#for years after this I’d still find their skeletons on my bedroom window gazing out at the world they’d be taken from | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

darker-soft-starker · 5 years ago

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Can I request a starker no-powers au where Peter watches construction worker Tony from his bedroom window as the older man works across the street ?

His name is Tony.

Peter knows this tidbit because he heard it yelled once or twice as he’d walked by the construction lot, the same dark haired man perking up at the name.

Work had begun on the old house across from Peter a few weeks ago. The weathered colonial used to belong to old Christiansen, a bitter and lonely man who used to yell at Peter as a kid for the frisbees that used to land on his lawn.

When the elderly man had passed no immediate family had come to claim the property, and for three months while his estate was settled it stood empty.

One day, a brother and sister duo, estranged cousins of the late William Christiansen arrived to declare the property as theirs, as so declared in his Will.

A month later the old property was being gutted by heavy machinery. Bricks tumbled into a splintered, woodwork carcass, noisy bobcats scraped and upended the earth until a new landscape was formed.

Once the last of old Christiansen house had been razed, there stood the skeletons of three, tiny townhouses, cluttered close on the same lot.

In the beginning, Peter had only watched the proceedings with a vague sense of interest. He’d mourned the disappearance of the old house and quietly seethed at the likely uptick in traffic three new houses would bring.

It wasn’t until one afternoon, walking home early from his last class of the semester, that he notices the crew of workers wrapping up for the afternoon. The weight of academia off his shoulders and in no hurry, Peter had peered curiously at the workmen and their seamless teamwork.

Just as his fill is fulled Peter’s attention is hooked by a man emerging from the bare bones of one of houses. A sagging bag of concrete is slung over broad shoulders, biceps exposed from the cut of his shirt. Peter doesn’t mean to stare at the sway of the mans hips as he moves, lugging the bag around like it doesn’t weigh a thing.

He must be staring longer than he thinks - the man abbreviates his path, sunglasses sliding down his nose to wink at Peter lasciviously before continuing on his way.

Struck, Peter’s heart had skipped a beat at the attention, mind replaying the way the mans eyes crinkled in the corners, the easy confidence of his smile.

That had started it all, really.

Sat by the bedroom window that overlooks the street, Peter props his hand on his chin and looks out upon the building site in the waning sunlight.

It’s been six days since the guy, now known as Tony, winked at him. It’s been six days, each one spent with his free time by his bedroom window, watching as the man lumbers logs of timber around over his shoulders like they were matchsticks, watching the smooth swivel of his torso as he strikes old drywall with a sledgehammer.

Window cracked upon ever so slightly, the good-natured banter amongst the crew can be heard between the music and the mayhem. Tony quips and cracks witty one-liners and in his colleagues respond in kind.

And so summer begins.

—-

Having an active construction crew in close proximity to your sleeping quarters eliminates the ability to lie in, Peter quickly discovers. He’s heard more AC/DC, Black Sabbath, Cold Chisel and Dr. Hook in the last few weeks than he’s heard in his entire twenty-one years.

Once, Mrs Cunningham from three doors down tried to scold them for the bass laden 9:00am wake-up-call, but Tony’s scathing, insouciant response was to tell her to contact her local council.

She didn’t come back.

May also grumbles at the noise and disruption, but Peter still catches her swaying her hips and mumbling to lyrics on the odd occasion, so he thinks she doesn’t really mind all that much.

Nonetheless, it provides adequate gossip fodder for the old neighbourhood. It hadn’t really changed in the last fifty years, the same families growing up and out and back in again. So, whether it be bemoaning the line of trucks that clutter the street, querying the one woman who works among the crew or her pegasus emblazoned truck - or the inevitable unsightliness of the yet-to-be finished project - it gave everyone something to talk about.

Personally, Peter has never had such incentive so to study until now.

Oh yes, his window allows the perfect sum of sun into his bedroom for poring over textbooks. If anyone asks, he’s being proactive. Just trying to get a head start on next semesters readings.

And maybe when he looks up from his books he has the perfect view of the worksite across his house. There’s nothing shifty about it, just people watching during a study break.

Maybe he procrastinates and watches too long, long enough to hear the entire EP of an obscure band Peter has never heard before. It’s not his fault the crew sometimes use their hammers to amusedly imitate drumsticks or sing vulgar renditions of the tunes on their playlist.

Mostly, Peter finds it endearing how Tony appears to oscillate between the most theatrical or the most withdrawn, depending on the day.

Peter tries not to feel all Rear Window about it. There’s just something weirdly magnetic about the way the man moves so animatedly and is almost never still. Even sat upon the curb for a break, cigarette dangling between his lips, he’s captivating.

There are worse ways to pass the summer, right?

It’s not weird, no matter what Ned says.

“It’s kinda weird,” Ned says, sat beside Peter on one of the wooden chairs on the front porch.

“It is not,” Peter insists, bringing a pretzel to his mouth, snapping it in half with his teeth. He chews thoughtfully, gaze once again drawn across the street to the site. “I’m just making sure that they’re, y’know, doing it properly.”

“What, their jobs?”

“Yeah,” Peter nods, licking the salt off around his lips. “That.”

“With all your experience and expertise in construction?”

Peter grins, offering the bag out to Ned who takes a handful. “Hey, I built some mean Lego back in the day, didn’t I?”

“My mistake,” Ned rolls his eyes, directing his attention back to the noisy site. “So, which one are you hot for?”

“What?”

“Which one has you hot and bothered.”

Peter rolls his eyes, “I’m not hot for any of them.”

Neds eyes slide over to him in a glare laden with such scathing judgement it makes Peter feel like he’d just sinned in church. He shrinks back in his chair.

“….The one with the black hair,” Peter replies meekly.

With renewed interest Ned peers back over, rising up on his seat a little. The grimace on his face once he settles back down is telling, however unappreciated. Ned’s never shared Peter’s predilection towards older men.

“Gross, but okay. Are you going to ask him out?”

Peter snorts incredulously, shoving a handful of pretzels into his mouth to avoid answering the question.

“Dude,” his friend prods. “Have you even spoken to him?”

“Yes,” Peter answers defensively. “Last week he said ‘hey, watch out’ so I wouldn’t walk into my letterbox, and I said ‘thanks’.”

The stink eye returns. After years of friendship that’s all that is needed for Peter receive the condemning message, properly cowed. They fall back into staring out at the lot, transfixed by the shrill screech of the buzzsaws.

It’s not that Peter is never going to say anything, he just hasn’t figured out how to do it yet. How precisely does one approach an older man to tell him you’d like to bang his fine ass, but would also like to pet his hair and take care of him long-term?

Something about the guy makes a giddiness swell in his chest, reminiscent of his boyhood crushes where he would doodle hearts in his notebooks and find reasons to be in the same room as his infatuation.

“Gotta suck working in this heat though,” Ned says, interrupting his thoughts.

“You’re right,” Peter nods, an idea forming in his brain. “It would.”

Standing up suddenly and startling Ned, Peter rushes back inside the house, into the blissful airconditioning and aims for the kitchen.

Ned finds him there after following his bee-line, torso half emerged in one of the lower cupboards as he rummages through it.

“Peter?”

He studiously ignores his friend in favour of hyperextending his arm into the bowels of the dusty cupboard, crowing with delight when he finally grasps the still-sealed stack of plastic cups.

Quick as a fox, he fills each with water from the sink, placing cubes of ice from the freezer in each. Hands trembling with excitement he places them all on a tray and nods at his friend who only extends him a look of fond exasperation.

Anticipation sets his nerves aflutter, his feet flighty as he carefully balances the tray out the front door, Ned trailing behind him.

His face flushes as he crosses the lawn, hands tightly clutched around the handles as he mentally rehearses an introduction.

I’m Peter Parker, I bring some water - no, wait - I’m Peter, you’re really hot and I’d like you to drink my fluids - definitely not - I am Peter and I have water, you must be thirsty - better.

All his efforts are for naught in the end.

Upon pausing to check the road is clear he catches sight of old Mrs Carrington and her young, pouting grandson carrying perspiring pitchers of lemonade and a tray of sandwiches into the lot. The workers suspend their work to greet them with surprised glee, and Peter feels his own smile dropping off his face.

He looks down at his own pitiful offerings, the ice having all but melted in the cheap, plastic cups, bobbing sadly as they lose form.

“Better luck next time,” Ned says from behind him, patting his back in consolation.

Peter nods. Yeah, next time.

—

Unwilling to be disheartened, Peter tries his hand the following day. A renewed vigour jumpstarts his efforts early, already in the kitchen before the guttural vocals of Thunderstruck start playing.

Ned’s right. He’s an adult now - there are no lockers to leave love notes, no one is going to ask him to the prom. This is what real adults do - they see who they like, they ask them out. Simple.

But Peter has never been a locker love-note kinda guy. He wouldn’t know how to craft a slick pick-up line, doesn’t have the arresting good looks that do the talking for him.

Eager not to be bested by an ailing octogenarian again, Peter uses an entire loaf of bread and a full pound of half-price bacon to create a veritable tower of BLT’s. With their one sharp knife he cuts them into perfect angles, remembering the amputee he’s seen on site he ensures they can be gripped easily with a single hand.

The only two pitchers they own are poured full with freshly-squeezed orange juice, Peter’s wrists working themselves into a strain to drain the fruits dry.

May stumbles in sometime around nine in her sleep clothes, hair wild like a lion’s mane. She fixes him an odd stare as she fumbles for a cup of coffee.

“A bit hungry, Pete?”

“Oh, it’s not for me,” is all he says, shaking his head and adding a plate of apple slices to a tray for good measure. “By the way, we’re out of bacon.”

It must require a lot of energy doing all that work, Peter thinks. It gives him a warm feeling, providing, thinking his efforts might go some way into nourishing someone else. He’s a Parker through-and-through after all.

Even if the guy doesn’t like him that way - it’s fresh, good food. Far better than that delivery truck thing he sometimes sees stationed out the front of the site that sells greasy, microwaved meals. At least the whole crew will have something wholesome and heartfelt, if nothing else.

Stomach squirming pleasantly Peter lifts the two trays, balancing the items precariously as waddles on, opening the front door with a kick his foot.

This is it. He’s finally going to have a reason to say hello, to introduce himself, maybe ask Tony out on a date, if he’s single and willing. Peter smiles to himself as he imagines having the guts to do it in front of the entire crew.

It takes a bit of coordination to get down the porch steps without spilling anything, eyes trained on the ground for any impediments, but he makes it - this is it.

Except, when he looks up from his feet to glance across the street his heart sinks.

Mrs Dawes from four doors down is already there. She’s set up a fucking portable table and brought a feast; sautéed vegetables, breakfast potatoes, scrambled eggs, bacon and toast. All accompanied by fruit salad and a variety of brightly colored smoothies. As appetizers.

Appetizers.

From where he is rooted in spot Peter can hear her say with all honey sweet modesty: Oh, it’s no problem! You are doing such a good job, it’s my absolute pleasure.

Looking at his own offerings Peter can’t help but pout, a feeling of inadequacy sinking down his spine. Briefly, he entertains the idea of coming back for the lunch period instead, but knows by then the apples and lettuce will be an unpleasant brown, the bread soggy.

Shoulders slumping, he sighs and turns on his heel, looking up at his house with weary consideration. His arms are beginning to hurt with the weight of his aborted efforts.

A dark, doleful strain of self-pity wells up inside him before his gaze slides to the house next door. Mrs Martinez has four kids home for the summer and her husband is still on tour - suddenly his heart is twinging for a whole other reason.

Diverting his course, Peter rings their doorbell instead.

He can’t be too disheartened he decides later that afternoon, taking a break from his laptop to stare outside the bedroom window again.

He’ll try again tomorrow.

—

It doesn’t occur to Peter the next day, halfway through icing a luscious three-tiered chocolate cake, that it is Saturday.

Mournfully, he eats the cake himself.

—-

The next attempt at wooing - at providing - comes Monday morning.

This time Peter is prepared. He’d already gone to the store the night before, had bought everything he required with a too-eager swipe of his credit card - and okay, sure, he’s going to have to cover a few extra shifts at the bookstore, but it’s worth it, right?

If all else fails, at least someone will appreciate the food - if not his neighbours then at least he and his aunt will have food for the week.

The Parkers are not particularly renowned for their prowess in the kitchen, if he’s honest. Their friends and family are treated to many an over-seasoned dish or charcoaled toast to have any sort of claim over that domain.

But the one thing they can master is the work of Peters great grandmother, a recipe handed down from generation to generation, perfected over decades - a bastardized version of goulash, brimming with hearty beef chunks bought especially from the butcher, copious potatoes and carrots, noodles, some secret spices. It’s a home-run every time.

