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adhdfixations · 3 years ago

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Ink and Ingress

@plugnuts had an amazing prompt yesterday that sent me into a spiral and I had to write it out I'm not sorry. I don't think I've written fanfiction since... gosh, maybe 2014. I'm literally a published poet, but heaven forbid I write anything else haha.

2,400 words, no warnings apply. Dipper Pines x Wirt pairing.

Wirt finds himself at the receiving end of a variety of unusual letters from a Dipper Pines, and, while he isn't sure how he got them, he wants to make sure Dipper gets a worthy reply.

7:45 in the morning.

He stood at his window, watching the sky quietly. He’s never awake this early, but he needed to know. The strange, battered journals lay at the foot of the bed next to him, one open to a hand-drawn page of dinosaurs preserved in amber. He glanced down, breaking his intense concentration for just a moment, to look at the scribbled handwriting telling the fantastical story of underground pterodactyl chases and a heroic rescue of a pet pig. He looked back quickly to scan the sky again, his mind still filled with that handwriting. He hummed in nervous thought.

It’s been nearly six months since the journals fell from the sky. Absently, he rubbed the top of his head, fluffing his already ruffled sienna hair as he remembered the sting of the book dropping directly onto his head. He had yelled and turned to look behind him, expecting to see Greg, but his kid brother was still inside, loudly playing a set of toy drums. The second journal had fallen, then. He had looked up just in time to see the third. If he didn’t, he might have assumed someone was pulling a prank. The contents of the journals, although wildly improbable, felt a little more believable after seeing them fall from the clouds.

He wanted to believe them. The monsters were sometimes scary, sure, but he wanted to believe they were real anyway. Because he wanted to believe he was real. The author.

Dipper Pines.

Young, at least at the time of writing. The dates on the journal suggested they were about two years old now, which put him at about the same age as Wirt. The drawings of himself heroically fighting off a monstrous “gremloblin,” the intense detailed records of ghosts and vicious psychic children, and an unbelievable Mystery Shack mega-robot fight against an all-powerful demon absolutely entranced him. He had spent days – weeks – pouring over the journals in quiet, reserved awe. His love for his family apparent, his desire to help others bold, his bravery a beacon, and his fantastic storytelling… it made Wirt, in some way, feel a newfound hope.

The Unknown had been terrifying for Wirt. Greg reminisced on the good parts – helping a school of animals and playing with a band of frogs. He didn’t talk much about the more horrifying parts of the purgatory they had found themselves in nearly a year ago. The only time the now 7-year-old would acknowledge it was after his occasional nightmares, when Wirt would come running into his room to console him. But Wirt couldn’t focus on the fun Greg had. Every time he thought about any part of The Unknown, his mind would immediately turn to Lorna’s horrifying teeth, or Enoch’s looming frame, or The Beast’s cold, vicious eyes. He felt, then, truly alone. No one else would bear the weight of what he had witnessed.

But maybe Dipper would.

Wirt, in some disconcerting way, began to fall for the author. He liked the more educated, informal musings of Dr. Stanford Pines, of course, but Dipper had so much emotion. As he read, he would gently touch the letters written in blue pen, feel the slight indent it left on the paper, and try desperately to absorb what Dipper felt. It’s so much more personal, Wirt had mused to himself, to see someone’s thoughts when they write with the firm belief that no one else will ever read it. Dipper was erratic, at times, and spontaneous. He had goofy adventures with his twin sister, which Wirt was very fond of. She seemed to closely resemble Greg. It made him wonder if Dipper and Greg would get along. He liked to think so.

Wirt could see a lot of similarities between himself and the enigmatic Dipper Pines. His shy admittance to his great-uncle that his name was really Mason showed that he was still scared to be truly seen. Wirt’s heart had fluttered pleasantly over that detail, and he won’t admit to himself how much he liked the sound of Mason Pines. But he could also see – and appreciate – how different they were. Wirt believed himself cold against the world – at least for a while. When life got hard, he would hide. He wanted nothing more than to be a shadow; he wanted intangibility and insignificance. If no one saw him, he could avoid the inevitable confrontation when they became disappointed with what they saw. Dipper, however, wanted to scream at the world. He wanted to prove he was worth something, and that the things he has seen were real and that he was right. Where Wirt was a shadow, Dipper was brilliant, shining light.

Wirt lifted his eyes to his ceiling in mild mortification at that thought, his cheeks dusting pink. It’s a little embarrassing, he supposed, to love someone who may not even exist. He could be fictional – the musings of someone who wants to be someone they aren’t. He doesn’t even really know what he looks like. But he feels like it was inevitable – as inevitable as being hit on the head with the heavy book.

He had expected nothing after the journals fell. The last page of Journal 3 had a finality to it that had left him with the somber reality that he would never hear of the Pines’ again. The next Sunday, however, he had found a single, crumpled-up piece of lined paper. His heart had leapt into his throat and his hands had shaken when he recognized the writing. His joy had been overwhelming. He had refrained from taking the paper and hugging it to his chest like a love-stricken schoolboy. But only barely. The writing was simple. Still in his seemingly signature blue pen, in all capital letters, large and centered, was the single word, “TESTING.” What did it mean? Did Dipper know he had received the journals? Should he respond? How could he respond?

He had never seen anything actively fall since the journal that fell painfully on his head, but every Sunday he’d find more pieces of crumpled paper somewhere in their backyard. Sometimes other things would accompany Dipper’s letters. Once it was a small chest that Greg got to before Wirt did, and in a terrible accident Wirt will not think about, Greg managed to shatter the wooden chest completely, revealing a set of false golden teeth (which Wirt promptly threw away and made Greg wash his hands thoroughly afterwards). Another time was a single, dirty sock that looked much too large to belong to any teenager. The most recent was a bottle of a viscous, murky fluid in a clear bottle that Wirt had perched delicately on the top of a very tall shelf, out of the prying grabby hands of Greg (in an attempt to prevent the same catastrophe that is referred to as “The Chest Incident” at their house). He never bothered opening it, just afraid enough of the potential contents to keep it out of reach. He wasn’t sure if Dipper was dropping these things down, or if it was Dr. Pines.

