea.” Killian hands her Andy, and after a bit of situating, he latches onto her, his wails quieting. She never thought she would be so glad that someone other than Killian knows how to easily latch onto her nipple (which is really weird if she thinks about it too much), but this is one of the things she’s most thankful for. She read far too many articles about what to do if breastfeeding isn’t smooth sailing, and she’s thankful that it has been…so far. It could change any minute.

She really needs to start talking out loud more so her thoughts don’t run away with themselves.

“Did you get any sleep, love?” Killian asks her, settling down on the bed next to her and pushing her hair back behind her ears for her. It’s a hopeless cause. Her hair is insane when she lets it dry naturally.

“I fell asleep on the couch. I was going to eat brownies and watch all of the shows I haven’t caught up on yet, but I fell asleep.”

“You needed it.”

“I think I’m more tired than before,” she sighs, leaning her head back against the cushion of the headboard while she runs her finger across the top of Andy’s head, pushing back the small bit of hair like Killian just did to her. “You’re exhausting, little man. Mommy is tired.”

“What time even is it?”

She moves her hand away from Andy’s forehead to check her phone, the screen somehow brighter than it was earlier. “Six seventeen.”

“In the evening, right?”

She lets out a low whistle, trying to keep her stomach from moving while she laughs. “Wow. You were only asleep for an hour, babe. It’s the evening. Not the morning, which is good because you have work in the morning. How are you so out of it?”

He shrugs. “I wake up when you wake up.”

“And then you go back to sleep.” She can’t help but roll her eyes. “But yeah, you have to be up and leave before eight tomorrow. So you can sleep. It’s not like you can feed him yet anyways.”

“This is true.”

“But the moment we start using the bottle sometimes, you, my man, are going to become a feeding machine.”

“I figured as much.”

“Good.” She reaches her hand over to him, laying it down on his inner thigh and squeezing for just a moment. “Are you nervous about going to work tomorrow?”

“Why would I be nervous?”

“Because you haven’t left our side this entire time. It’s like you think that we’re going to disappear. Plus, I know you’ve been keeping from me how pissed people are that I didn’t do the whole step thing with Andy, and I figured you might be nervous over how people treat you. Or us, really.”

“First of all, and I can say this because we’re in private, fuck every single one of those people. That is the absolute last thing you should be worrying about right now. And secondly, I don’t want to miss something.” Killian looks over and smiles at her, his eyes crinkling with the movement, and she feels her heart flutter. Maybe. She’s not really sure. She’s never quite been able to pinpoint how exactly he makes her feel when he smiles at her like that. It’s…something. And she tries to silently tell him just how much she appreciates him supporting her every step of the way, even when he’s a pain in the ass. “I know. I’m just leaving for a couple of hours, and it’ll be nice to talk to adults besides you and our parents for a change. No offense, love.”

“None taken. I think Ruby is going to come over tomorrow anyways, so we’ll both get to talk to adults that aren’t each other or our families.” “Yeah,” Killian admits before leaning over and running his fingers along Andy’s arm, “but you get to stay with our buddy.” “True,” she sighs, leaning her head back again, “but it’s going to be fine, babe. We can’t stay cooped up inside the house forever.” “Says the woman who hasn’t traveled further than Abigail and Liam’s house.”

She scrunches up her face, knowing his point is true but not wanting to admit it. She kind of hates when he makes good points. “Anyways,” she continues, shifting her leg the slightest bit and ignoring the slight pain that comes with feeding Andy, “you’re going to go and help out, learn about the shelter, and you’re going to have a good time. And then you can come home and change all of the diapers you want.”

“You really know how to charm a man.” “I try.” She looks back down at Andy who’s happily eating away, and she trails her finger across his forehead, pushing some of his hair back again. How did it somehow manage to move?

She’s pretty much memorized his face at this point. She knows the shape of his eyes and the curve of his nose. She knows the slant of his lips and the dip in his chin. And she also knows when it changes, which is pretty often even if it’d be difficult for anyone else to notice. Every parent says their kid is beautiful, but hers really is. He has Killian’s eyes, and as much as she’d be okay with him having her eyes or eyes that resemble neither of them, she’s infinitely thankful that he has Killian’s eyes.

They’re stunningly blue, and while she knows that they could change, could morph into something else, she’s hoping that they stay the same. But what really sells her on the fact that he has Killian’s eyes is the lashes. God, he’s got better lashes than her. They’re long and thick, and she has this weird obsession with looking at them when they’re brushing against his cheeks.

Giving birth doesn’t just give you crazy hormones and a body that feels like it’s been run over by a truck. It also gives you an unnatural obsession with the hair on another human being’s eyes.

And the hair on the top of their heads. Andy has some good hair on his head, dark and black that sits flat, and she hopes that stays too. As much as she’d like him to resemble her a bit, she knows her chances for his hair to turn blonde like hers are slim. She had, like, peach fuzz as a baby if the pictures are any indication. Andy has more dark hair than most men.

It’s weird.

“You’re such a good baby,” she coos, running her finger over his arm and his hand, looking at where she and Killian clipped his nails the other day. That’s another thing you can’t prepare for. Clipping a baby’s nails is absolutely terrifying. “And you are definitely going to miss daddy tomorrow, but he needs to know that he can go to work. Yeah, he can go to work.”

“Darling, you could simply tell me this. It’s not like Andrew is going to repeat the words back to me.” “Yeah, but you might listen more this way.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.” Killian leans over and plants a smacking kiss on her cheek, louder than it has any right to be, before placing a gentler one on the crown of Andy’s head. “I love you both, and I’m going to go fix us some dinner, okay? Something much better than stale brownies.”

“Um, stale brownies are only some of the best food in the entire world.”

“You keep thinking that, darling.”

-/-

She’s washing her face the next morning when there’s a knock on the bathroom door, something that makes her practically jump out of her skin. Seriously. She jumps. It might not be out of her skin, but she definitely jumps.

“Holy shit,” she gasps, placing her hands over her racing heart as she looks at Ruby who is absolutely smirking. Like, she is the definition of the Cheshire Cat. It’s almost creepy. “Rubes, you can’t do that. I am not stable enough to be scared out of my mind like that.”

“I texted you several different times, and I rang the doorbell before letting myself in. I gave you every warning I could besides sending you a letter by knight and waiting for your monogrammed stamp of approval.”

She groans, protesting the slightest bit. None of that helps the fact that Emma feels as if she could take off running a marathon on the adrenaline alone. That would be one way to lose the baby weight.