The key is to pour your heart and soul into it, his family would always say, that was the most special ingredient. Sure, stock and a generous helping of paprika were crucial, but it was the love you put into it that made the meal a veritable gustatory delight.

Maybe it’s the fond memories that make it anything but a chore, a highlight reel of his childhood playing as he cooks. When the stew is finally done simmering Peter prepares a loaf of fresh bread from the bakery, cutting it into satisfyingly thick slices, adding a side of oil. He has homemade iced tea ready in the fridge, and a bowl of diced watermelon as a palette cleanser.

To round it all off he has chocolate chip cookies made from scratch, still gooey and soft in the centre.

By lunch time he was done. Sweating a little from the steam, Peter transfers the goulash into a big, portable container and beams proudly down at his work.

Everything has his soul infused into it, like he was taught. He has a really good feeling about it this time.

Eager anticipation makes his stomach swoop. He double checks his reflection in the glass cabinets, attempting to tame his wayward curls into something a little less wayward, baring his teeth to make sure nothing is stuck in between them.

Finally, he smooths down the cotton of his tee he gives himself a shake. He’s going to do it this time. Mrs Dawes is at work and Mrs Carrington is at her crochet group. He’s checked, all the schedules line up - it’s his time.

So he grabs the two trays, food precariously towering upon each other in a quivering porcelain pyramid and takes slow, cautious steps towards the front door.

To save the trays from hitting the unlatched door he turns backwards to use the breadth of his back to push the door open, carefully reversing onto the porch.

“I have a delivery for –”

Peter whirls around quickly.

It’s a mistake because the next thing he does is roughly collide with a solid body, the trays under his arms slipping from his grasp. Everything goes crashing to the ground with a shriek of shattering porcelain and the sad gurgling of all the upended liquid.

“Shit, kid, I’m sorry,” the mailman says, but Peter doesn’t hear him, staring in abject horror at the food splattered all over the porch.

None of it salvageable.

He spent eighty dollars and four hours on this. He poured his heart into this. He was going to share this, he was gonna -

“It’s not meant to be,” he whispers to himself, slowly lowering himself into a squat, holding his hands out uselessly.

“Kid?”

Peter looks up in sorrow at the greying FedEx worker. “It’s not meant to be,” he repeats.

“Um… I just need you to sign for this.”

Peter wordlessly takes the small parcel and signs the E-POD, still staring at the perverse Jackson Pollock impression all over the woodwork. The parcel isn’t even for him.

Once the mailman has left and the fast-food truck has pulled up to the construction site with a giddy toot of it’s horn, Peter has accepted it.

It’s just not meant to be.

—

“You taking up bird watching or something?” May asks from where she is leant against his doorway three days later.

Peter shakes his head, abandoning his forlorn gaze to give his attention to her.

“Or something. What’s up?”

May holds up a stack of envelopes and smiles wryly. “We keep getting Mrs Carringtons mail.”

“Still?”

“Yeah. I can’t tell if it’s her mistake or the mailman though.”

“Probably the mailman,” Peter mutters.

She shrugs. “In any case, I gotta get ready for work. Would you be able to take these over to her?”

“Sure,” Peter says, stretching as he stands, taking the stack from her hands.

She sniffs him subtly. “It will do you good to get out of this room. It smells in here.”

Taking his aunt’s comments to heart he freshens up in the bathroom first, brushing the grime off his teeth and fixing his appearance, making himself feel somewhat presentable.

Cooped up indoors all day didn’t prepare him for how exceptionally balmy the weather was outside, sweat already forming at his hairline by the time he crosses the road. He studiously ignores the urge to look over at the construction site as he makes his way to his neighbor, however conditioned he is to do so at the Black Sabbath riffs playing through the air.

Mrs Carrington greets him with a smile when he knocks and invites him inside. She has her frail fingers circled around his wrist before he can begin to decline the offer, pulling him in, already talking a mile a minute.

Inside, it smells overwhelmingly like potpourri and her floral perfume.

“Thank you for bringing these over,” she says, leading him to the kitchen. “I don’t know why it keeps happening. I’m sorry for the trouble.”

“It’s no problem, Mrs C,” Peter assures, setting the mail on the counter.

She dodders past him to grab a cling-wrapped plate, holding it out to him with trembling hands, her gait noticeably uneven.

“Would you do me another favor?” She implores earnestly, pressing the plate into his hands. “Would you take these to those hard working folks next door, please? I’d go myself, but my hip…”

Clutching the plate, he looks through the layers of transparent cling-wrap to spot a dozen or so home-baked lemon slices.

His heartbeat accelerates, thinking that he’s finally going to talk to get a chance. But of all the moments he’d imagined, it wasn’t here and now, clutching an elderly lady’s sickly sweet lemon treats arranged on a floral plate.

When he looks back up to see her eager expression he knows he can’t turn her down.

“Yeah, sure thing, Mrs C - can I help with anything else?”

She squeezes the outside of his hands gratefully. “You’re a good boy, just this is fine. You help yourself to one too, okay?”

“Sure.”

Despite Peter’s protests, she walks him to her door, patting his back gratefully as he departs. He waves her off with his free hand, pretending like his nerves doesn’t have his stomach doing somersaults.

Pulse pounding, he enters through a gap in the construction site fencing, immediately drawn to the dark haired man that caught his attention all those weeks ago.

A few of the others notice his approach and tell him to watch his step, but Peter can’t hear them over the booming echo of his heart in his ears.

Tony straightens from where he’d been penciling in marks on a long slat of timber, crossing his arms over his chest as Peter nears. The movement shows off the impressive swell of his biceps and for a moment makes him forget why he’s there.

“Umm, hi,” Peter says.

Tony slides his sunglasses upon his crown to look at Peter, the full attention of his big, brown eyes making Peter’s mouth go dry and his palms sweat.

The man smiles, slow and appreciatively, stance loosening when Peter smiles back.

“Hi yourself,” Tony responds, placing his hands on his hips. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

“P-Peter. Parker. I’m… Peter Parker.”

The mans grin at his inelegant introduction has Peter’s face flaming, his hands shaking.

“Nice to finally meet you, Peter Parker. I’ve seen you around, but you never come and say hello like the rest of your neighbors.”

“You have?”

Tony nods, ambling closer. “I didn’t know if I should be offended or not.”

“Oh, I –”

“I forgive you, in case that was an apology,” Tony interrupts. “So, what do we owe this pleasure?”

Heartfelt explanations rise and are arrested in his throat, recalling the humiliating discomfort of all his failed attempts at courting. Instead, he extends the plate to Tony, holding it out like a sacrificial offering.

Tony accepts it, looking dubiously down at the garrish floral design before looking back at Peter.

“You make these yourself, doll?”

Stomach squirming at the attention, Peter shakes his head. “No, uh… my neighbour –”

“Oh thank god,” Tony says, indelicately dropping the plate on the nearby worktable. “Everyone in this neighbourhood is crazy nice or whatever - I have never been more well fed in my life –“

“Don’t lie,” one of the workers yells from behind them. “I’ve seen your high school photos.”

“Hey fuck you, Barnes,” Tony calls back, shaking his head. “Anyway, baby fat aside, I didn’t want to break your heart when I say I’m definitely more of a beef and potatoes kind of guy.”

“You are?” Peter perks up. “Me too.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, I make a mean goulash. It’s really good.”

“That so?” Tony scratches his beard, stepping closer. “I do like goulash.”

Steeling his nerves Peter inches forward, he can smell the sweat and musk from the man and the pursuing undertones of nicotine and cologne.

“Maybe I could make it for you sometime.”

“Like on a date?” Tony asks, dipping his chin to catch Peters eyes.

Heat floods his insides when he nods. “Yeah…you could come over? I’ll cook for you.”

Tony’s fingers comes up to toy with the cigarette tucked behind his ear, nestled amongst the black hair. He twirls it deftly between two calloused fingers, a crooked smile illuminating his features as he drinks Peter in.

“I’d like that a lot, Peter Parker.”

“That’s good. I mean - y’now, me too.”

The smirk Tony sends him is utterly devilish, corrupting Peter in the best of ways.

“Wish you’d come by and asked sooner, darling. Woulda given me more time to appreciate your pretty face.”

Cocking his head, Peters mouth stretches into a grin.

“Guess it was never the right time.”

—-

Two days later Tony knocks on his door donned in form-fitting dark denim and a button-down shirt. His usually wild hair is neatly combed back and arranged into a quaint quiff.

A smile breaks out on Peters face when notices the bouquet of red roses held in one of Tony’s hands, a box of expensive chocolates occupying in the other.

“Not the most original,” Tony concedes, kissing Peter on the cheek when he lets him in, passing the gifts over. “But it’s still heartfelt, I assure you.”

Tony looks at him with genuine fondness that Peter doesn’t have to taste to know it’s true. Peter leans in to place a chaste, tentative kiss on the corner of the mans mouth.

“It’s perfect.”

#starker #starker fic #fluff #tw: food #reluctantly loving thy neighbour #construction worker tony

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wistfulcynic · 5 years ago

Text

Their Way By Moonlight: A Day in the Life, Part 1 (Chapter 14)

You guys, this chapter. This chapter. It’s a LOT. It grew and grew and grew to the point where I realised it was going to be 8k, then 10k, then 12... and despite what @thisonesatellite or @ohmightydevviepuu might say, that’s really too much (yes I know there are longer chapters. But this is heavily plot-bearing and just Full Of Things, and I think 12k of that is too much. And also I wanted to drop it today because I’m going to be busy the rest of the week. SO.)

In which we get a further glimpse of life in Storybrooke under the curse as Henry works to break it, and Snowing share a Moment. Meanwhile Emma and Killian return to their dream and Emma returns to New York to see an old friend, this time with Regina in tow.

SUMMARY: A new curse has fallen on Storybrooke and this time Emma is trapped inside it, deliberately separated from Henry and anyone else who might help her break it. But what no one knows –including her own cursed self– is that she and Killian have the ability to share their dreams, and are working together in secret to find a way to break the curse and free everyone from a new and dangerous foe.

Rating: M

AO3

A Day in the Life, Part One:

The bedroom is just as he remembers, though as he stands observing it he thinks perhaps it seems somehow lighter? Bright sunlight glows warm and mellow through the curtains and the smell of the sea is stronger, sharp and briny and so familiar to his nose. He peers out the windows and thinks he can discern a coastline and and the subtly varying shades of blue that fade one into the other to mark the horizon where water meets sky.

It’s always soothed him, that horizon.

Slender arms slip around his waist and he doesn’t have to look to know whose they are. Even if this weren’t their private dream, the bedroom they designed themselves to be their haven after the curse took her, he would know Emma’s touch anywhere.

He turns to wrap his arm around her shoulders and draw her close against his side, pressing a kiss to her hair.

“What’s this about, love?” he says.

“What do you mean?” she asks innocently. The coyly contrived innocence that always means she’s up to something. Killian feels a stirring of anticipation in his belly.

“Emma, we are currently tucked up in our real bed and you are asleep in my arms, drooling on my chest,” he says. “We just made love. What are we doing here?”

“I just thought it might be nice to see how the dreams work,” she says. “When we’re together, I mean, and when I’m not cursed or otherwise memory-impaired. I thought there might be stuff we could do with them.”

She’s smiling but there’s a glint in her eye, a playful mischief he’s missed more than he realised. It’s been far too long since they last crossed swords. He lowers his voice to a growl. “What did you have in mind?” he asks.

The dream shifts around them and they are at the top of the beanstalk, standing amidst the skeletons and fallen stones that litter the courtyard of the giant’s castle, their breaths still short and laboured from the climb. They are dressed as they were then and when he turns to look at her she’s exactly as he remembers, except for the look on her face.

“Curious choice,” he says.

“This was the first time I wanted to kiss you,” she replies. “When you tied that damn scarf with your teeth and your eyes never left mine, and I just—” she draws a deep breath as he leans closer, holding her gaze as he did then. “It was just really hot”

“Well, naturally.” He smirks lasciviously at her and she laughs, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him in for a kiss. He responds eagerly, part of him wondering what his past self would have thought if she’d kissed him like this back then, and realising he genuinely isn’t sure. He finds it increasingly hard to remember the time when he didn’t love Emma; though he had nearly three centuries of it they have begun to feel like years lived by another man.

The kiss is long and intensely passionate but it ends sweetly, with clinging lips and foreheads pressed together. “You know,” he tells her with a soft smile. “This wasn’t the first time I thought of kissing you.”

“Wasn’t it?”

“No.” He reaches out to the dream and the scene shifts to the corner of a sun-dappled field in the Enchanted Forest. Ogres roar and bellow in the distance and Emma is tied securely to a tree.