The only thing he knew that belonged to Dipper was the writing. After the first letter, more came. Some looked like crumpled research and various advanced mathematical calculations that Wirt couldn’t even begin to understand (despite endless hours of searching online). Some were extensive, well-planned to-do lists that Wirt would get a chuckle out of. His current favorite is the “Plan to Keep Sev’ral Timez Out of Our Trash” and included a variety of uses of mouse traps that might have only been conceived by a mad scientist (why a formerly popular boy band that mysteriously dropped off the face of the earth was in Oregon rummaging through trash was beyond him completely). The ones he loved the most, though, were ones that Dipper seemed to pour his whole heart and soul out, just to crumple it up and throw it down what Wirt assumes to be the described “Bottomless Pit” at the end of Journal 3.

He liked to try to imagine Dipper quietly writing these fast-paced confessions of various things at the same time, every Sunday. Was that the only time he had alone to vent? Wirt almost felt guilty for reading them. They were so personal, he felt like he was reading someone else’s diary. And in a way, he was. But they were quite literally being placed in front of him, and his curiosity and admiration of Dipper Pines wasn’t going to let him simply throw them away.

The most recent was a confession of a nightmare he had the night before. The dream demon, Bill, was a major part of it, and seems to be the main antagonist of most of his nightmares. Dipper confesses on the paper that he struggles to find the separation between nightmare and reality, and Wirt’s heart aches with both the familiarity of the situation and the desperate, romantic part of him that wants to hold Dipper close and console him with gentle words and soft touches. To tell him he’s safe and loved.

Before this letter, Wirt had found an angrily scribbled page-long rant about Dipper’s twin sister. He claimed she was loud and obnoxious, but Wirt couldn’t find any malice in any of it. It simply sounded like an all-too-familiar sibling’s exasperation. At the bottom of the page, Dipper had hastily written, “I still love her, though. But don’t tell her I said that.” And Wirt had clutched the paper to his heart, stomach fluttering, and fell in love again. It felt, despite his good sense, like Dipper was personally trusting him with his secrets. He wanted to be worthy of that trust.

Throughout a several month period, there had been some hastily-written letters regarding his struggle with his sexuality – something Wirt also found himself relating to. But he will never admit to anyone that he grinned like an idiot for the rest of the day over his newfound, naïve surge of hope when Dipper came to the eventual realization that he was bisexual.

Another that Wirt enjoyed was an angry four-page tirade about a rich girl named Pacifica Northwest. Dipper had every right, it seemed, to dislike her, even though Wirt knew this was a one-sided story. But he found that Dipper could be outright sassy, and he had to stifle his laughter behind his hand when he read the petty onslaught of Dipper’s insults he had laid out for her. It was so expressive, Wirt imagined Dipper right there next to him, yelling about decorative peacocks and mini-golf escapades. He wondered what he sounded like.

Dipper vents through writing just like Wirt does, albeit more straightforward than poetry, and Wirt desperately wanted to reply. He didn’t know how. What would he say? How would he even get the letter there? But he made a plan. He needed to let Dipper know that he was listening, and that he cared. He wrote and wrote, crumpled and threw away and wrote again, days on end, until he came up with a letter he deemed “good enough.” He wasn’t necessarily proud of it, but he couldn’t think of anything better. He wanted to make a good first impression.

Last week, he had gotten up early and waited. He was not a morning person, and he certainly did not get up early of his own volition, especially during summer vacation. But he wanted to see when the letters fell. He had watched the letter fall a few minutes after 8:00 am, and decided his plan needed to be put into action. He wasn’t a scientist, and he certainly didn’t think himself as smart as Dipper, but the romantic in him wanted so badly for this to work.

The letter he had finalized (after nervously proofreading nearly seven times) was laid gingerly next to the open journal, folded into the best paper plane he could manage. He checked the clock. 7:55 am. Dipper was probably already writing about whatever was weighing heavily on his mind somewhere in Gravity Falls right about now. He bit down on his lower lip to hide his smile at the thought.

He picked up the paper plane with unnecessary care and quietly tiptoed past Greg’s bedroom and out the back door. The morning air was cold on his skin, and he listened for a moment to the chittering songbirds to try to calm his sudden spike of nerves. This is ridiculous, he thought to himself. Am I really doing this right now? He almost turned to go back inside. But a slight breeze blew from behind him, and he turned to face it and looked up at the sky. He imagined Dipper in that moment – the face he’s only seen in drawings lighting up as he read what Wirt had written to him. The same cool morning breeze that Wirt feels now kissing his face and gently tossing his bangs. Ignoring the butterflies that inspired, Wirt shook his head and took a deep breath to steel himself. I can do this. I need to do this.

His watch read 7:59 am. He watched the sky for a few more seconds, as if willing it to part for him. Please work, he begged the universe. He then looked down at the paper airplane cupped in his hands, as gentle as if it were made of the most fragile glass. Despite himself, and despite the self-mortified blush spreading over his cheeks and nose, he let his eyes flutter shut and gently kissed the wings. Keeping his lips close enough to the pristine white paper to brush against it with feather-like tenderness, he whispered, “Your secrets are safe with me. Please write back soon.”

A timer that he had set on his watch beeped for 8 am as he gripped the paper plane a little tighter. He reared his arm back and put his whole body into throwing the plane as hard as he could. He stumbled briefly in his effort and hissed at himself in frustration. Looking up quickly to try to find the letter he worked so hard on. But the plane was gone. He felt his breath hitch, his heart light in his chest with optimism. It never came back down. He wasn’t entirely sure if it worked, but he smiled affectionately at the slowly rolling clouds, trusting them to carry his message to the sweet, kind, brave boy that stole his heart.