She’s not even allowed to exercise yet, which is killing her. Well, not really. She still feels like she’s fought in a war or something and likes sitting in a haze of tiredness, but the lifelong athlete in her makes the fact that she can’t exercise drive her crazy. It’s probably just the fact that she’s been told she can’t do it. That makes her want to do it more.

It’s funny because that is not at all what’s happening with the fact that she’s been told she can’t have sex. She’s nowhere near ready for that.

“My phone is in the bedroom,” she tells Ruby, her heartbeat finally calming enough for her to step back to the sink and finish washing her face, actually feeling a bit refreshed. She pulls her hair up into a bun, something that is pretty much completely necessary right now, and finally turns back to Ruby. “So how is the outside world, Rubes?”

“Well,” Ruby begins, stepping into the room and propping herself up against the counter, “I’d say it’s a hell of a lot…shinier.” “What is that supposed to mean?”

Ruby holds her hand up into Emma’s eyeline, a ring suddenly in sight…a very familiar ring on her left hand. Holy shit. The world really is shinier.

“You’re engaged,” she shrieks, taking Ruby’s hand in hers and admiring the ring. “Oh my goodness, congratulations.” She wraps Ruby up in a hug, holding her as tightly as she can while rubbing her hand up and down her back. “I am so, so freaking happy for you. You have to tell me everything, okay? I want to hear it all.”

“Thank you, Ems,” Ruby sighs, pulling back and placing her hands on Emma’s shoulders. “I will tell you absolutely everything, but only if you let me hold the chunk monster while I do.”

“You have some interesting names for my family.”

“It’s a gift.”

“And it’s a deal.”

So Ruby tells her all about the engagement, sitting in she and Killian’s bed while holding Andy, who is sleeping away even as Ruby talks. He doesn’t sleep through the night, but he sleeps through the loudest person she knows telling the story of how Graham took her to Ireland last weekend and proposed. It figures. Ruby’s always found ways to just make everything work for her, even if there’s been a few disasters along the way. Honestly, though, the quiet baby thing is definitely the biggest miracle of all of Ruby’s works.

“I mean, I swore I’d never do this after I got engaged and was bombarded with questions when I was still kind of in a haze, but have you thought about the wedding?”

“Small,” she answers immediately, twisting her body toward Emma. “I want small. Or we want small. I mean, you know I don’t have a lot of family and just my small group of friends, and Graham’s family is all high society with all of those people who he knows but doesn’t really know. But he doesn’t want something fancy either. I’m kind of thinking we go somewhere cool, bring our families and favorite friends.” She nudges Emma’s foot with hers. “And then we just have a party. And obviously I wear a fantastic dress.” “Obviously,” Emma laughs, leaning over to the side and picking up the remote for the television, turning it on and flipping through the channels, “but that sounds perfect for you guys, and I absolutely cannot wait for this.” “Well, you’re going to have to because I have no idea when it’s going to be. I’m not in any rush either. I’m excited, you know, but we’re still just us. Getting married only changes a little.”

“True. It’s really because you can’t decide where in the world you want to get married though, right?”

“You know me far too well, Ems,” Ruby sighs. “Oooh, let’s watch The Bodyguard. I’ve heard it’s good.”

“That’s season two that’s on.”

“We’ll figure things out.” “That is so not how these things work. You have to watch from the beginning.” “I don’t think you do.” “You definitely do.” “Debatable.” “It’s really not. You miss so much stuff. You have to watch from the beginning. Oh my God, Rubes. Have you not been watching shows from the beginning this entire time?”

Ruby giggles beside her, covering her mouth with her hand while her eyebrows move across her forehead. “Why are you acting like I’ve just insulted your kid?”

“Because this is insane, and I’m seriously rethinking our friendship.” “Guess you don’t get to come to the wedding then, so I’ll make it somewhere you really like.”

“You’re evil.” “You’re crazy.” “Yeah, whatever.”

Because she absolutely refuses to watch a show starting on season two, she finds season one, and they start to watch it while Ruby’s over. Indy jumps up into bed with them, sniffing at Ruby before moving onto to Andy. She was a bit nervous over having a newborn and a dog in the same place, but it’s gone well, the two of them seeming to like each other. Though, she’s not really sure how Andy feels about a big furry creature. He’s probably extremely confused. She would be too if she had no idea what a dog is.

But it’s nice to have Ruby over where it’s just them. Her house has basically been a revolving door of multiple people bombarding them at once and all talking about the baby, and as much as they’re all trying to help, it’s overwhelming. This is much better. It’s relaxing, it’s entertaining, and she’s really appreciative of being able to talk about something other than how much her son is going to the bathroom.

Though she does just want to talk about him all of the time. It’s a weird sensation, but she’s watching herself to make sure she doesn’t overwhelm anyone. She and Killian can just be the weird ones who talk to each other about how cute their kid is.

Killian knows a woman who had a baby and told everyone that their kid farted all of the time, but that they were cute farts. If she ever gets to that point, she kind of hopes that she is committed to whatever crazy institution there is for parents who are weirdly obsessed with their kids.

Ruby can’t stay forever, having to go help Granny out at the restaurant before the late lunch rush, and after she leaves, it’s just Emma and Andy who has decided that since Ruby isn’t around, he’s just not going to sleep. He’s simply going to stare up at Emma for the rest of the day…or his life. She’s not sure.

So maybe she’s not the only one who’s weird.

At least he’s calm. And not crying. She really appreciates the not crying thing, but she knows it can start any minute. It’s kind of like not knowing when a land mine is going to go off.

Did she really just compare her child to a land mine? It’s the being left alone to her thoughts thing, isn’t it?

She puts Andy down in his bassinet before stretching out her limbs, giving them some relief from basically always being folded in one way. It feels good, relaxing, and even though she knows she’s not supposed to exercise, she can pace around the room and stretch the smallest bit while she watches the news. It’s not something she usually does, not wanting to see anything about herself on there, especially with how irrationally pissed people were over her not presenting Andy to the world, but sometimes she likes to watch when Killian is out doing an engagement so she can see a bit about his day when he’s not available to talk.

It’s kind of like some kind of creepy stalkerish way to check up on her husband, but honestly, it’s not the weirdest thing in the world. Plus, it’s kind of fun to see him in action.

And she’s ridiculously proud of him, so there’s that.

She’s also ridiculously attracted to his face…and the rest of him, so there’s that too.

Sure enough, after watching it for a few minutes, they show a clip of Killian at the homeless shelter. He’s got an apron on and is chopping up something while animatedly talking to the man next to him. She’s not really sure who he is or how Killian got roped into cooking today. He probably offered.

No, he definitely offered. She just knows.

“Look, baby,” she sighs to Andy as she moves back over to him and picks him up, bringing him over to the television, “there’s daddy. Yeah, there he is.” She knows that he’s not really recognizing anything or understanding that his dad is on TV, but she likes to think it helps him, that it soothes him.