“Hmmm,” she says, tugging at the ropes to test the knots in them. “This isn’t quite how I remember it.”

“I took a liberty or two.” He gives her a sharp-edged grin and holds her gaze again as he reaches down and pulls the dagger from her boot. “Though some things remain the same.”

He brandishes the dagger as she watches him with heat in her eyes, and wonder. “Did you really think about kissing me then?” she asks. “I threatened to leave you to the ogres. And I wasn’t bluffing.”

“Aye, I’m quite aware.” He smiles wryly at the memory. “You were magnificent, love. Fierce and clever and utterly breathtaking. I was furious with you and also thought you the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen.” He lets the dagger trail along her jaw and across her lips, thrilling at the hitch in her breath. “I wanted to kiss you in part out of desire to possess a beautiful thing, and part because I knew how greatly it would infuriate you.”

He catches the neckline of her shirt with the dagger’s tip and tears it neatly down the front, exposing the tops of her breasts and the lacy edge of her bra. This he also rips, slowly peeling back the lace until her nipple is freed and her breaths are harsh and shallow, her eyes dark with lust. Burying the dagger in the tree trunk, he takes her lips hard with his, his tongue deep in her mouth and his hand rough as it fondles her breast. She strains against her bindings, growling in frustration when they hold her fast, and nips at his lip hard enough to draw blood. He snarls in response and tangles his hand in her hair, tugging her head back and biting down on the throbbing pulse in her neck.

“You know,” she gasps, “if we’re going to have a hard fuck against a tree I’d really rather do it here.”

The dream shifts again and they are swaying together in the thick green jungle of Neverland, their mouths a breath apart. She has him by the collar of his coat, his hook at the small of her back, his fingers in her hair. This he remembers as clearly as yesterday, the sweet spice of his rum on her tongue and her scent in his nose, the smell of sweat and Emma. He still loves the way she smells but back then it nearly drove him mad, and he recalls all too well the effort it took not to haul her back when she pulled away from that kiss, not to shove her against a tree, a rock, anything, and just devour her.

She’s looking at him as though she knows what’s on his mind—doubtless she does, he thinks, that open book reads both ways—and challenge glints in her eyes. With a deep-throated snarl he takes it, backing her up until she’s caged against a tree and no space remains between them, rolling his hips against hers as he drags his teeth up her neck. She gasps, fingers clutching at his hair, dragging his lips back to hers and into a kiss that soon has them both frantic for the touch of the other’s skin, tearing at their clothes. “I wanted this then,” she confesses as she pulls his shirt free from his trousers and runs her hands up his back. “I used to lie awake wondering what might have happened if I hadn’t pulled away.”

“Me too,” he growls. “The whole year we were apart I lived on memories of it, and when memory no longer sufficed I moved on to fantasy.”

He shifts the dream again and they are in his cabin on the Jolly Roger, he dressed only in his leather trousers, loosely laced, and she with his flowing black shirt draped around her and slipping off her shoulder. She’s perched on the edge of his desk and he approaches her with a swagger and his old lewd smirk, using his hand and hook to part her legs as he steps between them. She catches her breath as his laces tickle at the damp hair between her thighs.

“This is where I imagined you most,” he murmurs, brushing her hair back and letting his fingers trail down her neck and over her collarbone. The rumble of his voice, his breath across her naked skin makes her shiver. “Here on my ship, on this desk, in my bed. Against the helm, and the mast… I wanted you everywhere. All the time.”

She lets her hand trail down his chest and beneath his trouser laces to where his cock is hard and aching for her touch. He moans as she closes her fist around it and shifts to spread her legs wider, dragging the tip through her dripping folds. He sucks in a harsh breath and stills her movements with his hand, letting his forehead drop to rest against hers.

“Darling,” he chokes. “As delightful as it would be to live out my fantasies like this, I really do prefer to be awake when I’m inside you.”

They woke simultaneously, hot and panting and already wrapped around each other. He could smell her arousal in the air, feel it in the dampness against his hip, see it in the flash of her eyes before she kissed him, deep and with an urgency that matched his own. He grabbed her thighs with his hand and stump, urging her up to straddle him. She was as wet as she’d been in the dream and he as hard and she slid down onto him easily, sighing against his lips as she did and swallowing his answering groan.

She felt so damn good around him, Killian thought, like they were made to fit together. Sex with Emma would be amazing no matter what, he had no doubt of that, but this bond of theirs—be it soulmates or True Love or simple filthy lust—whatever it was it heightened each sensation, every brush of fingers on each other’s skin, every stroke of tongues and lips, each nip of teeth was more than it should be, more than he had ever known before, with anyone.

More than with Milah.

He’d be lying if he said that didn’t trouble him, a bit. He had loved Milah; they hadn’t been True Love perhaps but he had loved her truly. He had also, he had come to realise, loved her selfishly, and when the crocodile murdered her Killian’s vow of vengeance had been inspired not by any desire to see justice done for a life cut far too short but rather by his impotent fury at having something precious taken from him. Another person he loved torn violently away at the whim of a powerful and capricious creature. It was that injustice that had consumed him, that petulance he had carried with him to Neverland where it crystallised as though trapped in amber. The timeless magic of the island had preserved his fury and kept it sharp and hot, kept his lost love fresh in his mind for centuries instead of fading into the fondness of memory as it should have done, as it had done, eventually, the moment he was free from the influence of that wretched land.

The moment he met Emma.

Emma who was now moving above him, arching her back and driving her hips down to take him fully inside her, rocking them in the way she knew drove him wild. Emma who filled his heart and mind and soul, not with anger or vengeance but with love and hope and the desire to be better than he had been, the best he could be. To deserve the love she freely gave.

(“You’re more than your mistakes,” she’d said to him once, not long after his arrival in New York. “You’re more than your temper.”

“It’s a terrible temper, though, and they were more than mere mistakes. I hurt people—”

“I know. And honestly for a while that’s all I could see when I looked at you. The man who shot Belle and stabbed Gold, and teamed up with Greg and Tamara to destroy the town. And stole the bean.”

“Must we enumerate each one?”

“I was so mad at myself for still being attracted to you, despite all of that,” she confessed. “Now I know that what I felt was a connection to a deeper part of you. A part that none of us could see then, not even you yourself. The real you, under all the anger and the hurt. That’s the man I see when I look at you now.”)

He groaned as she found their rhythm and at the way she clenched around him as she moved, taking the always-pleasurable slick drag of his cock inside her into new and more euphoric heights. His fingers flexed against the soft flesh of her ass and he dragged his stump over her breasts and down her belly before pressing it against her clit, delighting in the shiver of pleasure that shook her at the feel of his scarred skin on her sensitised nerves.

“Harder,” she choked and he complied, grinding his wrist against her as she fucked him, until she was gasping and digging her fingernails into the skin of his arm, until she came with a hoarse cry. The moment she did he rolled her beneath him, bracing his forearm against the headboard and driving himself hard into her as her orgasm fluttered around him, keeping her high as he chased his own release. She wrapped her legs around his waist and her arms around his back and held him close to whisper in his ear.

“I love you,” she said, “so damn much. You’re the love of my life, Killian.”

“And you mine,” he groaned into her neck, feeling the inadequacy of these words to express the depth of his feelings but he knew she understood. She caught her breath, fluttering around him again with a light little aftershock of an orgasm that pushed Killian over the edge and into his own.

His alarm shrilled in Henry’s ear and he groaned, groping at his phone until he managed to hit snooze then rolling over to bury his face in his pillow and grab just a few more minutes of sleep. He hated getting up early (“Just like your mum,” his dad always said, with a sorrowful shake of his head) and especially not on Saturdays, but he had too much to get done today to waste any time sleeping in.

It was all coming together now, all the small steps he’d taken over the past month to change lives in Storybrooke, to help people find their love again. He was almost there, so close he could taste it, and both his moms confirmed that they could feel the curse growing progressively weaker with each passing day. Henry had to force himself not to rush, not to push too hard or expect too much from people still under strong magical influence. He reminded himself that love needed time to grow and develop. But at the same time he was so close and he couldn’t help feeling excited.

The alarm rang again and this time he turned it off. He stretched as he sat up and rubbed his eyes, trying to clear the sleepy fog from his brain. Was that a strange noise drifting up from downstairs, he wondered, or could he still be dreaming? He listened more carefully. It sounded like… singing?

What?

He got out of bed, tiptoed to the railing of his bedroom on the upper floor of the loft and peered over it. There was Regina in the kitchen, already showered and dressed (she didn’t have any problem getting up early; he had definitely inherited that from Emma), making breakfast. And singing.

Singing.

And then, as if that wasn’t entirely weird enough, she started dancing. His mouth dropped open and he actually rubbed his eyes again, like that might change the scene before him. It did not. There, right there, in the meticulously tidy black-and-white kitchen Emma had magicked into the loft, Regina Mills shook her hips and warbled a tune as she stirred the scrambled eggs.

She must have a date with Robin today, thought Henry. There could be no other explanation.

He remembered the day he’d discovered John Wood in the storybook and realised not only that his mom was dating Robin Hood, but that at least some of the Merry Men were in Storybrooke too: Will Scarlet kept the town records and Little John worked at the library. Men who in their real lives lived in the wild, in the woods, free from any authority but their own, under the curse were a banker, a records clerk, and a librarian.

You had to hand it to Zelena, Henry admitted, she’d done an incredible job of ensuring that no one in town would ever find a way to love the work they did. Love for a career or a lifestyle must also be a threat to the curse, he’d concluded, and he and his dad had added it to their list.

One mom dating Robin Hood, he reflected, watching Regina shimmy as she scooped the eggs onto plates, and the other married to Captain Hook. He grinned and shook his head. What a family.

Mary Margaret awoke to the sound of birds singing outside her window and she smiled. It was Saturday, one month in to her tenure as Acting Mayor of Storybrooke, and she was taking the day off.

She would be lying if she said the weeks since Zelena’s ‘resignation’ hadn’t been something of a challenge for her. She was unaccustomed to having any kind of real authority or the responsibility that went with it, used to Zelena being the one to call the shots and shoulder any blame or consequences that may arise from them, but slowly, gradually, Mary Margaret had begun to find her feet and her confidence, and discovered that actually being an authority figure wasn’t as terrifying as she’d once thought.

Plus, of course, any burden was lighter when you had someone to help you carry it.

On that thought she bounded from bed and put on her robe, pausing just long enough to glance in the mirror and run her fingers through her hair before hurrying downstairs to have breakfast with her husband.

David was already in the kitchen, making coffee. He smiled brightly when he saw her and pushed down the lever of the toaster. She returned his smile almost without thinking, her heart fluttering in a way that had become very familiar over the past month. Precisely what was growing between herself and David she still wasn’t quite sure, but she knew that something intangible had changed in their marriage and in them, something that she found to her surprise didn’t feel new at all but more like they were rediscovering parts of themselves they had somehow forgotten.

And discovering that those forgotten things fit perfectly together.

David was dressed in a flannel shirt that stretched across his shoulders and brought out the blue of his eyes, eyes that were warm and eager as he handed her a cup of coffee.

“Did you sleep well?” he asked.

She nodded even though she hadn’t really. She’d spent far too long tossing in her bed, unable to sleep for thinking of him in his own, in his bedroom that lay mere feet away on the other side of their suite’s dividing door, and when she finally managed to drift off she’d dreamed of him.

“I did,” she lied. “What about you?”

David nodded too but something in his eyes, a spark of heat that found its answer deep in her chest, made her wonder if he too hadn’t lain awake thinking of the thin and unlocked door that separated them. She wondered what he’d do if she opened that door, if she invited him into her room. Into her bed.

“David,” she began, taking courage from the way he smiled when she said his name, “I—”

The toaster’s lever popped up with a noise that made them both jump. David gave her a slightly apologetic look and turned to deal with it.

“What were you going to say?” he asked as he put the toast on plates.

“Nothing.” Mary Margaret felt foolish for even thinking it. They’d agreed on separate rooms for a very good reason, even if she could no longer remember what that reason was. She sat down at the table and focused on her coffee, forcing a smile when David set a plate of toast and jam in front of her and sat down himself.

“Are you going to the shelter today?” she asked him as they ate.

“Yeah,” he replied. “Working a full day today.”

“You’re still busy then?”

“Busier than ever. I’ve got a long lunch break, though, if you, uh,” he cleared his throat, “if you wanted to meet me at Granny’s?”

Her smile came unforced this time, along with a blossoming warmth in her chest. “I’d love that. If you’re sure you can get away?”