And somewhere, in a forest filled with pine trees and monsters, a brunette boy angrily scribbling on a piece of paper with a worn, blue pen gets tapped in the temple with a gently soaring paper airplane.

#pinescone #dipper pines #wirt #over the garden wall #gravity falls #crossover #au #ship #wirt is a sap #dipper writes himself cooler than he really is even when hes venting #part 2???? not sure #pay me in cheese and craisins and maybe you'll see it #fanfiction #my post

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amiedala · 3 years ago

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SOMETHING DEEPER (a mandalorian story)

CHAPTER 1: There's Always Three Things

RATING: Explicit (18+ ONLY!!!)

WARNINGS: sexual content, hints of voyeurism

SUMMARY: HELLLOOOOOOOOOOO AND HAPPY SOMETHING DEEPER SATURDAY MY LOVES!!! this is the first chapter in Something Deeper, the

second installment in the Something More series. in this one, Nova is her established character, they're still trying to save the galaxy, and the spice is racketed up even hotter ;) more notes at the end, as always, and until then, ENJOY!!!

If you're a newcomer, my fic "Something More" is the first installment of this story! <3

AUTHOR’S NOTE: HELLO MY LOVES HAPPY SOMETHING MORE SATURDAY!!!! this chapter is quite the whirlwind, i hope you love it! more notes at the end as always <3

Novalise Djarin is absolutely certain of three things. One, that the strongest thing in this galaxy is the green alien baby she calls her son; two, that her gorgeous, commanding bounty hunter husband is an excellent leader but a fantastically horrible diplomat; and three, that she is by far the most skilled person she knows at getting out of a particularly sticky situation.

Nova is excellent at getting out of things, period—her husband would argue that she’s an expert at getting the both of them out of their clothes and Mandalorian armor, respectively—but she excels at somehow, miraculously, wriggling herself free from between a rock and a hard place. And, right now, the asteroid belt that makes up Polis Massa is the abundance of rock, and the TIE fighters right on the tail of Kicker’s infamously sporadic power is the hard place.

They’re relentless. Nova squints her eyes, making the starry backdrop of the Outer Rim split and fractal into a thousand more glittering balls of light. There’s only three of them, this time, but this is the closest they’ve ever dared to follow her to Mandalore, and there’s something dangerous and electric kicking around somewhere inside of her chest. They keep shooting, jarring bolts of blasts that do their best to try and knock down Kicker’s very stubborn shields.

“Stupid,” Nova whispers, her breath low, the ghost of a smile stretching across her face, even in the crush of space. A year ago, she wouldn’t have recognized herself—this fearless, feisty pilot, the fully-formed reconstruction of the girl she used to be. On the ground, even with the Force on her side, she’s clumsy, an amateur. But up here? This is where Novalise shines. She has the upper hand out in the stars, and, besides, even if she were being chased by an artillery of a hundred more, there’s reinforcements on her old, lovable beater of a starship.

“Surrender,” one of the mechanical, ordered voices comes over the comm, and Nova giggles to herself in the darkness.

“Does that ever work?” she asks, flipping the right switches to make Kicker drop down and over itself, sending one of the fighters careening into the nearest asteroid. It doesn’t deter whoever’s in the cockpit for long, but it’s enough to utilize her infamous barrel roll to twist up and away from the other two fighters close in tow. “You know, asking impolitely for whoever you’re chasing to surrender?”

Silence. Nova smiles again, biting her teeth down against the fullness of her bottom lip. Her stomach grumbles. It was a sleepless night and a long day she spent back on Hoth before making the short trek back home—Mandalore, which isn’t the kindest of planets to call your own but is undoubtably better than some of the other alternatives—and the broth-based soups and dried legumes that frequent the base there are not nearly as filling or delicious as the feasts that being Mandalorian royalty entail. Still nothing from the other fighters, which is perfectly fine, because she’s about to feign dropping into warp and leading through a wormhole that’ll lead nowhere but the barrenness of the Mid Rim, but usually, they’re much more demanding.

“Surrender,” comes the voice again, and Nova sighs, cracking her neck, readjusting the familiar, worn helmet still stamped with the orange Rebel insignia. Kicker beeps angrily, and she lends a soft hand to the worn metal of her beloved ship’s dashboard, coaxing the metal to just go a tiny bit further.

“I’m just saying, you might have a stroke more of luck if you’re a little bit nicer. Less demanding, more asking. Who am I surrendering to?” she asks, and even though the TIE fighters are still volleying an array of blasts at the back end of the starfighter, they’re not quick to identify themselves. Nova squints again, catching a glimpse of one of them as she swoops to avoid a larger chunk of asteroid. It was stupid to come here, she admits internally to herself, even though it makes her heart drop a tiny bit inside of her chest. All she wanted for the hours she spent on Hoth was to get back to Din, to hold Grogu against her heartbeat for as long as she could before she reluctantly had to relinquish him to the one and only Luke Skywalker, but when Wedge called, it seemed urgent. “Hello?” she whispers, only to dare the strange, affected voice on the commlink to rattle back across the stars.

“Andromeda Maluev,” the comm blurts, and the sound of her name—her birth name, still heavy and pearlescent with the weight of losing her parents—makes Nova’s heart drop even further. Everyone left in this galaxy that Nova associates with—Din Djarin, Luke Skywalker, Wedge Antilles, Bo-Katan Kryze, Boba Fett, Cara Dune, Greef Karga, and every person she met along her trip with Din through the galaxy and back—knows that Andromeda Maluev is dead, and that Novalise Djarin rose from her ashes. But every single bounty Nova’s had on her head has slammed that full weight of her first identity back into her bones, like a brand, like something she can’t escape. It makes the force of people after her—the shadowy legion of the obscured First Order, and all of their cronies—feel just a bit more insidious.