It soothes her.

When Killian’s segment is over, she realizes that she should probably leave the bedroom at some point today other than to just let Indy outside, so she takes her new sidekick downstairs, fixing herself something to eat before settling down in the living room. So it’s not really that different than staying up in the bedroom, but it’s a change of pace, a change of room. Plus, the comfortable recliner is down here, and it’s always been one of her favorite places to sit.

Instead of watching TV like she’s been doing all day, she watches her son. She watches the way his lips open and close and the way he resembles Killian in even that way. It’s ridiculous. He’s even got dimples. If he starts moving his brows all of the time, she really isn’t going to know what to do.

She’s so in love with him that it’s ridiculous.

Oh, and she likes the way he smells. Every thought she has makes her feel like she should be in that institution, but she really doesn’t care. The baby farts thing is not cute, but the way her baby smells is. It’s weird, and she never understood people who said things like that, but she loves the smell of him and the softness of his skin. Seriously, it’s ridiculously soft, and she could run her fingers over it forever. She could mess with the smallness of his toes and fingers forever.

“You are my favorite person,” she tells him as he makes the smallest little noises, likely trying to communicate something with her. “Yeah, baby. You are my favorite person, and I love you so very much. Don’t tell daddy though. I think he might not like that you’re my favorite person, which is just ridiculous because I know for a fact that you’re also daddy’s favorite person. He loved me for eight years, and then he met you and all of the sudden, I’m upstaged. But it’s okay. I’ll be upstaged by you any day.”

His eyes open and close over and over again, revealing the blue that she could stare at all day long. She does stare at it all day long. His eyes are beautiful, and she loves them. She can’t stop thinking about how much she loves his eyes.

Sometimes she thinks about her parents, how this was once them with her, and she has a difficult time understanding. Or, well, comprehending. She has a difficult time comprehending. Her parents love her. She doesn’t doubt that at all, but she can’t really imagine them loving her quite this much.

“Should we go for a walk now, bud?” she asks Andy, tickling his stomach the slightest bit. “Or do we want to do tummy time? You didn’t like that yesterday, but we’ve got to do it. You could always sleep, and we could make daddy do it with you. Yeah? We can just leave him to all of the not fun stuff. He’s weird, and he likes it.”

Andy obviously doesn’t respond to her, but she does get up out of the chair and walk with him up to his nursery so she can change his diaper and his clothes, putting him in a onesie that makes it look like he has on jeans and a plaid shirt. It’s so dumb, but she likes it. And she thinks she’s going to take him out on a walk, let him fall asleep in the stroller while she gets some fresh air with the dog.

Maybe she’ll stop by and see if Abigail’s home too. She had the taste of adult interaction, and she kind of wants more of it. So after getting him situated and whistling for Indy to come with them, she wanders outside of the apartment and into the crisp October air.

When the hell did it get to be October? How did that happen? Just last week was Killian’s birthday, wasn’t it? It had to have been. There’s no way it was an entire month ago. But it apparently was, and the heat of summer has faded away into the comfortableness of October, the temperatures evening out and the leaves beginning to change and morph into brighter, warmer colors.

Oh shit. It’s her birthday on Saturday. She’d been so preoccupied thinking about how that’s when Andy’s four weeks old that she completely forgot her own birthday. She’s never liked the day that much, but she should probably know when it is. Or maybe not. She’s turning twenty nine and that’s far too close to thirty for her liking. She likes being twenty eight.

It’s a good age.

Yeah, the next kid needs to be born in February or something. She won’t be heavily pregnant during the summer, and it won’t be in between all of the big family events. They’ve got to plan better.

Her vagina still hurts too much for her to be thinking about the next kid. That needs to stop.

After walking in the gardens for long enough, Indy having gotten to spend enough time outside that her bursts of energy have calmed down, she makes her way over to Abigail’s and knocks on the front door before ringing the bell. It only takes a moment before the door is opened by Liam who has two children hanging onto his ankles.

So fun times then.

“Hello, darling,” Liam greets, grunting the slightest bit as Lizzie and Alex scream out her name in greeting, “to what do I owe the pleasure of getting to see you and your brood of monsters?” She raises a brow, not sure what exactly he means by her brood of monsters until he points down to his kids. “We’re monsters today because Mummy is off at work. Your monsters seem much calmer.” “One of my monsters is asleep,” she says quietly, continuing to move the stroller back and forth, “but I was wondering if we could come sit with you all even if Abigail is gone.” “Ah, I’ve always known you only liked me because of Abigail.” “Correction. I only liked you because I love your brother. And now your wife is my best friend, but you do okay.” “Well, it’s all I ask,” Liam asks, backing up from the door with slow steps. “You’re all welcome to come in, and join the madhouse.”

So she does, wandering in after Liam and his little monsters. She has no idea how he’s walking with them attached to him like that, but she has to stifle her laugh every time he picks up his pace and Alex relaxes his body to make himself be dead weight, stopping Liam in his tracks. It’s hysterical, especially when Indy tries to nip after their toes and they try to climb further up Liam’s legs.

She’s led into their living room, toys scattered absolutely everywhere, and she gets a weird glimpse into their future. Their house will be an absolute disaster, and Killian will be in the corner of a room somewhere having a meltdown over everything not being clean.

Yeah, that’s exactly what’s going to happen.

“So, Emma, how are you? Are you feeling better yet also feeling like you’re going a little crazy?”

“Exactly,” she sighs, sitting down on the corner of the couch and putting Andy next to her. “I can’t describe it, but you did pretty much.” “Alex, Lizzie,” Liam sighs, “go play with the dog for a minute, but be gentle.” Amazingly, they both release Liam’s legs and move to play with Indy. She’s happy to let them pet her, probably loving all of the attention, and she’s somehow managed to provide entertainment for both her dog and her nieces and nephews. “Wow, I did not expect that to work. Maybe we should get a dog.”

“I mean, I don’t think getting a puppy to distract you from your kids is your best idea. It’s basically like having an extra baby. But they are so dang cute. And fluffy.”

“This is a good point. We’ll just let your dog also be our dog.”

“I think she’d like that.” Her foot keeps moving the stroller back and forth, knowing that it’ll keep Andy asleep. “So where’s Abi today?”

“Visiting a few schools. I think she should be back soon, probably about the same time that these two have to take their naps. I’m pretty sure she timed it that way.” “Well, you know Abigail. She’s very conniving.”

“Exactly. I always have to be on my toes.”