The rush of pet adoptions that began about three weeks before had taken Storybrooke’s animal shelter greatly by surprise. Dogs and cats that had languished there for as long as anyone could remember were suddenly snapped up as the town’s residents seemed spontaneously and simultaneously to be gripped by a desperate need for animal companionship. The shelter’s skeleton staff found themselves completely unable to cope with the demand and had sent out an urgent appeal for volunteers. An appeal that David, to Mary Margaret’s tremendous surprise, jumped at.

“I’ve always wanted to work with animals,” he’d said.

“That’s—great,” Mary Margaret had replied, resisting the urge to scream Since when? Where had that been hiding all these years in her useless playboy of a husband, in the man who had never shown an interest in anything but drinking and gambling, and flirting with women who weren’t her?

Increasingly she was finding it difficult to reconcile her memories of that man with the one who sat across from her now, dressed in flannel and excited for his volunteer job at an animal shelter. The man in her memories held no interest for her, inspired no feelings other than a vague distaste. This man, though...

This man she could love.

“I’m sure,” said David firmly. “This is the first day off you’ve had since you took over from Zelena, and I want to treat you to lunch.”

The fluttery feeling was back in her belly, stronger than ever, and her hands trembled as she wrapped them around her coffee cup.

“It’s a date, then,” she said.

When Killian woke again the sun was up and shining brightly through the apartment’s tall windows. He nudged Emma gently and she groaned, burying her face in his neck. “Too early,” she whimpered.

“It’s a quarter past eight, love,” he said, running his hand up and down her back. “We slept quite late in fact. A consequence of you ravishing me twice in one night, no doubt.”

She snorted. “I didn’t hear you complaining.”

“Nor will you, I’m simply pointing out that more sex equals less sleep.”

“Ugh. Can you stop being logical please and just let me grumble?”

“Of course.” He grinned. “I’ll go make some coffee, shall I?”

“You do that.” She burrowed into her pillow as he rolled from the bed and took his prosthetic from the table next to it. Deftly he attached it to his arm—he’d grown quite used to the thing over the past few weeks and found that he was missing his hook less and less—and pulled on some loose sweatpants before heading to the kitchen, whistling an old sea shanty.

He was far too cheerful in the mornings, thought Emma as she snuggled deeper into the bed. Her eyes drifted shut again and she dozed off to the tune of his shanty and the sounds of him bustling in the kitchen, and was only hazily aware of his lips brushing her forehead or the clink of a coffee cup being placed on the table next to the bed.

“I’m going to have a shower, love,” he said. “Don’t forget you’re meeting with Regina at nine.”

“Urmph,” said Emma to her pillow.

“That’s in half an hour,” called Killian’s voice from the direction of the bathroom.

Emma made another growly noise as she pushed herself upright, wincing a bit at her stiff muscles, and groped for her coffee. She sighed as she wrapped her hand around the warm mug and sighed again as she sipped from it. The coffee was perfect. Rich and smooth and just hot enough, and Killian had put in her cinnamon vanilla coffee creamer even though he hated it (“It’s not even cream, Swan! It’s made of something called hydrogenated vegetable oil, and while I don’t know what that is it sounds appalling”) and two sugars. She grinned, picturing the look that must have been on his face as he stirred it.

She was still sipping when he returned to the bedroom, damp and with a towel wrapped around his hips. “You going to have a shower before you go?” he asked, rummaging in a drawer for some underwear.

“Mmmm. In a minute.” She smirked when he turned to look at her and he did the same, letting the towel fall to the floor and taking his time with his boxers, his eyebrows dancing suggestively.

Two could play at that game, thought Emma as she finished off her coffee. She set the cup down and threw off the covers, standing and stretching luxuriantly, giving him a good eyeful of her naked body.

An eyeful he definitely took.

She sauntered over to him and let her fingers comb and sift through his chest hair as she kissed his cheek. “I’ll be ready in twenty,” she said, ducking away from his reaching arms and heading for the bathroom, swinging her hips because she knew he was watching her go.

Twenty minutes later she was showered and dressed, hair dried and styled with the aid of just a whisper of magic, wrapped securely in Killian’s arms as they kissed goodbye.

“I’ll see you at dinner, then,” he said.

She nodded. “I’ll keep you updated.”

“Good.” They kissed again, lingering as long as they dared until finally she pushed him away and out the door, waiting until she heard his footsteps descend all the way to the bookstore before poofing herself to the sheriff’s station. Precisely two seconds after she arrived, the doors opened and Regina appeared.

She was carrying an armload of books and cut off Emma’s greeting with frown and a jerky nod, indicating that they should go into the office and out of Zelena’s earshot. Once inside with the door securely shut behind them Regina dropped her books on Emma’s desk and turned to her with a triumphant look.

“I think I’ve found it,” she said. “The mirror magic and how Zelena must have used it to pull off this curse.”

The first stop that Henry made that morning was the animal shelter. He’d taken to stopping in there daily, usually after school, to talk with David and play with the animals, and to help people reunite with the pets the curse had taken from them.

Love for a pet could be as strong as love for family.

His grandfather was there already when he arrived, and greeted him warmly.

“Hi Henry,” he said. “Here for your visit?”

“Yep! I know it’s kinda early but I have lots of stuff to do today. Have you got anyone new?”

“A new dog arrived just this morning actually,” said David. “We just finished getting him set up. Would you like to meet him?”

“Yeah!”

David opened the door to the part of the shelter where the dogs were kept and held it for Henry. “He’s a Dalmatian,” he said, as they approached the new dog’s cage. It was as comfortably equipped as a cage could be, with full food and water bowls and a large plush bed, even several chew toys strewn about. The dog in question lay curled in the bed, though he perked up his ears when he heard them coming.

“It looks like he must have been a pet once,” David was saying as Henry grinned widely and barely managed not to do a little dance of joy, “He’s got a collar and a microchip but it seems to be damaged and we can’t read it. Poor guy, he’s had a hard time of it for a while.”

Henry stopped in front of the cage and reached his hand through the bars. “Pongo,” he whispered.

“What?” asked David.

“Oh, nothing.”

Pongo leapt to his feet at the sound of Henry’s voice and ran to him, tail wagging wildly, covering first his hand and then his face in enthusiastic, sloppy kisses. Henry laughed.

So did David. “Well he certainly seems to like you!” he said. “Would you want to adopt him?”

“No,” said Henry. “But I think I know someone who will.”

“This is old magic,” said Regina, in a solemn voice that held Emma’s attention almost more than her words. “Old and very obscure. It comes from a land similar to this one, almost the same actually except that magic exists in abundance and is considered normal.”

Emma frowned. “But how is that possi—”

“There are lots of theories,” interrupted Regina with an irritated huff. “But it’s complicated and we don’t really have time to get into the details now. All you need to know is that there are hundreds of realms, thousands maybe, some very different and some that are so similar to each other that you’d hardly notice they weren’t identical unless you were really looking.”

“Okay.” Emma resisted the urge to rub her temples. “Got it. Go on.”

“So this magic,” Regina continued, “comes from a realm that borders on the world behind the mirrors.”

“Whoa, what? The world behind—”

“If you’re just going to interrupt me with inane questions every three words, Mrs Jones, we’ll never get anywhere,” Regina snapped.

“Sorry.”

“Yes,” continued Regina, still with a snap in her tone, “the world behind mirrors. All realms have mirrors of course, but only a few actually border this land, a land that can be accessed only by using very particular magic. However, from those few realms and with this magic it is possible—though exceptionally difficult—to transfer things through a mirror, into the mirror realm and store them there.”

“Store them—behind the mirrors?”

“Yes. Behind the mirrors.”

Emma opened her mouth then closed it again.

“So,” said Regina, “what I believe is that Zelena must have caught the curse magic as it moved from here to the Enchanted Forest, funnelled it into the mirror realm and kept it there until she was ready to modify it to suit her needs. Then when everything was set she sent it back through the Enchanted Forest and into this realm, along with all of us.”

“That’s… well, it’s... wow.”

“Yeah,” Regina agreed. “But she almost certainly wouldn’t have been able to catch the whole curse in the short time she had, and by moving it in and out of the mirrors she would have had to bend it, twist it into a different shape, then probably patch together any missing parts with her magic and Oz magic. Meaning this curse is a—a chimaera. A hybrid. Cobbled together from half a dozen different magics and the influences of different realms.”

“Well that would kinda explain why the version of Storybrooke it produced is so weird,” said Emma. “And also why the magic here was completely under Zelena’s control.”

“And why that magic is so unstable now.” Regina nodded. “Exactly. The only thing I can’t figure out is how she got it here. This curse wouldn’t be able to open a portal like a true Dark Curse, she’d need to have the portal already prepared. Several portals, actually. One to get the curse magic from the Enchanted Forest and into Oz or wherever and another to get it back there when she was ready to cast it. And then another to send it back into this realm. So how the hell did she manage all of that?”

Emma began to pace the small office as her thoughts churned in her mind. “I might have an idea,” she said. “But I need more information to be sure.” She stopped pacing and paused for a second, then spun around and faced the other woman with a determined look. “Regina, how would you like to visit New York?”

Henry’s second stop of the day was the market, where he bought a candy bar and a magazine and dawdled at the register as Belle rang them up, her movements thoughtless and mechanical, her expression blank.

“So how did you like the book?” he asked casually.

“Oh!” Belle’s dull eyes lit up. “It was wonderful, thank you! Do you, um, want it back?” She looked devastated at the prospect, and Henry hid a grin.

“Oh no, it’s for you,” he said. “I found it in the pawn shop. I saw it and I just somehow knew you’d love it.”

“The pawn shop?” Belle frowned. “I thought that was closed?”

“It’s opening again soon,” said Henry. “I’m helping out the guy who’s opening it, and he let me have the book for nothing when I said I wanted it for a present.”

“Oh. Well, in that case I’ll just say thank you,” said Belle. “Truly. I never would have thought I’d enjoy a book called Her Handsome Hero, but I really loved it. It was so romantic and heroic, and I just—I felt like I was there, you know. Living the adventure.” She dropped her eyes and gave a little shrug. “That probably sounds stupid.”

“No, it doesn’t!” exclaimed Henry. “I feel that way too, every time I read a good book.”

“Do you read a lot, then?” asked Belle, and the yearning in her voice squeezed his heart.

“Yeah, all the time. My dad owns a bookstore.”

“He does?” Belle’s eyes were wide.

“Yep. He sells mostly specialist books right now but he’s thinking about expanding, and hiring an assistant. Do you think you might be interested in that? You know, if you were looking for a different job?”

“I—” Belle blinked in confusion, the idea of a different job clearly one that had never crossed her mind before. Then her face broke into a radiant smile. “Working with books,” she breathed in awe. “I’d like that, I think. Very much.”

Henry grinned. “Here’s my dad’s address,” he said, handing her a cream-coloured card with “Jolly Roger Books” printed in old-fashioned lettering over the pale watermark of a pirate ship.

“Stop by any time,” he said. “Today even.”

“My shift ends at two,” said Belle faintly, staring at the card.

Henry nodded in satisfaction. “I’ll tell my dad to expect you then,” he said.

Emma took her time preparing herself for the trip. She was pretty sure she had enough magic stored up to poof herself and Regina to New York and back, but there was no way she could be completely certain. This was much, much farther than she’d ever transported herself before, and taking another person along made it even more risky. But the curse was weakening by the hour and as it did its magic grew increasingly unstable. Neither she nor Regina had any idea of what might happen once it broke. They needed to gather as much information as they could get before it did.

She sent a text to Killian advising him of her plan. The disapproval in his reply (Whatever you think is necessary, Swan) was practically tangible but she knew he wouldn’t try to stop her. He trusted her, and he trusted her magic. She needed to do the same.

She took a deep breath and drew on her magic, weaving it and wrapping it tightly around herself and Regina. When it was as secure as she could make it, she waved her hand and whisked them on a swirl of white smoke out of the sheriff’s station and into a cramped and dusty bookshop in Queens, where Frank McClelland was leaning against the register waiting for them with a warm and jovial smile that was only the tiniest bit terrifying.

“Hey there, Emma,” he said. He didn’t look surprised by her sudden appearance in his shop, but then he never did. “You’re lookin’ good. Memories all returned then?”

“Yep.” Emma was not about to be out-cooled by Frank. “All back.”

“Figured it wouldn’t take Hook long. He was what you might call highly motivated.” He chuckled at the weak joke then gave a little cough when neither woman joined him. Then he frowned. “I see the curse still isn’t broken.”

“No. It’s getting close, though and actually that’s why we’re here. This is—”

“Regina Mills, of course,” interrupted Frank, inclining his head at Regina. “Nice to meet ya, Your Majesty.”

Regina scowled and shot a glare at Emma, who shrugged a bit sheepishly. She probably should have given Regina some warning about what to expect from Frank. “I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage,” Regina replied coolly.