“Not my name,” she volleys back, but the brace in Nova’s voice doesn’t sound like anything dangerous, anything sharp enough scare them off. “I’ve ran into enough of you by now for you to get it right.”

“We’ve got you surrounded. Surrender or be killed.”

Nova snorts. There’s three fighters on her tail, and they’re nowhere close to surrounding her. It’s so ludicrous, so unexpected, that the laugh catapults out of her mouth and echoes in the small hull of Kicker. She wishes Din and Grogu were here to equally share in her utter disbelief—she can practically see the helmet cocking and the baby’s giant, intuitive eyes crinkling—but she dodges another set of shots, which are almost completely aimless and hardly land on the tail end of the ship. “Be killed?” she repeats, swerving and ducking through another large chunk of asteroid, seamlessly, barely paying any attention to the terrain around her. She doesn’t need to. Even in a field this littered, space is Nova’s strongest suit. She could do this with her eyes closed. “As far as I can see, you’ve landed what, three shots? I don’t think you’ll be getting anywhere near close enough to even do damage to my ship. You’re three fighters strong, and one of you has a wounded wing. And you still haven’t answered my question.”

“The First Order demands your services.”

Nova’s blood runs ice-cold. It’s a familiar request at this point, but still, the name sends a very real shiver all the way down her spine, rocking and rattling her vertebrae. She swallows, blinking furiously, avoiding the tailspin of a smaller asteroid as she lurches out of the chase. That wasn’t the lowly voice of some sorry stormtrooper that got the shitty job of trying to wrangle her out of the skies. It sounds evil. Dark. Mirthless. It wasn’t Moff Gideon’s voice, but it was something close to the memory of the dark timbre of it. Fear forms wet and cold on the back of her neck, curling up through the bottom of her hairline, seeping underneath the warmth of her standard, Rebel-orange jumpsuit. She swallows, but the air feels like it’s evaporating out of her mouth.

“The First Order,” she manages, finally, trying to detach the nervousness from her voice, “will not be getting my services. Not now, not ever.”

It’s only been two weeks since Din’s coronation. Two hectic, packed weeks in which her big, brave bounty hunter boyfriend got forcibly turned into a very reluctant diplomat under the watchful—and perhaps slightly resentful—eye of Bo-Katan Kryze. Din never seemed to really need sleep the way a normal human being did, but Nova watched as the bags under his eyes darkened and grew as he spent long hours in the war rooms, buried somewhere in the giant, stark palace they’d moved into, eyelids pressed into the warm hollow of her neck in the early hours of the morning when he made it to bed at all. In the meantime, Nova was spending every single precious second of her waking hours with Grogu, who she knows is on the verge of needing to go back to Jedi training, trying to absorb as much of his small, green light as she possibly can. When Wedge called the other day, though, he sounded desperate, which didn’t happen often, and she had wrenched herself away from her family on Mandalore to try and stop the impending doom of the First Order on Hoth, but it had been yet another dead end. Polis Massa was a pit stop—an impulsive, foolish one—because Nova ran furiously out of the library archives the last time she was here, and she wanted to pick up books on the history of Mandalore for Din and herself, and a small star of yearning in her chest was to spend a little more time in the shelves like her father used to before the Empire killed him.

And as much as Nova wants to put Andromeda Maluev to rest, longing for the days when she was tiny and growing up on Yavin with her parents alive and happy beside her outweighs the alternative. She swallows through the lump in her throat and closes her eyes to shake the starshine of her past lives away. The time to focus on getting the hell out of here is now, all yearning and ache can blossom fully formed when she’s away from the reaches of the First Order, safely back on Mandalore.

“Surrender,” the voice says again, only this time it is the timbre of some sorry stormtrooper and not the one that still haunts her nightmares, and Nova sighs, flipping all of the switches on Kicker’s dashboard to feint left and fake drop into hyperspace.

“I’ll ask you again. When,” she exhales, straightening up in the pilot’s chair, “has that line ever worked?”

“We are granted permission to obliterate your starfighter under Order Number—”

“Obliterate?” Nova interrupts, stifling another giggle. “Is the Order giving you vocabulary lessons? I’m impressed, trooper—”

“Andromeda Maluev,” the voice comes again, and Nova tries her absolute hardest to ignore the pulsing and aching in her heart that comes with the punch of her previous identity, “you are to surrender to the First Order. Failure to comply will result in termination. This is your final warning.”

Nova sighs, pulling Kicker to a temporary halt. If she stares, the ghostly outline of Mandalore, embedded forever in her memory, will flash in front of her vision, even out here in Polis Massa’s gigantic asteroid belt. She knows that the troopers, whoever they are, whoever they’re working for, will understand that she’s intending to go straight back to the strange palace she’s started calling home, but she also knows that any force in this galaxy, no matter how dark, no matter how strong, is smart enough to know they can’t take on a planet full of Mandalorian warriors without all the strength they’ve got. From the way Kicker is paused in the middle of space, she knows it looks like she’s about to surrender, or at least like she’s weighing her options heavily, and the satisfied, smug silence of the trooper on the other end of the commlink is enough to assure herself that her plan—hasty and rash as it may be—is working.

“Okay,” she whispers, feigning resignation, into the comm. “I understand I’m dealing with forces a lot stronger than I am. I don’t surrender, but I’ll come with you. But first,” she whispers, silencing the clicking that the switches to go into hyperdrive with the muffler of her right hand, “I need to tell you something.”

There’s a pause. “So be it. Reeling you in via tractor beam now.”