She and Liam talk for a little while longer while Lizzie and Alex entertain themselves with their toys and Indy. Every now and then they get distracted and climb all over her lap, telling her all about Alex’s fifth birthday last week that she missed. She hates that she missed it, felt terrible about it, but she really wasn’t feeling up to leaving the house then. So she definitely doesn’t mind listening to them both talk about the dinosaur cake Alex had and just how yummy it was.

She kind of wonders if there’s still some of the dinosaur cake left.

“What kind of cake should I have for my birthday, guys?” she asks them, readjusting Lizzie on her knee. “I like the dinosaur, but I feel like I need my own cake.” “Peppa Pig,” Lizzie suggests. “It can be strawberry because she’s pink.”

Her words are broken, strawberry not coming out fully, but Emma gets the gist. She can pretty much interpret toddler speak like a pro now.

“Yeah? I do like Peppa.”

“I like dogs,” Alex tells her while he continues to scratch behind Indy’s ears. “You should get a cake in the shape of a dog.”

“Yeah, but then how will Indy feel about that?”

“Probably good if you let her eat some? Do dogs like cake?”

“No, they don’t,” Liam adds in from his spot, still cradling his nephew in his arms.

“They should like cake. It tastes good, and it gives you lots of energy.” Alex lays out on the ground, stretching out his limbs. “I like cake. It’s what we should have for dinner, Daddy.”

“Why don’t you ask Mummy about that, bud?”

“Because she’ll say no, and I want cake.”

“You can have cake at my birthday on Saturday,” she tells Alex, trying to stop the meltdown before it happens. She doesn’t even know if they’re doing anything, if she’s going to feel like doing anything, but now she knows she’s going to have to have cake. Maybe it’ll be in the shape of Peppa Pig or a dog…or maybe it’ll just be a regular cake. She could really go for one right now. “It tastes better if you wait for it, you know?”

Lizzie sighs next to her. “I like cake, Emmy.”

“Yeah, baby, me too.”

She leaves when Andy begins to get fussy, figuring she doesn’t want to weigh Liam down with any other screaming kids, so she says her goodbyes, grabs her kid, and whistles for her dog to come so that they can make their way home.

-/-

“I am so, so sorry for running late,” Killian tells her when he rushes in the door several hours after she got home. She’s already had dinner, put Andy down to sleep for what she hopes is a few hours, and she was wondering what exactly was taking Killian so long when she already saw him near the end of his engagement when she checked the news again when she got home. “I got caught up talking to some of the volunteers there and then somehow was roped into helping for a bit longer.” He leans down and presses a quick kiss against her forehead. “I’m guessing you already ate.”

“I did,” she tells him, patting the seat on the couch next to her until he sits down, immediately unbuttoning a few more buttons on his shirt and shredding his jacket. “There’s some leftover pasta if you want it.”

“I might later,” he tells her, twisting toward her and placing his hand on her cheek until she turns to him so that he can brush his lips over hers. “How was your day? Is Andy already asleep? Did he have a good day? Did you?”

“Breathe,” she laughs, leaning back against the couch and propping her feet up on the ottoman. “Yes, he’s asleep. You can spend time with him when he inevitably wakes up, and he and I both had a good day. I missed you, though. Replaced you with your brother for a little while.” “Yeah, I’m going to need a little more context to that particular sentence.”

“I mean, obviously I meant that I left you for your brother for a few hours. You know, I have always thought that his graying hair is so much sexier than yours.” Killian chuckles next to her before grabbing her knee and squeezing, his fingers tapping over her leggings. “You’re a regular comedian.” “I don’t know how many times we have to go over this without you constantly bringing it up. I obviously am one.”

“Obviously,” he agrees. “I’m glad you had a good day. Mine was good too. I wasn’t harassed by the media that was there since I know you’re going to ask, and everyone working with me at the shelter was top notch. They had me cooking.” “That’s risky by them.” “I am an excellent cook, and you know it.”

“Sure, Jan.” “You’ve had too much time on the internet lately.”

“Please, that joke has been around for years. And you understood it, so obviously you have too.”

“I’m just a big Brady Bunch fan.” “Liar.”

Killian sits with her for a little longer, catching her up on the rest of his day while she does the same. She knew that they’d spent an inordinate amount of time together lately, but she didn’t really realize it until Killian went out and did something without her so that they can actually talk about their days…without having experienced them with each other. It seems far too codependent for her taste, and it’s just one of those things where she has to remind herself that things are different right now. They won’t always be.

She won’t always be a new mom, and Killian won’t always be far too nervous about…everything. The man would likely take down an entire military force to protect she and Andy without question, but he also worries and overthinks things.

A lot.

It’s getting better though, Killian gaining confidence as a dad every day, and while she’s sure that he did want to come home to them today, she knows that when he said he was excited about getting to talk to other adults, he meant it. Even though she stayed home and just walked to Liam’s, she got to do the same.

And it was glorious.

While Killian eats some of the leftover pasta she mentioned, they watch some TV, trying to soak up all of the time that they can with Andy asleep, but as she knows, that doesn’t last long. Killian doesn’t even finish half of his bowl before he’s heading upstairs, telling her to relax, and coming back down twenty minutes later with Andy in his arms.

“Is he hungry?”

“I don’t think so, love,” Killian tells her, settling down on the sofa again. “I just changed him, and he seems to be fine. I’m sure he’ll let us know though.”

“That is the truest statement you’ve ever said.” She gets up from the couch, her feet sliding a bit in her socks. “I’m going to go feed Indy before I forget and she tackles one of us.”

She lets Killian do pretty much everything besides feeding Andy, letting him spend time with him since she knows that’s what he’s itching to do. It’s nice after being the only one taking care of him all day, and she takes the time to call her parents, catching up with them on one of their breaks from work. The pub has apparently been extraordinarily busy lately, and while they really have visited nearly every other day, she can tell just how stressed out her parents are from everything. Even Will said that her mom nearly snapped at a patron the other day, and it made him almost drop his tray of drinks. But they seem to be okay today. Busy, but okay.

Getting Andy ready to go to bed takes longer than she thought it would. They attempt a bath in the plastic tub for the first time, and he absolutely hates it. Like a lot. He hates it a lot. So instead of forcing the issue today, they go back to a sponge bath, change his clothes, feed him, change his diaper again, and continuously try to stop the crying.

It’s a lot of crying.

She might cry.

But eventually Killian manages to get him to sleep, whispering soft words and telling him all about his day like he did to Emma earlier. It’s just in a much more soothing way, one that thankfully makes Andy fall asleep at about the same time that Emma is letting herself crawl into bed, the day finally taking its toll on her. Killian joins her a few minutes later after he’s changed out of his suit and gone through his nighttime routine, the one she did for herself while letting him deal with all of the hysteria.