“Yes,” Frank agreed, still wearing his jovial smile but with a mocking sort of mischief in his voice and in the emerald glint of his eyes. “That I do.”

Emma barely tamped down the urge to kick him.

Regina’s eyes flashed dangerously and Emma realised she was going to have to do something before battle lines could be drawn. She stepped in front of Regina, putting her hand on the other woman’s arm and facing Frank with her body angled like a shield between them. “We’re here because we need some information, Frank,” she said. “Is that going to be a problem?”

The mockery faded from Frank’s eyes and his face grew solemn. “No,” he said. “The knowledge you seek shall be yours, freely given, as the final payment on my debt to your husband. Will you sit?”

He gestured to the back of the shop where the armchairs and small table sat. There were three chairs now, Emma noted, in place of the usual two. Because of course there were.

“I don’t like this,” Regina hissed. Emma squeezed her arm in what she hoped was reassurance.

“Trust me,” she said. “Trust me when I say that despite how this looks you can trust him.”

“Please allow me to beg your pardon, Regina Mills,” said Frank, looking genuinely apologetic. “It was unfit of me to taunt you, as of course any friend of Emma’s is more than welcome here” He opened his arms and held them out wide. “So as a gesture of good faith and because you are a woman who sets great store by appearances,” he said, “I trust you with the truth of my own.” A faint emerald glow flared and shimmered around him, and when it faded away Frank McClelland was gone and before them stood the Oisín of legend, tall and lithe, with ancient wisdom shining in his unlined face. “I hope this will make you more at ease with trusting me.”

Regina gave him a calculating look which he returned unwaveringly, and then with a flick of her wrist she removed the glamour spell on her face. Emma blinked in surprise. It had been an impressively subtle spell, so much that she herself had hardly noticed it. She looked closely at Regina. De-glamoured, the other woman looked far better than she had before Zelena’s capture—a month of sleeping soundly through the night will work wonders—but faint shadows still persisted beneath her eyes and deep wrinkles creased the skin of her forehead and around her mouth.

“Yes,” said Oisín, in a voice gentle with empathy and redolent with music, the flat vowels and clipped delivery of his alter ego nowhere to be heard. “You have suffered greatly at your sister’s hand.” He laid his own hand on Regina’s shoulder and the tension seemed to ease from her, the wrinkles on her face smoothing nearly away. “Some of these effects are permanent, beyond even my power to repair, but you needn’t let them trouble you. Your love does not see them. He sees you.”

Regina drew in a sharp breath as something soft and yearning flared in her eyes. “He does?” she whispered.

“He does. Now, will you sit?”

She did, settling herself into one of the armchairs with regal grace. Emma followed, taking the second chair somewhat less gracefully, and Oisín took the remaining one, last and most gracefully of all.

“We—” Emma began, but Regina interrupted her.

“May I ask you a question,” she said to Oisín.

“You may ask me anything you like and I will reply truthfully,” he replied. “Provided that I know the answer.”

“You’ll know this one,” said Regina.

“Then ask it.”

“What is your debt to Hook?” Regina gave Oisín a hard look. “The one that’s apparently your motivation for helping us.”

Oisín smiled. “Is your trust so fragile, then?” he asked.

“I simply wish to know what I’m dealing with,” she replied coolly.

“Very wise.” Oisín nodded in approval. “If all mortals displayed your caution my kind would be quite out of business. The debt is for a great service Hook once did me, long ago.”

“Oh? And what service was that?”

“He saved my beloved from a dreadful fate,” said Oisín, solemnly. “That my Niamh survives today is due solely to the bravery of Killian Jones. In recompense for which I agreed to bring him safely out of Neverland, with no obligation to Pan or any other creature who inhabited that place.”

“But you didn’t do that,” said Regina, comprehension lighting her eyes. “You left him there.”

“I did. To my great shame I betrayed my friend and my honour, and yet I cannot regret the choice. I acted as I had to act, and by doing so I added considerably to the weight of my debt. Despite this, I now believe my obligation to Hook is very nearly fulfilled.” He smiled at Emma. “Ensuring him a future with his love, as he did for me and mine, seems a fair payment, wouldn’t you agree?”

“I would,” said Emma.

“And does that ease your mind, Ms Mills?”

“It does.”

“I am pleased to hear it.”

“But that’s not the reason we’re here,” said Emma. “Your debt to Killian, I mean.”

“No indeed,” Oisín replied, leaning back in his chair, quite at his ease. “You came to inquire about the subtle knife.”

@katie-dub @kmomof4 @teamhook @stahlop @mariakov81 @snowbellewells @thejollyroger-writer @jennjenn615 @tiganasummertree @lfh1226-linda @winterbaby89 @ultraluckycatnd @resident-of-storybrooke

#cs ff #cs ff au #magic au #canon divergence #3b canon divergence #alternative 3b #dream smut #dream sharing #captain swan #captain cobra #captain cobra swan #captain book #background snowing #and outlaw queen #Storybrooke life #under the curse #their way by moonlight #profdanglaisstuff

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celestialvoid-fanfiction · 5 years ago

Text

If Things Were Different

Stiles explores his spark powers by jumping back in time, but when he jumps forward again, he lands in a parallel universe where he had left Beacon Hills years ago.

Commission for @evanesdust

It felt like he was falling. There was a rush of light and deafening noise that grew louder and louder until finally he was able to break through. He threw himself into the darkness, into the silence—into reality.

He woke on the other side of town, laying face-down in the cushion of damp autumn leaves, piles of rotting flesh which littered the forest floor.

He opened his eyes and lifted his head, slimy, wet leaves sticking to his cheek as he turned his eyes towards the darkness. The usual autumn tones of brown, gold and red were darkened by the night, now a dreary mix of greys and heavy black shadows. Dense foliage hung overhead, enclosing the space, shutting out the sky and filtering moonlight. Streams of silver light surrounded him, not enough to see but just enough to distinguish shapes from shadows.

Among the darkness he could make out the fluorescent bleached skeletons of the birch trees, their slender trunks lining the shadows and eye-like rings that watched him from all angles.

He was in the forest on the outskirts of town; that much he knew.

He braced his hands against the ground, sharp sticks prodding his palms as he pushed himself up. Twigs and leaves rustled and broke beneath him as he lifted his weight to his wobbling legs.

He slowly turned in circles, surveying his surroundings. Fallen branches snagged at his ankles, scratching at his pale skin.

He lifted his hands before his face, clenched his fist and slowly extended one finger after the other as he counted, “One, two, three, four-five-six-seven-eight-nine… ten.”

He wasn’t dreaming.

He let out a sigh of relief, wiping away the small trail of blood that trickled from his nose with the back of his hand.

Every muscle in his body ached as he forced himself to move, dragging his feet through the undergrowth as he made his way through the familiar woods and back towards town.

He made his way down the abandoned back streets of Beacon Hills where no-one else dared to go at night.

The glass of the streetlights overhead were clouded and muddy, the old bulbs strobing and flickering as they struggled to hold onto life. The surrounding buildings were decrepit: old workshops and industrial buildings, some in ruins – with buckling walls, crumpled bricks and streams of water coursing through the rubble like ravines – and others were just abandoned and tagged with crude sprawls of spray-paint.

The building he was looking for stood tall among the rest—old but not the least bit damaged.

He made his way over to the door, slouching against the rough brick as he pushed the buzzer. A second later, a familiar gruff voice came out of the speaker.

“It’s three o’clock in the morning. What the hell do you want?”

“Derek, it’s Stiles,” he said weakly. “Can you buzz me in?”

“Stiles?” He sounded surprised. “Just a second.”

There was a quiet click as the door unlocked.

“Come on up,” Derek said.

Stiles shoved the door open, pushing himself off the wall as he stepped inside the large building and made his way up to the loft.

Derek stood just outside the heavy metal door, watching Stiles come up the stairs. He looked as If he’d seen a ghost.

“You’re back?” he said, shocked.

“Yeah,” Stiles said weakly, trying to steady his breathing. “I misjudged it and ended up in the woods.”

“Misjudged?” Derek started slowly. He shook his head, dropping the subject as he waved Stiles inside.

Stiles staggered towards the couch, collapsing on the soft cushions with a heavy sigh.

Derek stepped back over to his side, offering him a glass of water.

“Thanks,” Stiles said quietly, taking the glass of water and sipping at it. “I need to drop by my house and get a change of clothes and some food.”

“What are you going to do, go back to Poland for a change of clothes?” Derek scoffed.

“Poland?” Stiles asked.

Derek levelled his gaze on Stiles, his brow furrowed with confusion. “Yeah, Poland. You know, the place you moved to five years ago.”

“What are you talking about?” Stiles asked. “I’ve never lived outside of Beacon Hills in my life.”

“Yes, you have,” Derek said slowly, confused. “You left, five years ago. After Scott died.”

Stiles felt his heart sink, his gut twisting nauseously as Derek’s words sank in. “Scott died?”

“You don’t remember?”

Stiles shook his head.

“A rouge alpha bit Scott, and when we found out Peter was the alpha and confronted him, he killed Scott,” Derek said.

“No, he didn’t,” Stiles answered, setting the glass of water aside. “Scott didn’t… You killed Peter and became an alpha and built a pack. Scott became a true alpha and built a pack.”

“What?” Derek uttered.

Reality came crashing down over him. Stiles’ eyes widened with realisation as he sat upright.

“Oh no,” he whispered. He leant forward and braced himself against his knees, hanging his head in his hands. “No, no, no.”

“What?” Derek asked.

“The butterfly effect, or multiverse theory—either way, one thing changed, and everything changed,” Stiles rambled. He drew in a deep breath and sat up, looking up at Derek. “I fucked up.”

Derek’s brow furrowed as he looked at Stiles in confusion.

“I’m not Stiles—not your Stiles, at least.”

He waited for Derek to say something, but he didn’t.

“I’m still new at being a spark, and we discovered that among my abilities is the ability to jump through time,” Stiles explained. “We wanted to try it out and test the extent of my abilities. So, I jumped back to the night Scott got bit, but I wasn’t allowed to do anything that would change the future. Turns out, I—uh… I tend to meddle with things.”

“What did you do?” Derek asked, sitting down in the arm chair across from Stiles.

“I tried to stop Peter from killing Laura,” Stiles answered. He paused for a moment, dropping his gaze. His voice was filled with sorrow as he added, “I didn’t… I couldn’t…”

Derek didn’t say anything, but he understood what Stiles was trying to say.

Stiles let out a measured breath, taking a second to compose himself before he continued, “Peter saw me. He chased after me. I got out of there in time, but I was more focused on getting out of there than I was on where I was going, and I ended up here, in a different timeline—one where Scott’s dead and I live in Poland.”

A moment of quiet settled between them.

“So, what do we do now?” Derek asked.

“First of all, I need rest,” Stiles said. “Then I’m going to jump again and hopefully end up in my timeline.”

A look of pain passed over Derek’s face. “You’re leaving again?”

“I have to,” Stiles replied. “I don’t belong here. My being here could mess up everything.”

Derek dropped his gaze.

Stiles seemed to catch on to his thoughts.

“You seemed happy to see me,” Stiles prompted. “Shocked, but happy.”

“I… I missed you,” Derek admitted, before correcting himself, “I miss you.”

“Have you tried—I don’t know—calling?” Stiles asked.

“And say what? ‘Hi, Stiles, it’s Derek. I know we haven’t talked since your best friend died and I know that you blame me for what happened—I blame me too—but I just wanted to tell you that I like you and I miss you’.”

Stiles blinked in surprise. “You like me?”

A second later, Derek seemed to realise what he’d said. His eyes widened and his face flushed red.

“As in friend-like or like like?” Stiles prompted.

“God, you’re so immature,” Derek huffed.

“Well?”

“I love you,” Derek blurted out. “I’ve loved you since I first met you, but I’ve never been able to find the words to tell you… Well, not you… You know what I mean.”

Derek looked down at his feet, unable to meet Stiles’ gaze.

Stiles drew in a deep breath, fighting the smile that played across his lips. “Look, I don’t know your Stiles, but if he’s anything like me then he’ll think the same thing I do; Peter killed Scott, not you—I don’t think I’d blame you for that. And, secondly, if your Stiles feels the same way about you as I do about my Derek, then you have nothing to worry about.”

Derek looked at him, shocked.

Stiles let a soft smile creep onto his face as he met Derek’s gaze.

Derek let out a breathless chuckle, bowing his head as a rosy pink blush coloured his cheeks.

“You should get some rest,” Derek told him.

“Only if you promise to call me in the morning,” Stiles said, already kicking off his shoes and pulling a throw cushion under his head as he stretched his legs out across the couch. “Your me, I mean.”

“I promise,” Derek said quietly.

“And promise me that you’ll tell him how you feel about him,” Stiles added.