The unmistakable whirring of a ship forcibly being dragged onto another’s power starts up, and Nova swallows, pushing the second to last toggle into place, keeping a steady eye on the rocketing meter on her dashboard that indicates the ship is fully charged. Under the noise of Kicker being pulled into the largest TIE fighter’s proximity, the beeping goes unnoticed by the other party. Nova slips her hand off the switch and finds the necklace Din gifted her back before he accepted his role of Mand’alor, pressing hard enough that the symbol embosses itself into her thumbprint. “First of all,” she starts, trying her hardest to keep her voice level and even and not reveal a single ounce of the glee that she’s concealing, “my name hasn’t been Andromeda Maluev in a decade. You want me to answer to you, to answer to the Order? You’ll call me Novalise.”

The sigh from the trooper is short, clipped. “Noted.”

“Second,” Nova continues, leveling her jaw with the center of the dashboard, watching every single thruster lock itself into gear, “I am married to the galaxy’s most ruthless bounty hunter. It’s going to take a hell of a lot more than the word surrender to scare me into submission.”

Kicker grinds to a halt in midair. Nova straps herself in tighter, just enough to ensure that she won’t be sent reeling across the perfectly aligned dashboard when she breaks free of the tractor beam and shoots Kicker straight into the stars, back to Mandalore, back to Din, back home, and steels herself.

“Stop,” another voice says, tinny and nervous over the speaker. “She’s—she’s screwing with us, sir—”

“I’m assuming,” the original trooper speaks, trying to intimidate Nova with the ice in his voice, “that there’s a third thing?”

“Oh, there’s always a third thing,” Nova volleys back, eyes catching the light of what’s been powering up the entire time the troopers thought she was weighing her options and deciding the First Order’s clutches sounded warm and delightful, after all. “Not only am I a commander in the New Rogue Squadron, not only am I the wife of the reigning Mand’alor, I contain multitudes.” She grins, her teeth bared and gleeful in the low light of space, knowing this is by far the most badass exit she’s ever attempted. “And do you know what that means?”

The trooper in the largest fighter sounds defeated. This was barely even a scratch compared to the narrow scrapes Nova’s been entangled with before. She bites down on her bottom lip, cracking her neck, taking advantage of Kicker’s stationary position to break free of the tractor beam, and as the angry clamor of the three troopers in the fighters trying to reel the ship in starts to filter across the commlink, Nova does what she does best.

She barrel rolls the entirety of Kicker, flipping downward and over so that she’s facing the three fighters, staring through her Rebel helmet at the floodlights drenching her whole ship in florescence that shouldn’t be possible in space, and shows every single one of her teeth, smile stretched so far across her face that it hurts, “My starfighter is Rebel-made, sure, but it’s gotten a few upgrades in the past few weeks. The only reason you got this far was because I was waiting to unload the artillery loaded up in the guns that are pointed at you right now. And you know what they’re made of?”

“All aim to kill—”

Nova can’t resist. She tries, but this whole royalty thing, the whole leading the New Rogue Squadron thing, this whole being a Jedi thing—well, all of it has been tallied up enough to recognize she can stand to be the tiniest bit cocky to the people trying to kill her or bring her in as a slave. She raises a single middle finger, making sure that the pilot of the largest fighter catches her elongated, elegant bird with the floodlights. “Same thing as my resolve is. Beskar, bitch.” And with that, she punches all the thrusters, Kicker dazzling and evaporating through hyperspace, gone before the first trigger even pulls.

Mandalore is quiet. There’s a strange serenity that lives on the horizon, pulsing and shifting, but never quite tangible from the planet’s surface. It’s hard to look at the place where the greatest warriors in the galaxy are born and bred and not see anything but a whetted, sharp arena, but so much of this planet is soft around the edges. The blue architecture in the capital, for one—something Nova knows is much newer than the ancient history of the land here—and there’s a silence here that teeters on eerie but mostly stays in a strange sense of tranquility.

It doesn’t hold the feeling of abandonment, like so many other planets do these days, but it seems like the rest of the world around the city is disconnected. Inhabitable. Nova parks Kicker in the nearest landing bay, watching the strange haze that hangs over the atmosphere, trying to find other places where lights are lit, where people live, but so much of the planet is quiet. It’s the same sort of stark contrast that Yavin had when her and Din got engaged all those months ago, or Hoth’s anesthetic brutality, but Mandalore’s environment feels different.

And, Nova reasons, as she disembarks off Kicker’s gangplank, running the tips of her fingers over the Rebel insignia hidden under the outermost coat of white and silver detailing, it’s likely because this isn’t home. Not yet, anyway, and it might never have that feeling of belonging that the Crest did, that Kicker does, that her and Din found on Naator and Kashyyyk and Nevarro. Nova climbs the marble steps to the palace, smiling at the stoic Mandalorians stationed outside as she slips up the stairs and through the main entrance, immediately cutting sideways up the hallways to the left, watching as her shadow traipses behind her in the blue dusk, trying to not stake stock of the silence that most of the building holds. In true Mandalorian fashion, their holding cells are built into the palace itself, alongside training arenas and the war room where Din spends most of his time. Nova moves as quietly as she can through the halls, up the other marble staircase, and when she bursts into the chambers twice the size of the starship that she and Din usually call home, a gurgle from Grogu on the floor makes the entire day turn around.

Nova grins, dropping to her knees. Grogu beams up at her, his big bug eyes full of nothing but love, and she scoops him up, pressing his tiny, warm body against her chest. It chases away all the chill of Hoth and the crush of space, and for a second, she just runs her fingers over the top of his fuzzy head, pressing kisses to his green skin, soaking in every second she can.

“I missed you, lovey,” she murmurs, and Grogu’s giant green ears perk up. “What did you do in your day here?”

Grogu pulls away from her chest, pressing a three-fingered hand against Nova’s temple. The visions that used to terrify her, the ones Grogu put into her head, filled with screaming and loss and desperation, fall away as he shows her the bath he took, the feast he got for dinner, sitting on Din’s lap while in the war room. As he drops his touch, Nova grins down at him, all teeth and excitement, all of the panic and isolation of the last few hours melting away.