Marriage is an equal partnership or whatever. Isn’t that how the saying goes? She’s not really sure. She’s exhausted, but she likes to think that she and Killian are pretty equal in things. She kind of feels like she’s been the one putting in the hard yards lately, but it’s not like Killian can give birth or breastfeed.

But what if he could?

Nope. She’s not going there. She obviously just needs to go to sleep.

She turns on her side and wraps her arms around her pillow. She’s kicking around, trying to find the pillow she likes to keep between her thighs, when she feels Killian move next to her and gently nudge his leg in between hers while his arm rests on her waist, the weight comfortable. She’s finally content, even when he nudges her head over for his arm, and she’s convinced that laying like this has never felt this comfortable.

Her pillow is kind of missed though. She’ll get it later when Killian inevitably moves back to his side of the bed in the middle of the night.

She feels his lips and his scruff against her shoulder before he moves back and lays his head against his own pillow. They’re silent, just the sounds of their breathing and the ceiling fan above the bed filing the room, and she’s nearly asleep, the lids of her eyes heavy, when all of the sudden Killian is moving off of the bed. He moves in such a quick motion that he nearly knees her, and she has no idea what’s going on until he’s standing over Andy’s bassinet and staring down at him.

“What in the world are you doing?” “It was too quiet,” he whispers, nearly reaching down and touching Andy until he pulls back, seemingly stopping himself before he gets rid of the quiet moment. “I don’t know why. I just…I had to check. I know we want him to be quiet after the past two hours, but it was far too quiet.” “You’re crazy,” she says flatly, truly meaning it. “We were literally just about to go to bed, and you almost stopped the quiet we worked so hard for.” “I had to make sure.” He looks at Andy once more before slowly making his way back to bed and settling down under the covers on his side of the bed. “Sorry for disturbing you.”

She huffs, flipping over onto her back and reaching down to put her pillow between her legs herself. He’s crazy. He really is, but she’s not sure she can say anything. She might be just as crazy.

She just doesn’t wake Killian up for those crazy reasons.

Most of the time.

Okay, so she definitely wakes him up far too often just because she has a crazy thought. Even before Andy.

“I really am glad they kept me so busy today because I missed you two like something mad when I was left idle. I felt absolutely ridiculous, but I did. I really did.” “That’s because you’re a good dad and a good husband. Maybe a little crazy, but good overall.” “Thanks,” he laughs, twisting his head. “I agree with all of that.” “Both conceited and humble all at once.” “I’m a man of many talents.” “That you are,” she sighs, leaning over and quickly kissing him, forever appreciating the way that his lips feel against hers. “I love you, but I’m going to sleep, okay? I am exhausted.” “I love you too. I’ll see you in about three hours when he wakes up.” “Yep. See you in about three hours.”

[theinquisitivej]

SteamHeart Episode 20 Reactions

Chapter Twenty: Off-Road Warriors

You can listen to the full episode here.

Well damn, that was an intense dose of adrenaline via audio, wasn’t it?

Raven immediately sets the foreboding tone, a notable change from the sweet tranquillity of the previous chapter’s closing moments. His grave description of the convoy of Mad Max-looking scary-crazy-bastards (and yes, this is about to be a Steampunk Fury Road episode, and you should have no objections to that) coming over the horizon sells the real danger that these men represent. The language paints a captivating yet frightening picture of demented vehicles, using harsh consonants to convey the sturdiness of these reinforced crafts, and hissing adjectives to emphasise the sharp, hostile shapes of these clawed, pointed carriages. Best line of the section is certainly “nothing was uniform save for the manifestly apparent expulsion of normality”. It instantly cements the chaotic, violent mindset of the men approaching the mine.

         These men call themselves the Southern Cross. Among their number is a man who’s fashioned himself into a bear (the talons fixed to his limbs make me think of a twisted, older and more cruel version of Miguel and his mongoose claw), and, as the band blows their own war trumpets in an act that is as aggressive as it is indicative of their own inflated self-importance over others, the ensuing danger becomes intensified, and chillingly unavoidable. We get the first glimpse of their leader, who wears a horse’s skull and appears to fancy himself a pale rider of death with the white, bone-like motif of his carriage and horses (I’m picturing Overwatch’s Reaper in both appearance and edgy lack of self-awareness). A lieutenant riding ahead of the pack addresses Raven. While Raven is the one who embodies the more dignified aspects of the bird with whom he shares his name, this lieutenant is the one who resembles a squawking, shrill parrot, wearing a beaked plague doctor’s mask and shrieking demands at Raven. He claims that “the Lord of Brimstone” has arrived. Oh this is going to go well.

             Raven dashes inside, hurriedly relaying the situation to the others. Within minutes, the few remaining mine workers and the team have brought Tabitha, who, lest we forget, is still going through labour (but still exhibiting her leadership skills even now by issuing orders, reinforcing that whole theme I talked about last time about motherhood / pregnancy not getting in the way of authoritative women being damn good at their jobs), inside SteamHeart. They don’t have enough soldiers to defend this post, and help isn’t coming, so things are looking grim. Even so, Annie assures us that “we’re not dying here like rats in a trap. Hell, that’s like, my one rule.”, and Laureta Sela’s delivery of that second part alleviates some of the tension by getting a chuckle out of me with that great line. As the group approach the gates, however, the pressure of the situation is once again felt as Harry informs the team that, even with SteamHeart’s technological superiority, it will take some serious damage if it charges headfirst into the enemy through the gate, and likely won’t be able to break free of them if it does so.

         Annie starts a dialogue with them through the loudspeaker. Abigail wanted to try, demonstrating her continuing desire to work on being a better figure of authority after giving the speech to the theatre a few chapters back, but Annie bluntly shoots that down as she knows they’ll have a better chance if she takes charge of this. Even so, it goes about as well as you’d expect – they don’t heed Annie’s firm warnings, and spout off rhetoric that, in addition to being violently psychotic, is grossly suggestive. Both the birdman and horse leader demand they “open wiiiide, each and every one of you; we are coming in!” Eeurggh… fuck these guys.

         The team devise a plan of escape after Jae-Hyun proposes he opens the gate to give the rest of them a chance, acknowledging the certainty that this will result in his own death. His brushing of Tabitha’s cheek indicates the loyalty and love he has for his leader who he will lay down his own life for. He steps out of SteamHeart to meet his fate, adjusting his hat as he does so; if clothes maketh the man, then this act highlights the dignity of this man in the face of these monstrously dressed, hollow creatures who call themselves men. The Southern Cross enter the mine after Hyun opens the gates, and the plague doctor spouts more inane speeches about surrender being the sensible choice in the face of such a rapturous occasion (resembling a combination of Loki in the first Avengers saying “isn’t this so much easier?!”, and a Jim Sterling character). In an instant, Harry springs SteamHeart into action, shooting forward and knocking horses and riders aside as it does so. The episode has been building anticipation to this moment – things are going to kick off hard.