“I promise,” Derek repeated, a bashful smirk turning up the corners of his mouth.

Stiles let out a heavy breath, exhaustion finally taking its toll as fatigue dragged him down into sleep.

Derek stood up from the armchair and grabbed the blanket that was tossed over the back of the sofa, laying it over Stiles before retiring to his bedroom for the night.

Stiles slowly blinked his eyes open, the room bathed in the golden morning light.

He groaned, squinting against the light that streamed through the wall of large windows. He turned his face into the cushion he was using as a pillow, letting the soft cotton muffle his groan.

He took a moment to let himself wake up fully before begrudgingly pushing himself upright, the blanket pooling around his waist as he sat up on the couch.

He looked across the loft to where Derek sat on the corner of his bed, holding his phone up to his ear and talking softly.

A small smile turned up the corners of Stiles’ lips.

Derek seemed to notice he was awake, quietly saying goodbye before hanging up. He slid his phone into his pocket as he stood up and stepped over Stiles’ side.

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

“Better,” Stiles replied. “Thanks.”

He kicked his legs free of the blanket, folding it up and laying it over the back of the couch.

“How’d the phone call go?” Stiles asked. “I’m guessing that was me you were talking to.”

“Yes, it was,” Derek answered. “And it went well, all things considered.”

Stiles raised an eyebrow inquisitively, prompting Derek to continue.

“My Stiles is more like you than I realised,” Derek replied.

“I told you so,” Stiles said teasingly, a mischievous – and slightly smug – smile playing across his lips.

“He invited me to go visit him in Poland,” Derek said.

“And you told him how you feel about him?” Stiles asked.

A soft blush coloured Derek’s cheeks. “Yes.”

“Good,” Stiles said, pulling on his shoes and rising to his feet.

Derek let out a sigh, raking his fingers through his hair. “I guess you’ll be going, huh?”

“I should really get back,” Stiles replied.

Derek nodded. “Before you do, I think you ought to know, if your Derek is anything like me, the feeling is mutual.”

Stiles smiled back at him.

He held up his hands, sparks of white light dancing about his fingers before shooting up his arm. The air around him began to buzz with electricity.

A blinding light appeared and Stiles shut his eyes, trying to focus on where he was going—home.

He took a step forward, falling into the nothingness.

He threw himself into reality, stumbling over his own feet as he fell forward.

A pair of strong arms caught him before he hit the ground.

“Easy, easy,” a familiar voice said softly as they helped Stiles steady himself on his feet. “Are you alright?”

His head was spinning, his stomach twisted in knots as he tried to steady his breathing. He blinked, clearing his vision, and looked up at the man.

He was dressed in a dark green Henley and a worn leather jacket. His wide-set eyes were pale, the colour of his irises shifted in the glow of the morning light; from hazel to green, to a shade of light blue – clear, bright and focused. A look of worry passed over his face as he met Stiles’ gaze.

“Derek,” Stiles said quietly, feeling the warm trickle of blood drip from his nose.

“Take it easy. Here, sit down.” Derek guided him over to the couch, helping him sit before hurrying to the kitchen to get a glass of water.

“Tell me… Give me a brief summary of what’s happened since we met,” Stiles said, using the sleeve of his jacket to wipe away the blood that streamed from his nose.

“Why?” Derek asked.

“Humour me.”

Derek’s brow furrowed in confusion, but nonetheless, he began to lay it all out—Peter bit Scott, Derek killed Peter and became an alpha, Scott became a true alpha, they built their packs, and Stiles discovered he was a spark.

He was back.

He was home.

Stiles let out a heavy sigh, sinking back against the cushions of the couch.

“Are you going to tell me why you needed to know that?” Derek asked.

“Because I just discovered that multiverse theory is real,” Stiles explained half-heartedly.

“Okay,” Derek started slowly. “For a second, let’s pretend that I understood what you mean by that.”

“I jumped back in time and then jumped forward again into the wrong timeline,” Stiles said quietly, lifting his arm to shield his face from the light. “But I’m back.”

Stiles bolted upright.

“I should probably tell Scott and my dad that I’m back.”

“I’ll call them and let them know,” Derek said softly, gently encouraging Stiles to lie down on the couch. “Right now, you need to rest.”

“Okay,” Stiles said weakly, laying down on his side.

Derek drew the curtains shut, blocking out the glaring light that streamed through the large windows.

“You know…” Stiles uttered sleepily. “I never got the chance to tell you…”

“Tell me what?” Derek asked.

“I like you,” Stiles admitted, his eyes drifting shut as exhaustion pulled at him. “As in like like you.”

He heard Derek chuckle breathlessly.

Derek stepped back over to his side and leant forward. He pressed a tender kiss to Stiles’ cheek. “I like like you too.”

A soft smile turned up the corners of Stiles lips.

“We’ll talk about it when you wake up,” Derek promised, unable to fight the smile that crept onto his face. “I’ll call your dad and let him know you’re okay. You just get some rest.”

“Okay,” Stiles whispered, letting his mind drift away as he slipped into sleep.

[AO3]

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b-does-the-write-thing · 6 years ago

Text

The Demon Earl’s Deal, A Rumbelle Big Bang Fic

With the fate of Avonlea in the balance, Belle French will do anything to save her village, including making a deal with the Demon Earl of Lonsdale himself.

This story is part of @rumbellebigbang . A huge thank you to the runners of this great program as well as to my partner @rumpledspinster . She was a wonderful partner throughout the process and continually surprised and delighted me with her scene interpretations, fresh ideas and supported me every step of the journey. You can see her artwork for this story here.

Chapter One

Wales, March 1810

Everyone in Avonlea knew the story of the Demon Earl.

Robert Gold had first appeared at Askham Hall as a young child to everyone’s surprise, including his father, Lord Malcolm Gold, Lord of Lonsdale. There was no use denying the parentage; the young boy was Malcolm’s spitting image.

The surprising series of events was chalked up to youthful indiscretions and the boy was promptly shipped off to boarding schools. Avonlea almost forgot about the Lord of Lonsdale’s bastard son entirely until the day when he had returned to Askham Hall as a wedded man with a bride on his arm.

The Demon Earl lasted less than a year before he decamped back to London. He left his young wife in Wales with her father-in-law and her new mother-in-law, a lady younger than she was.

Stories leaked out from Askham Hall about the devious debauchery Lord Robert engaged in while he was in London. Servants often noticed the ladies of the house in tears, and the Lord of Lonsdale in fits of rage over the reports in the paper about his son cutting a swath through every boudoir of London.

He ordered his errant son back home but less than a year later...Lord Malcolm Gold and his daughter-in-law were dead. Robert Gold disappeared the very same night and had not been heard from in four years.

Until today.

Standing along the path overlooking the valley, Belle French gazed out at Askham Hall. Smoke curled up from the chimneys which meant the rumors were true; after four years, the Lord of Lonsdale had finally come home.

No one had known where he had gone. There had been no word, no whisper, not even a mention of the errant lord in the society papers. So, of course, in his absence, speculation had run rampant throughout Avonlea.

Some said the new Lord Lonsdale had pledged his soul to the devil and had since been off cavorting with demons. Others whispered he had gone off to profit from Napoleon’s bloody war on the Continent, while the bolder among them insisted he had gone to sell secrets to the dictator himself in exchange for refuge in France.

Rumors varied from source to source but everyone agreed upon one thing: Lord Robert Gold, was capable of anything.

Which was why, despite all the horrific rumors, Belle was on her way to Askham Hall.

Gold had been home for less than twenty-four hours and he already felt buried alive. His solicitor, Sidney Glass, had been firm that he could not put this off any longer, so Gold had returned to Askham Hall to put an end to this chapter of his life, once and for all. If he was truly going to be free of his past, he had to sever the last tie, the matter of the estate.

The halls were too quiet. The few remaining servants avoided him, scurrying out of his way less he curse them. He had heard the whispers, he knew the rumors. If he occasionally began to mutter something under his breath in Greek, just to watch a maid hurry away in terror, it was only for a moment’s respite from the eyes following him from room to room.

The head of house was the sole exception. “My lord,” Dove announced as he swung open the bedroom’s door, uninvited and unannounced. “I’ve brought you up the tea you requested.”

Turning from the window, Gold frowned. “I don’t recall requesting anything, Dove.”

The older man bowed. “My apologies,” he said as he left the tray on the table. HIs eyes flickered in disapproval around the guest bedroom. “We’ve finished airing out the state chambers,” he declared. “Perhaps those would be more suitable?”

Gold flinched. He had no interest in using his father’s rooms. He would rather barricade the door entirely then so much as take a step inside. As for his old rooms, it had merely taken one look at his bed for the memories of Milah to return.

These past four years, he had managed to banish her from his mind but her ghost had been awaiting him in their marriage bed. So, he had retreated to a guest room on the other side of the manor.

Let the household gossip about his choice of rooms. It did not matter to him. He was only here long enough to break the trust, to sell these cursed stones and leave the ghosts to some other poor sod.

The head of house lingered, clearly about to make his case on why a lord should not be staying in these lesser rooms. Uninterested in a lecture, Gold brushed past Dove towards the door. “I’ll be in my study,” he grumbled.

Arriving in the study, Gold tried and failed to find something to occupy his time when a flash of amber caught his eye. A bottle of brandy had been left out with a tumbler nearby. He stared at it for a long moment, debating.

Finally, figuring he had nothing else to do, and facing down a long afternoon of boredom and painful memories, he uncapped the brandy and poured himself a tall glass. It may not be the answer, but it was a solution.

Despite growing up in Avonlea, Belle had never actually been this close to Askham Hall. The great stone facade sprawled in every direction against the horizon of the sky, the dark stone glistening in the spring sun as if alive.

Belle lingered upon the stairs, mustering her courage. She had no experience with lords or great houses, but there was no helping that now. Steeling her spine, she stepped to the knocker, raised up to indicate the master of the house was at home and knocked.

It reverberated in the inner caverns of the great house. Belle pulled self-consciously on her sleeve and reached up to fix her bonnet. She had taken time to arrange her appearance just so, but now that she was actually here, she felt undressed. It did not take long for the door to open to reveal a somber fellow, whom Belle recognized at once as Askham Hall’s head of house, Dove.

Everyone in Avonlea knew the skeleton staff still employed by the errant lord; they were fortunate compared to the rest of Avonlea, with steady pay and lodgings while the rest of Avonlea had declined in the years that had followed the tragedies.

“Good afternoon,” Belle greeted. “I’m here to speak to Lord Lonsdale.”

The head of house recognized her as well. Being the town’s schoolmistress lent her a certain air of notoriety. “Miss French,” he said, though he did not open the door. “I don’t believe his lordship is receiving anyone today.”

She had not expected to be turned away at the door. She felt a bit silly that she had not considered that possibility. She plastered her best smile upon her face. “It’s a simple matter,” she said, which was not exactly true. “Perhaps Lord Lonsdale has just a moment?”

Dove wavered but with a slight tilt of his head, he gestured for her to follow after him. The hall was as great as Belle had expected. It was white marble with a great chandelier hanging overhead, glistening in the early spring sunlight but there was an unearthly stillness as if the hall was awaiting something.

Dove escorted Belle down a long corridor. Every room they passed showed signs of neglect and age, cluttered and crammed with furnishings. It was a shame to see such a beautiful house brought low but if the rumors were to be believed, this house had seen terrible things and perhaps it was for the best.

Caught up in staring at her surroundings, Belle almost walked straight into Dove when he stopped to open the library door. “Miss Belle French to see you, my lord,” Dove announced without so much as a look back at her.

Belle did not give the earl a chance to refuse to admit her. Seizing her courage, she walked straight past Dove into the library.- only to falter at the sight before her.

She hadn’t known what she expected the Demon Earl to look like, but it was not this. The earl was standing at a window, clad only in his shirt sleeves. The sun cut through the thin fabric to show the planes and lines of his frame beneath the muslin.

He was not a particularly physically intimidating man but there was a stillness about him, an air of power, that proved that this was indeed the man who had spawned so many legends in Avonlea. He was not a typically handsome man but there was something about him that drew the eye, invited one to look closer.

The door closed behind her as Dove departed. Jolted out of her reverie, Belle turned back to the door, rather wishing the head of house had lingered. Belle had never spoken to a member of the peerage before and suddenly felt wrong-footed, uncertain where to start.

When she did not speak, the earl lifted an eyebrow at her. “And who would you be?”

“Belle French, my lord.”

He waved his arm, the glass in his hand catching the sunlight. “Yes, I know that, Miss French, as you were just announced mere seconds ago. I meant who are you to me? It is considered the highest of impropriety for a lady to call upon a lord unaccompanied without so much as an introduction.”