“He terrorized Bo-Katan,” a familiar voice rings out from behind her, and Nova pushes herself up on the heels of her hands, her heart flipping over with the same butterfly menagerie Din’s always given her. “I didn’t have the heart to tell him to stop.”

“Hi,” Nova whispers, giddy, watching as Din steps forward out of the shadows. It doesn’t matter how many times she’s been lucky enough to gaze over his handsome face, it doesn’t matter that he’s been spending more time helmetless here on Mandalore, every time she sees him, it’s like the first time. In the moonlight, obscured by the permafrost of Mandalore’s blue twilight, Nova’s eyes roam over the valleys and mountains of her husband’s face. His hair is the length it was when he proposed, long enough for the ends to curl up gently. His mouth, even in the near darkness, is pink and gorgeous, his lips slightly parted in the unconscious way they do when Nova’s the only thing in his eyeline. His scruff is there, long enough to scratch her chin—or her thighs—up something terrible, and the ghost of the mustache she used to feel in the dark is strong, dark, manicured. His eyelashes are longer than the length of her thumbnails, and his eyes, his gorgeous brown eyes, soften around the edges the second Nova smiles.

“Hi,” Din echoes, bridging the gap between the two of them with two quick strides, and Nova feels her breath catch in her throat. Din’s hands, gloved in black and twice the size of her own, balance on the curve of her hips, his fingers digging into the loops of her orange jumpsuit, pulling Nova over her own feet, anchoring her body right up against hers. The way he kisses after only being separated overnight is desperate, longing, filled with words he doesn’t always know how to say. Nova leans into his embrace, head fuzzy, waterlogged, like everything else fades away. It does. She loses track of time, how many minutes pass, the stars behind her eyes dazzling, supernovae, regenerated.

When they break apart, Nova’s hand trails over the regalia Din’s wearing. It’s his familiar beskar, the armor he’s worn since they first met, but it’s been cleaned, and underneath, where his typical black undergarments used to cling to his build, he’s wearing Mandalore blue. It’s the color of the skyline at dusk, a faded azure that signals something more than warrior, something a shade closer to royalty. The material is lightweight, practical. It’s the same kind that every single one of her matching outfits are made out of—Mandalorians don’t have much use for aesthetic, it just gets in the way of practicality—but it seems more vibrant on Din. “How was today?” she whispers into the hollow of his mouth, and Din exhales, low and slow, tipping his bare forehead against hers.

“Long without you,” he admits, his voice barely anything. Nova’s eyes search his deep brown ones, trying to figure out where his exhaustion is hiding. “Come with me. I—I want to show you something.”

Nova nods, catching sight of the dirty orange jumpsuit stretched over her tan trousers, the black tank top she’d spent the past year replacing every time Din tore it off of her body. “I should change.”

Din’s eyes flick hungrily over her silhouette, and when he speaks again, his voice is husky. “No,” he says, finally, digging his thumb slightly into the flesh on her hip, “you shouldn’t.”

The trek downstairs is quiet. Both of them move in the shadows, lulled into an easy silence, their hands knitted together in between their two bodies. Nova watches as the low light of the corridor flickers as they cross over another staircase and down a side hallway, entering through the war room by the back entrance instead of the front, even though there’s no one left in here to try to hide from.

Nova’s been in here at least ten times, but the decoration steals the breath straight out of her mouth every time. A glittering holotable, top of the line, at least twenty years more advanced than the one on Hoth, sits in the direct center. The ceiling looks more like a cathedral than it does anything else, which is perfectly fitting for a group of people who treat fighting as their religion. Nova looks up through the sheer domed ceiling, watching as the moody dusk falls into a silent, quiet night. Stars dazzle and shine from above, and even though they’re not nearly as poignant and powerful down here as they are out in space, the direct line to the cosmos is bright enough to make her throat ache. “Wow,” Nova whispers, voice barely anything at all, staring straight upward, mapping constellations under her breath. Eventually, her eyes slide off of the ceiling, traveling over the careful architecture, the shrines in the corners, the murals painstakingly hand-painted across the circular walls, all of beskar and helmets and Mandalorian history. It feels so ancient, even though the palace was recently rebuilt, reconstructed from nothing during both of their lifetimes. She’s been in here a handful of times before, but never as night is on the horizon. There’s something transcendent about this place, this holy center of Mandalorian worship. Something deeper, something divine enough to make a Jedi believe in them, too.

Din’s standing across the other end of the holotable, fidgeting with the controls until a map of the galaxy sparkles to life in front of them. Through the light, Nova watches the peaks of her husband’s face getting caught in the reflections, letting everything except his face blur out to stardust. “Did you get anything from Wedge?” he asks, and Nova blinks her eyes to refocus on the map. “Anything new? Anything…useful?”

Quietly, Nova shakes her head. “He thought—he called me back to Hoth because of a prison break in one of the sectors Cara doesn’t have jurisdiction in, or I’d suspect she’d have already taken care of it. It was small, just a few criminals with nothing more than petty charges breaking out of a hold somewhere, but he thought it might be related to—”

“The First Order?”

“Me,” Nova finishes, quietly. Her eyes narrow just a fraction, refocusing on Din’s silhouette through the glitter of the galaxy between them. “Yeah, the Order. We couldn’t prove anything, but I—”

“You feel something is coming,” Din interrupts gently, stealing the words right out of her mouth, bracing his strong, gloved hands on the side of the holotable, and Nova nods, watching his grip, starting to get a little dizzy, with lust or with the reflections above them or both. “Don’t you?”

“I do,” she echoes, confirming his theory. “I—I took a detour coming back here. I went to Polis Massa, to try and return to the library archives so I could learn more about Mandalore and bring you back something other than a dead end.”

Din stares at her, his face partially hidden in the glow of the rotating image of the holotable. “You brought yourself back here,” he says, finally, and Nova’s knees buckle a little under the husk of his voice. “It’s hard to care about much else.”