         Jae-Hyun pulls the squawking doctor off his horse, and the response of arrows shot in his direction kills both men, though only the doctor meets his death with a scream. I’m torn on Jae-Hyun’s death, as it feels as if we were barely just starting to get to know this coolly tempered character, and the stern composure with which he met his death makes him someone I wish we got to spend more time with. However, I also think a character like this really helps heighten the stakes of the ensuing sequence, as well as hammers home the point that the victory of our heroes doesn’t come without sacrifice. The resilience Jae-Hyun showed as he met his death in order to save the lives of others, while still demonstrating a fighting spirit that showed he was a man who wouldn’t let monsters like these do what they wanted without retribution, makes the most of the small amount of time we spend with him. If we were to have a character with such a journey within SteamHeart, and I think that both the sequence and the story as a whole are stronger for it, I’m also glad that a specific effort is made to make this character not just a generic white guy. Instead, it’s a character of Asian descent who clearly has a defined look, style, and personality outside of what we see of him here in this book. It gives the world and the people in it a little more dimension, and reminds us that the way forward toward a more heroic and noble world is through unity and collaboration between all of us. That’s how we get to see the best of humanity. But for the worst of humanity, like the racist, murderous Southern Cross, it’s pretty satisfying to see someone of a different ethnicity literally pull them off their horse and, when it comes down to it, show that they are the better man when they each meet their deaths.

         Anyway, back to the action – I’ll do my best to make my writing engaging and analytical, but to be frank, it’s so easy to lose myself in the flow of this sequence. It’s tense as hell, compelling, features detailed description of well-choreographed action, the voice actors are all delivering their lines with pitch-perfect urgency and intensity, and all of this is packaged together (in this audio version of the book) with some truly immersive editing and sound effect choices. It’s the best action sequence of New Century to date.

         As SteamHeart breaks away, the Southern Cross give chase, abandoning their initial goal of the mine as they now want the technology of their craft, as well as to take out their frothing anger on the crew. The grassland beneath them is uneven, which isn’t good for Tabitha during all of this, so James urges Harry to seek the smoothest route. Individual horse riders catch up and start flinging projectiles at SteamHeart’s glowing cables, which you have to imagine is a weak point of the craft (kind of like those glowing spots on a videogame boss). Annie and Butler take position in SteamHeart’s sniping openings. Abigail and Jeremy are handing out ammo and hammering out any projectiles which pierce the hull of the craft, showing that this thing isn’t impervious to damage, and will fall if it takes too much. Harry is doing a mixture of evasive and ramming manoeuvres, resulting in some awesome displays of destruction as enemy carriages splinter, flip, and crash. God, this is good stuff to listen to.

         James takes over narration from Raven (incidentally, Raven was a good choice for this first part, as his journalistic ability to report the specifics of events puts you right in the action of this sequence). He recruits Jeremy, instructing him to sterilise some linens using steam from the craft’s internal pipes. Tabitha grips James’ hands as she fights the pain, and the two “breathe together”, something Harry and Tabitha did at the end of the last episode – there’s a lot of power in matching and sharing the breathing of someone else as they go through something hard that pushes them to the edge. James hides nothing from Tabitha when she asks him if he’s delivered many babies before; he’s assisted on several occasions, but this is the first time he’s delivered one himself. But even as weapons hammer the hull next to them, James assures with compassionate determination that they’re going to do this right, and that there will be another “little person in the world” in a short while, which is how they’re going to survive. It’s an exchange of nervous fear as everything happens around them, mixed with hopeful resilience.

         We switch to Annie. An approaching enemy vehicle has attached lassos to SteamHeart. Abigail, Harry, and Annie take this in, realise how they need to counter this, and brace themselves; SteamHeart builds energy in a roaring moment of anticipation before Harry jams the wheel and hammers the breaks, making the back of SteamHeart swing like an almighty pendulum, smashing the enemy vehicle in a spectacular moment of destruction.

         Now the Bear (whose cries make him sound like Tom Hardy’s Bane) and his vehicle are coming down on them. One of the Southern Cross leaps onto the windshield and embeds his tomahawk in the window and narrowly misses Harry. The proud mechanic indignantly cries out that these fuckers are “tearing my baby apart!”, and Abigail steps out the hatch to punish the window assailant by shooting him point blank in the elbow. If I recall correctly, her weapon of choice right now is a sawn-off shotgun, making the impact of this even meatier and wince-inducing [Editor’s Correction: I’ve been informed that Abigail’s weapon is a shotgun, but not a sawn-off. It’s a lever-action, short-barrel, short-stock shotgun, made for her by Harry, John Browning and William Winchester. Think Arnie during the truck chase scene in Terminator 2]. Annie asks her what the hell she thinks she’s doing, before Abby swings across to the Bear’s carriage using one of the lassos. Annie’s concern is understandable; Abigail is her charge, a possessor of the Endowment (and one who very recently demonstrated can actually put it to good use by closing these portals), and this chaotic and dangerous situation might force Annie to do what Arlington asked of her and shoot Abigail before the Endowment can be lost, which is the last thing she wants to do. We see these frantic thoughts race through her mind as she trains her rifle over the Bear and Abigail’s fight. The Bear seems to be enjoying the duel, demanding his comrades leave her alone and that he be the one to take her down. Abigail catches herself on his armour, but she spits blood in his eye, dodges his club, and, with one guided megaton hit of a punch that slows the world down to a crawl, destroys his balls.

Brutal. Awesome.

         As he reels, Abigail ropes the Bear and kicks the driver, snaring him and launching the Bear into the air as Annie tags in with a shot that severs the rope and sends him flying and crashing. A feathered carriage comes in from the side, putting Abigail in danger. Annie calls out for a bottle of bourbon, and Raven assists by giving her his whisky, though he lets her know that she owes him a drink. This, and a lot of other little asides and exchanges during this sequence is what communicates the character of the people engaged in this fight, which makes it all the more exciting and thrilling. It’s people we know and care about who are participating in this and fighting for their lives, not just nameless faces. For that same reason, it’s also what makes it tense and frightening; I really don’t want to lose anyone in this group. But, for the time being, Raven tears a piece of fabric from his shirt and jams it into the bottle, showing he understands exactly what Annie had in mind. He lights it with his cigarette (another indication of his personality – it’s amusing to see that even in this life-or-death situation, Raven prioritises having a lit cigarette in his mouth), and Annie passes the Molotov to Abigail after she realised what the two were planning and came up to them. The synthesis of this teamwork and co-operation between multiple members of the party is really satisfying to watch. Annie lays down covering fire at the feathered carriage to distract them as Abigail slings the bottle, and Annie, like John Marston activating Dead Eye, focuses her attention as time slows down and hits the bottle with one last bullet. Wild fire ignites the carriage. Annie lets out a guttural and sorely earned “YYYYESSS!”