Biting back an angry retort, she managed, “I’m the schoolmistress in Avonlea.”

“Ah.” Gold waved his hand and turned back to the window. “Barely home a day and already they come knocking,” he muttered to himself before saying loudly for her benefit,” I assume you are here seeking funds for a worthy cause. I’d advise you to have your husband or father apply to my steward in the future rather than inconveniencing me. Good day, Miss French.”

At his curt dismissal, Belle’s temper flickered and caught. “I am unwed and my father has been dead and buried ten years this August. Besides, this is not some simple matter for your steward, my lord.”

“It never is,” he said over his shoulder. He strolled over a decanter-covered cabinet and refilled the glass in his hand. “Everyone thinks their matters are too important for a steward. I wonder what I pay him for. ”

“Lord Lonsdale,” Belle said, starting again. ”I’m here because the people of Avonlea are suffering, and you are the only one in a position to help them. It will cost you little in time or money.”

“I don’t care how little it costs,” Gold snapped. “I don’t want anything to do with your village or the people in it. Which includes you.” He gestured toward the door. “So, I suggest you leave before things get uncivil.”

From her perspective, things were already uncivil, so Belle did not see that as a reason to leave. She gave up on any niceties, planting her hands on her hips. “I am not asking for your help, I am demanding it as your role of lord requires of you. Now, shall I explain now or wait for you in the parlor until you are sober?”

Lord Gold lowered his glass. “I wouldn’t speak to me like that if I were you,” he warned as he took a step closer. “Last I checked, you were in my home. Have a care how you speak to me.”

Belle had prepared for a certain level of antagonism and had meant to meet it with a calm, level head but as usual, her temper was starting to get a hold of her. “Your father was a good man,” Belle reminded him. “He did a great deal for the people of Avonlea. The poor fund, the chapel-”

“I am not my father.”

She had touched a nerve. Belle crossed her arms and blustered, “No, it appears the apple has fallen rather far from the tree. Since you have inherited, you haven’t done a thing for the estate or the village.”

“Nor do I intend to,” he picked his drink back up and finished it in one swallow.

He meant it too.

“How can you say such a thing?” she asked him. “No one is that heartless.”

Gold smiled. “Miss French, your innocence is touching.” He leaned against the edge of his table and crossed his arms. “You had best depart before I shatter any of your other dearly beloved illusions.”

She gaped at him. “Don’t you care that people are suffering?”

Gold thought for a moment. “No.”

“What would change your mind?” Belle pressed him. She had not come all this way to just give up

Gold waved his hand. “My help is not available for any price you would be willing to pay.”

“How can I know that unless you name your price?”

This caught his attention. He stilled and the air in the room shifted. “You want to make a deal?” he drawled, taking a step closer to her. He crooked a finger and beckoned her closer. “And what exactly do you have to offer, Miss French?”

Too late, Belle realized what could be insinuated from her reckless words. A flush spread across her face but she tried not to avert her eyes from his smug countenance as he sat upon the desk.

When she could not find her voice, Gold stood, victorious. “I fail to see why I should spend my time and energy when there is nothing in it for me.” He retrieved his glass and poured himself another glass of brandy, returning to the other side of the desk. “Close the door on your way out, Miss French.”

Belle was tempted to do just that, but she had to try one last time, not for her sake but for the sake of Avonlea. “I will not leave until you have named a price for your aid.”

The Demon Earl stared back at her, his face an impassive mask. ‘You will not like my answer.”

No, she rather thought she wouldn’t. Still. “At least name your cost.”

A shadow crossed his face, calculating and triumphant. “I’ll name my price, but it’s one I’m confident that you will refuse to pay.”

“What is it?” she asked warily.

“What I want,” he paused for a deep drink of brandy, “is you.”

Read the rest on A03

#rumbelle fic #rumbelle big bang #rumpledspinister #rumbelle regency

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mrmidnightblog · 6 years ago

Text

I am this house

This old home stood outside the town, far off from anyone else from the town. Almost hidden away from the world surrounded by a thick forest. This old home was made with blood, and sweet. The old shingles were beginning to rot, the steps are creaking, with each step. This place had been around from even before the town was built, or when the trees were first planted. The crows made their home in the gutters, and the cold attic, then there was the sky. It was filled with stars and the lack of smog from the city. This made the moon look exceptionally brighter, on those clear nights. In this old home, no living beings lived there. Though I reside in there. I am the spirit who resides in there and have been for over eighty years, but I can not remember my name o even my age, it’s been far too long. Though most nights I lay dormant but that was when I heard- No I could feel. The creaking of my front door, someone was coming into my domain. Then there was the sound of soft footsteps entering, there was a long echo as they moved deeper inside me.

“God this place is so creepy.” It was a feminine voice as far as I could tell as she walked through my doors going deeper within me. I can fully envision her than. The girl is tall, slim, and well kept she seemed prim and proper with long golden locks of hair that went down her back. I find it odd how she seemed to be wearing so little and rather revealing cloths. I would try and describe all she had or rather lacked but, I’m soon distracted when more footsteps walked on in through the doors

“Yeah but come on Sarah isn’t it great!” This voice was male, walking on through where I could finally see him, he had short black hair, while wearing a heavy black coat. He was holding something it looks strange, almost alien like to me, It pointed towards the girl as he laughed; “Just relax, and smile for the camera ok.” So that’s what it was, this seemed strange to me especially remembering how Camera’s had looked back when I was a kid. It makes me wonder what year is it? What has happened with the world since I’d died? These are some questions I know I’ll never truly know. The girl whose name was Sarah, walked towards one of the walls, where she stood before one of the paintings, it was the picture of Richard Leeburgson.

Richard Leeburgson was one of the previous owners of this estate he was here before I had inherited this house. While his portrait was on the wall his eyes were watching them and so I could see through them like they were my eyes; “Is it me or are those eyes following me, Zack?” Sarah muttered before looking over to the one finally identified as Zack… Zack, it’s a strange name but it feels so familiar, yet I couldn’t put my mind to it.

“Maybe it’s one of the ghost’s here, or maybe it’s Old man Richard. They say he used to take kids and chop him up into little pieces before he hung himself one night.” Zack exclaimed his voice was calm and soft but when he was sneaking behind Sarah his voice boomed louder as he groped her bosom. Sarah reacted by snacking him on his cheek. Good for her in my opinion. This home may have a dark history that was written in blood, Richard Leeburgson was not a child killer, he cared for children and loved them with a passion, especially his daughter when she took the mantle before me, he was devastated. That had ultimately caused him to end his life. As for the body roomer, there was none hidden in the walls that some unknown killer placed in there himself.

The only body in this place laid in the basement is my own skeleton. It still laid there waiting till the day someone might find it one day. Oh, I’m deeply sorry readers I seemed to have gotten lost in my train of thoughts. I’ll get back to where I was before. These two Zack and Sarah walked on through the parliament looking at nearly every nook and cranny.

“Sarah I’m telling you we’ll be getting a shit ton of viewers on Youtube!” “Maybe but we’re trespassing, we’ll end up getting in trouble!”

“Oh, come on relax beside no one even knows we’re even here. It’ll be great, trust me.”

Zack would move right next to her bumping his thigh against hers while examining a couch that was molded and on top of a red carpet. It stood before an old black fireplace. This part of the conversation had managed to catch my attention. They would be the only ones here, and no one knew. This is simply perfect, My gaze though another painting whose eyes followed their every move. They were standing before the fireplace which if I wanted to, I could give it life with just a flicker of a small flame. The spectral heat that could fill me with warmth, but I’ll have to wait. I don’t care to scare them this quickly after all if I did, they might run off before I might do the deed. Besides the art of horror, from what I heard takes time as it needed to simmer never boiled.

The first thing I did was lock every door that could lead them outside and making all the windows stick so it would keep them from escaping too soon You might wonder why I would do something like this trapping them, well I’ll explain. My soul is trapped here, like the last resident who haunted this home. A soul is needed to take my place, so I may leave this a cursed place. It’s the only way sadly when I became the spirit of this home, I was given the knowledge of its bloody secrets and dark past.

The spirit before me was a young man who was killed by the only woman he ever loved, she was driven insane by the spirit who came before him making her think that he had cheated on her with someone else. The spirit that did that was a bride who hung herself she had been raped by her father-in-law while her husband watched. That death had been caused by the spirit of a young girl who was beheaded, so many spirits have walked these halls, and death of another can only release the old spirits. So if I’m able to be free another must die for that this is our curse our suffering. Then the fact of what kind of soul it had to be it must be a human soul.

This might be my only chance. I pondered watching the two-plunder free my kitchen, Zack looking on from that camera device. Talking about this place telling some actual history this is surprising. I made the Windows slowly open unnoticed from behind with much glee letting the rasped wind coming in making the sounds of moaning and the iron pans against the wall clinking against each other to give the impressions of chains.

“Did you hear that?” Sarah called out her voice echoing throughout the room while Zach only laughed; “come on it’s clearly the wind, or maybe it’s old man Richard from beyond the grave.” Zack only marked more and soon I felt closer to doing the deed myself, then slightly levitating up and I forced it to the ground causing a loud bang. This makes Sarah scream with right looking around her flashlight being mean towards the direction of the pan her hand shaking I can almost smell her fear.

“Oh, for Pete’s sake Sarah just relax it’s just a pan that fell God you’re such a chicken.” The boy calls out the Sarah just shakes in her shoes, I can feel it and soon makes the room drop-down in temperature making it colder. “Let’s just go we’ve got enough footage was just get home that this place is just getting weirder.” Oh, how little she knew this was just the beginning.

“Oh come on babe, just another hour and we’ll go. I’ll do that saying you lie.” Zack gave a sly grin and Sarah almost giggled a little bit at his begging, but how she looked at him for a minute, just pondering of what to do so she finally gave in and nodded in agreement. “Fine but I’m tying you up.” Before walking off Zack follows sip followed behind checking out her behind.

They walked up the stairs which I’d proceeded to cause him to give a loud Erie Creek that echoed out from the house. If I needed to or even wanted to, I could cause the woods the cave in from their weight alone. But not yet, it was way too soon. They walked on for till he reached the final step in they went to the first bedroom they saw. If the master bedroom which one cell passion and loving embrace, but all that was in there were cold and loneliness with the only lovemaking coming from the rodents in heat while they bred. They walked around examining whatever they could that was still in this room for all there really was a bad without sheets stainless something unidentifiable out in the corner and the table at times sounded like the ravings of Raven’s when the drawers pulled open and closed soon I realized – no I could remember that window still open going in the wind pushing the curtains into the air looking like a phantom whisking away: “You know what Sarah this place is in the unit scary.” Zack mocked before sitting on the molding bad. His smirk getting wider reminding me of a cat. Sarah looked at him leaning on the desk causing the furniture to slide back and I could feel it scrape against my floors.

“So what are you planning there Zack?” Her eyebrows arching out she looked suspicious, but Zack only smirked more. “Come on sweetie, just relax for all alone just the two of us maybe I can thank you right here.”

The way he smiled was driving me nuts but the girl laughter I have a feeling she’ll make it for the night... Maybe. “Zack, I swear you’ve got some balls on you.”

Sarah walked towards him slowly her hips swaying almost suggestively, I’ve seen this movement once or twice, as it happened by others who’ve gone through the house, though at those points I never felt the courage to do the dead, and at most would scare them off in the middle of their lustful wants. She had gotten close to his face to face before laying a small kiss on his nose as his face would turn into a gentler smile. The two seemed so relaxed ready to make the next move, and I took it. The window slammed down hard, as it gave out a very loud bang, catching them the two-off guard, even I was surprised that I didn’t accidentally break the window with how hard I did. Who knows how far the sound went off. As it reminded me of the sound of a rifle going off.

Then it was followed up with a loud scream as poor Sarah jumped into the air exclaiming; “Jesus fucking Christ!” I soon began to hear her heart pounding, hard, the sound was truly sweetening. She would turn around and grab her flashlight and turned off towards the door, saying almost rapidly.

“That’s it! I’m going! Come on Zack I’m sick of this, if you want to fuck bad enough, we’ll do It in the back of your car!” She was rather determined at this point as she grabbed the door handle and walked out. This was a realization to me seeing her walk off, she was going to try and leave the house. It was too soon, There was much to do. Even with the doors locked she could break a window. She could find some way out, even I couldn’t keep place built up for long. Especially if they found one of the secret passages that lead outside. The two would eventually escape if I wasn’t careful enough, and this was something I would not allow.