Nova bites down on her lip, butterflies swirling up a storm inside her tummy. “Din,” she whispers, leaning forward on the table, cocking her head in the signature way he always does, lifting her chin slightly with the tilt, “we are tasked with the incredible privilege of saving the galaxy, you know—”

“Fuck the galaxy,” Din breathes, and despite the fact that what he’s wanting to shirk is their top priority, and really has been for months, it buzzes inside Nova, wet and hot. “Let someone else handle it for once. I don’t care.”

“You do care,” she protests, weakly, but his tongue slides out from the hollow of his mouth, and everything else seems to evaporate. “I know—fuck, I don’t know, I know you missed me when I left overnight, I know we’ve been apart more than we’ve been together, but it’s for good reason, and when we save, y’know, the whole galaxy and everything, it…it’ll be all the time in the world for the two of us.”

“I’m impatient,” Din counters, roughly, and then he’s around the table in three quick, determined strides. Nova sighs, letting her body crumple a little as Din moves forward, his hands on her hips, anchoring her pelvis against his. “Don’t make me wait any more for you, cyar’ika, I won’t be able to stand it.”

Nova inhales sharply, feeling him harden against her leg, and she lifts her chin a touch more, enough for their lips to only be an inch apart, enough to make eye contact, enough for all of this to let the rest of the world fade right out. “You know,” she whispers, finally, blood pumping furiously, “you’re the leader of this planet. You could order me to do anything, and I’d be helpless to do anything but comply.”

Din lets out a groan, low and desperate, a choked off, guttural one. “And if I told you I wanted you right here on this table?”

Nova grins, her teeth glittering against the quickening darkness, pulling away only to drape herself over the holotable, face down, letting the spots where her body occupies the space filter out of the reflection. The glow of the lights is disrupted by her figure, and she hears Din’s voice catch in the dark behind her as she arches her back, still fully clothed, an invitation for him to come closer, to take what’s rightfully his. “Then you’d have me right here on this table, Mand’alor.”

She feels Din press up against her, hard against the soft, voluptuous curve of her ass. He inhales, heavily, she can hear it whine through the darkness, not hidden under the evenness of the modulator built into his helmet. Nova knows she’s an expert at getting out of things—sticky situations, clothes, everything in between—but right now, she wants to make Din wait beg for it before she complies. Something to prove that even while he’s the one on the throne, her neck is holding up the crown. At least here. Especially here.

“And if I told you I wanted to fuck you on the floor?”

“Then you’d take me on the floor, Mand’alor. I quite like the floor, you know.”

“You—” Din’s breath cuts off again, and Nova lets the timbre of his voice soak into her. It turns her heart over, first, that excitement tangling up with the knowledge that she’ll let him do anything. It’s been over a week since the last time they fucked, because he’s been spending most of his time in this room, trying to prove to the rest of the planet that he’s worthy enough to hold the throne, and she’s been splitting her time between Grogu and saving the galaxy. All of them necessary evils, deserving distractions, but it’s nearly impossible to think about anything other than the feel of Din up against Nova, his mouth on her neck, his hands on her hips, concerned only with burying himself as deep into her as he possibly can. “I brought you down here to show you the stars. You’re distracting me.”

Nova smiles, then braces her palms on top of the holotable, pushing herself up, gliding her body backwards up against her husband’s. “What an honor,” she purrs, quiet, low, the same kind of voice Din always uses when he wants her so badly it hurts to breathe, “that the king of Mandalore thinks I am a suitable distraction.”

“Novalise.”

“Use me as a distraction, then,” Nova continues, taking hold of one of Din’s gloved hands, guiding them against the curve of her chest, making sure he feels how her nipples harden under his touch, a soft, mewling sound with her mouth completely indicative of the flush of warmth rushing between her legs. “Show me anything you want, oh worthy Mand’alor, please—”

Her breath is cut off as Din whirls her around by her throat. It’s sudden, desperate, the kind of electricity he used to greet her with whenever he finally tracked down the bounty he was hunting and could let loose with her on the Crest.

“Get on,” Din starts, voice raggedly, both hands clenching against Nova’s cheeks, puckering her lips, “the fucking throne, cyar’ika.”

“The—throne?” Nova repeats, breathless. “You want—”

“I want to fuck you on my throne,” Din interrupts, and stars above, she can feel the way that his cock is throbbing in his pants, through the regalia, through the beskar, all of it. “You said anything I want. I want to make you scream my name on the planet we rule while I’m seven inches inside of you. That work for you?”

Nothing but a strangled moan comes out.

Din nods. “Good. Get over there.”

Nova reels back as he releases her. It takes more than a few seconds to collect herself enough to move, and when she does, her legs feel like they’re made out of rubber, elastic and wobbly. She can feel his heavy gaze on her as she makes her way around the holotable, and when she takes the few steps that lead to the ironclad, menacing chair that sits atop the highest point in the room, Din’s voice rings out.

“Stop,” he commands, and she does, feeling her heart hammer. “Face me.”

Nova turns, her breath caught in her throat, staring down at Din. The few steps she’s scaled make her just a tad taller than Din is, and she watches as he slowly moves forward, crossing the tile of the floor with quiet, intentional steps.

“Take your clothes off,” Din manages, and Nova’s almost a hundred percent sure that he’s whispering, even though it might just be that she can’t hear anything over how loud her blood is pumping, over how hard her heart is hammering.

“Now?”

He raises a single dark eyebrow, and Nova nods, trying to peel off her shirt and her trousers as fast as she can. She kicks off her shoes, and they land at the bottom of the steps with a very incriminating thud, but Din just kicks them out of the way as he presses the soles of his beskar boots deliberately against the tile. Everything in here is blue and reflective, even after night has fallen on Mandalore, and Nova catches sight of her silhouette in the floor. Her breath stutters in her throat, suddenly very aware that she’s completely naked and Din, save for his forgotten helmet, is fully clothed, but with the way his eyes are roving over her body like he’s starving and she’s the only thing in this galaxy or the next that can satiate it, she forgets how to care.