         The last carriage is the Lord of Brimstone with his skeleton crew and his bone-white ride. They have dynamite – oh dear. Abigail extends a hand out to Annie, emphasising her support and belief in her that she can make this shot. She pulls Annie onto the roof, and as Annie is pulled into the open air before she lands next to Abby, she sees everything clearly, and identifies her target. She takes her shot immediately, and it lands, hitting the guy behind Brimstone, who was holding a stick of dynamite, which he drops inside the carriage – right next to all the other dynamite. The explosion destroys the carriage, and the leader is shot out like a comical firework, engulfed in fire, ash, and bone. Hey, he was the one who called himself “Brimstone” and obsessed over his boney white aesthetic – I’d say he got exactly what he always wanted.

         With a crash, the world goes quiet. We hear a heartbeat slow down, providing a fantastic transition that takes us from the adrenaline of this sequence back down to a place where we can catch our breath. But we’re soon reminded that, while all of this is going on, Tabitha is still facing her own fight as she’s in the middle of giving birth to her baby. As James guides the baby out, provides support to Tabitha, and things escalate to their peak, the explosion echoes out behind them as Tabitha experiences her own release as the baby boy comes out, safe. The music instantly adapts to the sweet innocence of the moment. The crew re-centre themselves, Harry slows down SteamHeart, and now that everything is okay and everyone is safe… Annie punches Abigail in the side, in an act of frustration that ends up hurting her more than Abigail (Annie is after all not quite as used to throwing punches as Abigail is, as we remember from that brawl in Secret Rooms which Abby and James adapted to but which took Annie by surprise and disorientated her). Abigail responds that, while she may have taken a risky move, they all survived and made it through this. The tone is quietly triumphant, intimate, and optimistic. Our heroes have made it through this.

         James shares Abby’s gratitude for the moment, and as Butler tells him he’s done a good thing here as Tabitha holds her child close to her, he experiences a sense of tranquil acceptance. James has been experiencing doubts about himself and his usefulness ever since he acquired the Endowment. At the end of Secret Rooms, he even wondered if he would be any good as a doctor after effectively losing one half of his eyes. But by helping another, by bringing this new life into the world, James has realised he can make enough of a difference to be at peace with himself, if only for now. It’s a revelation that endears me to James, as I’ve often found that, at times where I doubt my own self-worth, the best thing I can do is to seek out ways I can help other people, whether it’s in big ways or little ways. If I can make someone else’s day a little easier, then that alone makes me feel like I’m doing alright. And that’s a sentiment I love to see in fiction like this.

So yeah, this episode was a fantastic ride, and a complete triumph.

[elizabeth-marston-roberts]

pls don't expect this to be well-written lmao the idea came to me either Friday or Saturday and I've been obsessed with it since

Pairing: Abigail Roberts x F!Reader (sort of but not really tbh)

Rating: M. Very M.

Also I'm sorry there isn't a keep reading, it's just that it isn't working for me and I don't get why? I have a dentist appointment tomorrow so after that I'll look into it a little more and see if I can fix it. For now, just keep scrolling on by if you don't want to read this filth!

Fic under the cut because NSFW.

It was a quiet night. Well it was quiet outside, anyway. Inside your own apartment, specifically your bedroom, all that could be heard was the video of a redhead getting pounded into next week on your laptop. You were boredly watching, hand idle between your legs.

This video was your go-to to get off for six months now, only for it to fail you when you needed an orgasm most. It'd been a tough week and all you needed to bounce back was an explosive orgasm and a good night's sleep. You were beginning to fear it wouldn't happen as you watched the redhead prep for the money shot, sticking her pink tongue out while her eyes were intensely gazing at the camera.

Sighing, you turn the video off and start searching again. You need to get laid, you think as you scroll through pages and pages of videos. Masturbation was getting old, obviously, because nothing here was exciting you. Not the professionals, the amateurs, the lesbians or the straights. But you keep searching for something because you just might cry if you don't come tonight.

As you click on a video featuring the so-called "Best Blowjob Ever", there's an ad before the video. You initially chuckle at the thought of porn advertising, but then you focus on the woman in the ad. It's obviously a setup, but she's laying on a bed and speaking to the camera, cam-girl style.

Something clicks and within two minutes you've gone to a camgirl site. Excitement thrums through you as you browse different shows, eventually settling on one that will be starting in just a few minutes. You grin and make yourself comfy as you eagerly watch the screen. This was already way more exciting than regular porn.

The screen goes from black to the image of a bed. There comforter is a lovely periwinkle color with patching pillowcases. Your first thought is how damn comfortable that bed must be. It's made up neatly and the frame is black cast iron, the metal of the headboard woven into hearts.

Seconds later, a beautiful woman sits on the bed. Immediately you're struck with how goddamn gorgeous she is. Her eyes are the deepest shade of blue you've ever seen and her dark hair only makes them pop even more. Her makeup is minimal, just some eyeliner and mascara and maybe a little bit of lip gloss, but she's so naturally beautiful that she doesn't need it. She smiles at the camera, pink lips stretching out to show off her perfect teeth.

In the corner of the screen you notice she's already got ten dollars worth of tips, all for simply appearing on the screen and smiling.

"Hey y'all." She says sweetly. Her voice has a sweet Southern accent to it. "I have been so damn horny today. Ever since I woke up this morning I've been horny. I was sitting at my desk at work and I kept pressing myself against my chair just to get some damn relief!" She sighs, brushing her bangs out of her eyes. "I am so ready to get started for you all tonight."

She quickly ties her black hair into a bun. Her lingerie set it simple yet stunning, the deep blue, almost purple color suiting her pale skin well. Winking at the camera, she slips off each bra strap. "You know what I need, ladies and gents."

You tilt your head. Clearly this woman was used to having a regular-type audience. She was beautiful, sure, but was she so hot that some of these people watched every show and gave her money during each one?

Evidently they were, because when the tip count hit fifty dollars in under thirty seconds, she removed her bra. Your eyes widened at the sight of her perfect breasts. They were large and pale and beautiful and you wanted nothing more than to stuff your face between them and pinch her pert, pink nipples.