“I can’t stay in this place a minute longer!” She screamed now walking out of the door, Zack begins to follow her. There I made the rafter creak and making the nails come out of their holes, until it had finally given out. The wood falling, as it slammed right into Zack’s head. It knocked him down onto the floor. He was still breathing and was very much alive. Sarah looked back seeing this which made her scream loud, calling out to him. “Zack are you ok!” She called out but as she stepped towards him going back up the stairs, they finally collapsed under her own weight causing her to fall. I begin watching her going down the stairs, she was groaning and grunting till she made it to the bottom of the floor, She seemed ok but her leg was clearly broken and bending sideways, I think I could see the bone sticking out. She tried moving through her expression was filled with unimaginable pain.

“Oh god Sarah, whats happened.” Zack moaned loudly as he dragged himself over to the end of the stairs his head bleeding, he couldn’t hold the camera, as he looked to her his own vision blurring.

“Zack, I’m not ok my legs broken oh god! It hurts so much, We need help!”

“I-I’ll go-go get help Sarah, just weight here.” He would call out to her, his voice slurring with each syllable, He stumbled down the stairs trying to get down the stairs to her, which he manages to do and heads to the door. “God, why did we leave our phones out in the car!” Sarah said as Zack was reaching over to grab the door to escape and get help but since the door was locked at this point, he would never escape. He’ll try and try but it’s clear he was going to pass out sooner or later, It was only a matter of time; “Wh-Whats going on I know this door wasn’t locked before!” Zack was beginning to scream his hands slamming into the door. The crows in the Attic crowing as they flew off into the night. There I would suddenly cause one of the doors to slowly creak. This manages to catch his attention and would begin to run towards it not paying attention.

Slinging the door open, As he would begin running in without thinking. This makes me wish I knew what he was thinking maybe he thought he was going into the kitchen for the back door, but its hard to tell that’s for sure. But if that was the case, he was surely wrong. He ran into the darkness and found himself falling into it. Zack would tumble down, landing into the basement. There was nothing in there not even stairs as they’d collapsed down on itself a long time ago. The only thing in thee with Zack was one thing a set of bones, my bones to be exact, from over eighty years ago. I could hear his bones cracking I felt his blood flowing through the brick floor.

I say he doesn’t have long left, maybe three days, at the most for Sarah I don’t know maybe she’ll survive, Only the good lord knows. But for Zack he had the pale moonlight rested on him, and I begin to slowly close it for him leaving him in the dark. It doesn’t matter to me who dies first, for I was once this house, and I will not be for long

The end

#Horror #Mr.Midnight #Stories #writers #writting #Ghost stories #Haunting #Houses

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tsw-story · 7 years ago

Text

Chapter 74 - Face to Faceless

Only the girl's neck to her head—covered with golden locks—was visible in the mirror due to her stature, so she had to step on the tips of her toes occasionally to see the ends. This normally didn't bother her, but her fury had grown hotter with each passing day. Her best friend, which she referred to affectionately as a sister, had been taken away, and not only that but they failed against Eldrian's friends, and were thrown aside by Tyreth.

All she truly wanted was princess-status, with unlimited wealth and daily praise. Was that so much to ask? Instead, she still lived in the same run-down house, but alone.

What bothered her even more was that her pendant, the one with a skull and crescent moon, was stolen. She was using it to puppet skeletons she dug up from the local cemetery, but one corpse moved on its own. It stormed away with the necklace around its neck. So she was out a sister and a magic item.

She moved to her study, which was a messy desk in the corner of her bedroom. Tomes were opened all over the surface and floor in hopes she would find a way to find her lost pendant. Every day was spent studying with intensity.

That day was no different. Hours passed, and her eyes ached.

“This has to be it.” Nobody was around yet she spoke aloud. Deep down she thought that maybe Alchia would here her, even if when she looked there was nobody behind her. “I've tried spell after spell, but deep down, I knew there was some kind of magic that could track that thing!”

She muttered a tongue, one from tens of thousands of years ago, and brought both hands up into the sky. Strands of starlight coiled around her limbs to bounce between the tips of her fingers. In her eyes was a gaze to somewhere else entirely. It wasn't the ceiling above her, but a galaxy of black with dots of white. Then she snapped back.

“Is it gone? No. I can feel it. I think I can do it now. I can do it, Alchia! I'll track down my treasure, and then I'll use it to take you back.”

She flopped back down into her seat. She began to think beyond such a brash decision. If she was beaten once, she'd have no chance doing it alone. Her sister was the only friend she had in the world, especially due to their selfish acts. There wasn't much she could think to do.

Her hand flicked up into the air. From a nearby table, her phone swooshed directly into her grip, and she swiped her finger across it.

“I can't do this anymore,” Poppet muttered to herself. “I can't sit here and do nothing while everything falls apart, but the only solution I can think of is too painful. There's no way I can do it again.”

A window was already open in her browser. She had spend time researching a local young man in order to find his number, which was a peace of cake through the power of technology, and people willingly giving away their private information online. There was a face—one with orange hair, freckles, and a tuft of hair on his chin.

Poppet's hand was trembling. Would they even help her? It's possible they'd try to turn her in, after all the things she'd done, especially with Tyreth.

Tears pooled around her eyes moments before she began to bawl. Her face was soon soaked, and with her phone squeezed between her fingers, she shouted, “I don't know what else to do!” She then did something she never thought she would do. Poppet dialled the number to beg for help.

The ringing was torturous. Thoughts raced through her mind, such as what she would ask, or how she'd respond to rejection. Parts of her wanted nobody to pick up while others were crying out for the opposite.

It clicked. “Yeah? Who is this? I don't have you on my phone, so if you're a telemarketer...” Kevin said on the other end.

His voice caused her to shake. Normally, she could speak without hesitation, but at that moment, it was like her mouth was filled with peanut butter.

“Hello?” Kevin asked again.

“Hi!” she blurted out. “I don't know if you remember me, but I need to talk to you.”

“All right. But, who?”

Her index finger drew circles on the desk. “You know the cute, beautiful, clever girl with the most amazing blond hair and skill in magic that was working with her sister to fight against you and your friends?”

Kevin lowered his brow. She certainly had a high opinion of herself. “Yeah. With Tyreth.”

“Since he threw us away like trash and they stole my Alchia from me, I've been thinking a lot, and I just wanted to ask for a favour.”

“You want a favour? Wouldn't you owe us a favour?”

“No! I need your help to find my amulet so that I can raise an army of skeletons to steal back my best friend in the whole wide world!”

He paused. “A lot of what you said is convincing me to hang up.”

“Hey. Who are you talking to?” Eldrian asked from a distance.

“That girl that you said stuck magic strings in your body and controlled you.”

“Poppet? Put her on speaker phone.”

After some fumbling, she heard the wizard's voice once more, though it was much easier to understand with him sitting beside his friend. She grew even more nervous with both of them there.

“Hi,” Eldrian said.

Kevin shouted in his ear. “Can't you show a little bit of surprise when someone who tries to kill you then calls you up on the phone?”

“Can you use your inside voice?”

Poppet cleared her throat. “Yes. It's me. I haven't been doing well, and I'm kinda out of ideas. Kevin. Eldrian. I need your help. Just to get my amulet back. Please. See, I can normally use my strings to puppet bodies, but with the necklace, I can have it happen remotely. So tons of bodies can move autonomously. That's what I was doing when I first met your friends.”

“Fine.” Eldrian turned to his friend. “Don't freak out, Kev. Right now, somebody has that trinket. It doesn't matter who's asking us to get it back. There could be somebody much worse out there right now, raising an army of the undead.”

Kevin sighed. “You're right. We should put a stop to it before people die.”

“I was never going to kill people, you know!” Poppet yelled. “We just wanted to live a luxurious lifestyle. They were going to be my servants.”

After a pause, Eldrian leaned towards the phone and spoke. “Listen. Poppet. The fact that what you were doing is pretty bad aside, you know how foolish that would be, don't you? If your sister is gone... Well, you know what would happen if you started parading skeletons around. You'd be next.”

Poppet puffed out her cheeks. She clenched her teeth, knowing full well he was right, but she didn't want to accept it. “Are you going to help me or not?”

“I said I would. Let's do it. Do you have any idea how we can find it?”

“I do. I'm willing to bet we could find it by nightfall.”

***

Darkness descended upon the city of Edmonton. While life still bloomed within the heart of the city itself, blocking out the starts with a pollution of light, where they stood no such thing existed. The tip of the sun still held over the horizon, and that was all they had to see, far into the tree-covered hills. They were such a distance away that they barely could see the city in the distance.

In Kevin's hand was Drodias, the magic blue sword, but his new artifact was with him as well—a red and gold heater shield with a moose drawn on the face. Next to him, Eldrian wielded the Staff of Lightning.

“My grandfather's shield will protect us,” Kevin stated proudly.

Eldrian eyed it over. “I still think that's super cool. So he was a spellbreaker most likely, huh? I wonder what he did. What kind of person he was.”

“No idea. My parents had no idea.”

Poppet led the charge with her hands held forward. The magic presence of her treasure grew closer as they stepped that direction. “Come, servants. We're closer.”

“Don't call us that. You owe us.” Eldrian rolled his eyes.

“Hush. There. Between the trees, there lurks the damn thief that took it from me! We just need to head in and find him. Be on your guard. He freaks me out.”

The three of them moved carefully between the trunks and branches. Up ahead, they saw a clearing, and headed toward it. It opened up to a fallen tree in the center, where a shadowy figure was lurking.

There, Skello sat. His head was down, but at the noise of their entrance, his rotten, skeletal face turned up with a hollow gaze. His body was wrapped in a robe, and beside him rested a farming scythe. It truly did look like instead of it finding them, they found Death.

“What the hell is that?” Kevin whispered. “A demon?”

“Hey! Who are you?” Eldrian spoke loudly. “Do you happen to have a pendant around your neck?”

A single boney finger came up to pull back the hood, unleashing a mess of stringy black hair. He spoke with a deep, gritty voice that brought a shiver down their spines.

“You,” Skello muttered. He pointed at Eldrian.

“Me?”

The skeleton shook his head. “Sorry. Who are you? All of you, I mean. Wait. I remember the girl. She helped me wake up, but then she wanted to control me. No, no. That wasn't going to happen.”

Poppet stomped. “Hey you big jerk! Give me back my treasure!”

“Treasure?”

“The necklace. It belongs to me, and you walked off with it that night!”

He reached down into his robes, pulled up the chain, and guided it up and over his head. It dangled between his fingers—the pendant swinging left and right. “This? I was wondering what this was. I almost forgot it was there.”

It was Eldrian's turn to step forwards. “What are you?”

Skello paused. “I don't know. I guess I'm Skello. But am I? I've forgotten. Now I just follow my mind, and it doesn't work so well anymore. Did you know that I'm evil? All the way through. Not a good bone in my skeleton. I'll steal every kidney in the world and make a giant organ statue of myself.”

“I'd rather you didn't,” Eldrian replied, and cringed. “Are you admitting to me right now that you're going to go around killing people? Because we need to stop you if that's the case.”

He dropped the pendant to the ground. “Take it. I can see you're able to track it, so I shouldn't have it anymore.” Then, he stood up from the log, grabbed his scythe, and started to walk the opposite direction.

“Oh no you don't!” Eldrian swung forward his staff. From the tip, a small bolt of lightning fired like a cannon towards the back of the creature.

Skello spun, and raised a hand to absorb the spell with a magic ward.

“He's a wizard!” Kevin shouted.

Eldrian was taken aback. “That's impossible. Demons can't cast spells. It must just be a natural ability.”

They were so surprised that they barely noticed the door appear behind it. It was surprisingly simple—old wood, dark, and English in design. If it hadn't come from him, Eldrian would expect the wizard to be a kind old British gentleman. It creaked open to a cave on the other side.

“Stop!” Eldrian leapt forward but the door slammed shut in his face. It vanished quickly after. “What the hell?”

“Who was that?” Kevin muttered.

Meanwhile, Poppet was snuggling the face of the pendant against her cheek.

Eldrian turned back. “That freaked the heck out of me. I don't know who that was, or what that was, but at least he gave the necklace back. Though now we couldn't track him down if we wanted to. Poppet? Don't go around digging up more skeletons.”

“You're not the boss of me!”

“Do you want the government's hunters to drag you away?”

She pouted.

He shot a glance to Kevin. “That could have been one of the demons Lucy was talking about. We can't take the chance. We need to report to her, and hunt that thing down, before people lose their... kidneys?”

“Uh. Eldrian? You might want to look at this.” Kevin held up his phone.

They stared at the screen in terror as they saw a serious of news articles Kevin brought up. There was a series of murders apparently, with the few bystanders that managed to see claiming it was the Grim Reaper himself. Many of them were missing body parts, namely kidneys. The mass murderer was yet to be found.

#action #adventure #story #serial #fiction #fantasy #web serial #high fantasy #earth #canada #alberta #edmonton #magic

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