"Thank you." She coos, blue eyes practically gazing into yours. You truly can't get past how genuinely gorgeous she is. Her face is soft and her jaw sharp, lips just pouty enough to beg for a kiss but not so much that it resembled any kind of duck face. Though you were fairly certain she could make even that face look good.

Her hands begin to glide over her breasts. It really wasn't fair that she got to touch them and you didn't. She delicately pinches her nipples, breathing out a soft moan that wakes your sex drive back up.

"Bet you wish this was you, huh?" She teases with a cute laugh. "I know you wanna touch me. I want you to touch me." She pouts with a sigh, still massaging her breasts. "But I'm all by myself here, so I guess we're just gonna have to make do. You touch yourself and I'll do the same. Deal?" She grins and licks her lips. "Now, I know I promised edging for tonight, but I've been edging myself all day! So I want to try something new instead." You can see the genuine excitement in her eyes and wonder just how you were lucky enough to stumble upon this tonight.

She smiles again and stands up. "For breakin' a promise, you all get this one for free." She turns, her ass facing the camera. Her thong exposes that pale, plush rear end beautifully. She gives herself a slap and moans at the sting of it, the sound of it still clear in your ears. She likes it rough, you think as you watch the red handprint appear.

She leans forward against the bed, thumbs hooking into each side of the thong. Slowly, she begins rolling the thong off. Tips are adding up like crazy despite her claim of a free gift. Quickly you catch on to her game, as she completely and swiftly removes the lingerie when the tip count goes to a hundred and fifty. Her legs spread and the light hits her inner thighs just right so you could see the slick she'd produced. Obviously she hadn't been lying about how horny she was.

"Mmm... I'm ready to come, my loves." She uses two fingers to spread her labia to briefly show off how pink she is inside, and her fingers come back coated in her slick. Sitting back on her butt and facing the camera, she teasingly laps at her fingers and that easily earns her an extra forty bucks from the various perverts watching. Sucking the two fingers in her mouth and taking them as far as they could go brought in another twenty.

You swallow thickly. Desire is setting into you heavily now, but it shockingly isn't just sexual. You want to pay this woman. Want to make sure she would have enough food for lunch tomorrow, to ensure she could keep her home, so she could continue doing this. It was now understandable that this woman had a fan base.

"I got a new toy!" She cheers once she's removed her fingers from her mouth. She leans forward towards the camera, grabbing what looks like a pink vibrator with a cable of some sort attached to it. You perk a brow as she moves the camera closer to the bed and sets herself up against the pillows and the headboard, spreading those toned legs and opening herself up.

"I'm so wet, y'all, I don't really need to prep myself for this thing." She says, inserting a finger easily into herself. She cuts her eyes to the camera, a dangerous smirk on those pink lips. "But for a price I will anyway." She taps the toy against her lips. She gives it a sweet little kiss. "Let's see where we're at..." She leans forward and checks her tip jar. "Hmmm... Bring it up another hundred dollars and I'll put on a show with this thing. You have five minutes or we're getting right to the main event." She warns. "I'm going to go get myself a drink. Do what I said or miss out. Your choice."

You involuntarily gasped at the authority in her voice, whining out loud when she left the bed to go get her drink. You eagerly watched the tip count, disappointed that it wasn't rising as quickly as before. The woman, who according to the chat was named Abi, comes back with a glass of wine. She tsks at the sight of her tips.

"Y'all are gonna let a pesky twenty dollars keep you from this? Okay then." Abi shrugs and sips her drink, spreading her legs again. "Moving on now." She preps the toy quickly with her slick and then pushes it inside, sighing happily as it stretches her. "Mmm... There's a little trick to this one." Her body jerks slightly and she gasps lightly at the same time she earns a five dollar tip.

Your jaw drops. This toy is wired to her tip jar.

She grins deviously at the camera and the small part of your brain that isn't fried from your discovery is now fried from this beautiful woman's smile. You can hardly believe this woman is even real, let alone doing dirty things on camera for you to pleasure yourself to.

"Bet you already know what this is, don't you?" She teases. "It's pretty simple. You tip me, the toy vibrates harder. Who's gonna be the one to make me scream, hm? I'm in the mood to be loud tonight." She winks.

Abi moans again as she gets a few more tips from those testing out the new toy. You were thankful they did, because the sounds this woman makes are gorgeous.  "Thank you." She breathes out, hands going to her breasts again. You notice she likes to pinch and tug her nipples and all that discovery did was make you want to bite at them.

You bite your lip and reach back down between your legs. You were as wet as Abi was now, your clit begging for some attention. Rubbing around it instead, you watch the screen again. Abi is squirming now, legs impossibly spread wider as the tips kept coming in. She's moaning and swearing, her hands gripping her large breasts tightly.

"Fuuuck... I wanna come, my love... I'm getting so close... Please." She whimpers.

Before you know it, your hand not rubbing your clit has gone to the mousepad of your laptop and suddenly you're sending in a ten dollar tip, all thanks to your online shopping addiction having your credit card info saved. You make a mental note to delete that later, because it was much too easy for you to send the sexy webcam lady money. But Abi's resulting scream from your tip makes it all worth it, you think.

Abi's hips roll and her hands clutch her comforter. She's loud, just as she promised to be. What a woman. "Make me come... I wanna come... Please." Her breaths are ragged and she's whimpering heavily.

Throwing caution (and the chance of eating lunch out tomorrow) to the wind, you bite your lip and send in a fifty dollar tip, stroking your clit vigorously. The large amount must have sent an extra strong vibration to Abi's toy, because her next moan is loud and drawn out, definitely a scream signaling her orgasm. Her shaking legs and the way her gorgeous lips form an 'O' tips you over the edge, a moan of your own escaping as you feel the orgasm you'd been needing take your body by storm.

You did this. Your money made Abi come. It was thanks to you that she let out that beautiful scream and had a powerful orgasm. You weren't typically the type to get off on having power, but something about Abi just breaks all of your ideas about yourself.

Panting heavily, you watch Abi slowly remove the toy. Your eyes zero in on her hole, which you think would look even better with a few of your fingers inside of it. Your eyes flick back up as Abi licks the toy clean, her eyes on the camera intently and she slurps her wetness away. She pulls it away with a bead of spit briefly connecting her lips and the pink toy before she sets it aside.

"Thank you so much." Her blue eyes are shining bright now. Because of you. "I've been waiting for that all day. I love you, and I'll be back tomorrow night for some more fun. You'll join me, won't you? You know it won't be the same without you."

She smiles innocently and you just know you'll be back tomorrow.

xx

If this isn't total crap and you guys want, I can continue this! Otherwise I'll leave it the hell alone.