“You,” he starts, trailing a single gloved finger down the curve of her body, “are so beautiful.”

“Stop,” she whispers, smiling, everything burning and in flames. It’s the opposite of what she means—she never wants Din to stop calling her beautiful, stop revering her, stop treating her like something holy—but when they’re in a public room that just about anyone left on this planet can walk on, and she’s the only one naked, the risk burns hotter than her desire. “Din, I—”

His finger is on her lips before Nova even realizes he’s moved. “Do you believe me?”

Nova blinks, stuttering over the dying words hidden somewhere between her teeth and the back of her throat. The answer is yes, because Din Djarin never utters a single word that he doesn’t mean, because he uses so few of them to begin with, and also because he’s seen every single inch of her body and worshipped it, but in this reflective room, usually full of figures so much more athletic, razor-sharp, warrior-grade, a tiny bead of insecurity spools down the back of her neck. Nervously, Nova’s gaze filters off of Din’s, flicking over to the ornate door on the other side of the room, and when she looks back, he’s staring at her.

“Nova?” he repeats, gently, and something about the way he’s saying it makes tears spring up in her eyes. “Here. Come here. Look at yourself.”

She lets him guide her over to the throne, which is made out of the shiniest, most reflective beskar she’s ever seen, polished so effortlessly it doubles as a mirror, and Din pulls curls of her dark hair away from her collarbone, fingers grazing the new necklace he gifted her, one hand curling around her jaw, the other sliding down the side of her body.

“Look at yourself,” Din repeats, his touch still so light, and when Nova doesn’t immediately obey, his grip tightens. Not hard, just filled with enough desire to snap her back to her senses—that he took her into this room to fuck her senseless, that his eyes don’t meet anyone else’s, that Din Djarin isn’t a pious man in any other capacity than his Creed and all the rules he broke to worship Nova instead. She relaxes under his touch, her eyes glazing as they travel over the valleys of her naked body. Her skin doesn’t glow in the darkness like it does during the daylight, but it’s a rich brown, three or so shades darker than Din’s. Her eyes, a deep sage green that dips into brown in the darkness, glitter as they flash against the beskar. Her eyelashes, dark and tangled up in the corners from where her laughter lines are. Her nose, not as prominent as Din’s hooked, curved one, but big, slightly upturned, and anchored in the center of her face. Her mouth, plump and perma-stained deep pink from where she bites hard on it in concentration. Her hair, so long now that it trails down to where her curved hipbones protrude, woven into a deeper curl than the natural wave of her hair from the braids it’s always tied back in. Din’s hand on her hip clenches gently at his knuckles, and she lets her gaze shift off of her face, down the stocky muscles of her upper arms, slightly sore from twirling Grogu around and from flying out of her skirmish with the TIE fighters. Her hands are long and elegant, princess fingers, her mother used to call them, dainty and slender, nails kept short to flip all the necessary switches on whatever vessel she’s flying, thumbs worn down with callouses from fighting and twirling Luke’s lightsaber around for the last two weeks, trying to conjure the power he radiates on her own. Down the left side of her tummy, which is rounded and collects weight around her bellybutton, is the scar that Jacterr Calican left in an attempt to rip her soul out of her body, and Din’s finger traces over the bump of it, gentle, endearing, protective. Her hips, which are wide, the curves of her upper legs, the muscles that pack on more weight in her calves. Nova looks at herself and sees, just for a glimpse, just for a split second, that sure, she’s not shaped like a Mandalorian, but she’s certainly desired by one. Din pulls her hair back from where it’s settled against her throat, pressing his lips to her skin.

“What do you see?” he murmurs, his voice deep and electric.

“The girl you love,” Nova whispers, grinning at him in their reflections. Din spins her back around, much gentler than he did a minute ago, all the fire gone, his eyes gentle like the oceans on Yavin.

“Damn right,” Din affirms, the timbre of his voice in her ear making goosebumps spark up across Nova’s bare arms. “Now get on the throne.”

She’s giddy. Her heart is, as usual, racing a thousand beats per minute, threatening to hammer right out of her chest. It’s cold—the throne—cool to the touch. As Nova slowly slides down onto the beskar, she watches Din’s brown eyes flash with lust and longing, and his look alone is enough to take away the chill against her bare skin. The beskar warms to her touch, and she crosses one thick thigh over the other, trying to quell the nervousness that’s still whining at the back of her mind.

“Don’t look at the door,” Din orders, his head cocked to the side. It’s been a few months now since Nova’s seen every single contour of his face, but every new expression not hidden behind the helmet makes her stomach lurch up into her throat. Right now, she can see the tenseness of his command in his clenched jaw, but his eyes soften as they roam over her body. “Look at me.”

“Din—”

“Look at me.”

Nervously, she does. The second her eyes meet his, everything else fades away. In the back of her mind, she’s aware that she’s completely naked, her skin up and against something divine, something not meant for her, this throne that she’s about to be desecrated on.

And sweet Maker above, she doesn’t even care. Din slowly canvasses the distance between the two of them, the intensity of his gaze never once wavering off of Nova’s face. The pure look of animalistic desire on his unmasked face makes her whimper under her breath. If she were weaker, she would cower away, avert her eyes, but by this point, she’s earned her brazenness. There are exactly two things in this galaxy that the ruler of Mandalore, the most ruthless bounty hunter, and the man in front of her would do anything for. Grogu and Nova.

He doesn’t make a noise. Everything is an electric wire as he finds his secure, silent footing on the first step, and Nova’s heart catches in her throat. She wants to say something, to make a silly comment, to cut through the tension, but she knows that whatever’s about to follow Din’s ascent will be worth her quiet. Instead, Nova bites down on her trembling lip, watching the rest of the throne room disappear as Din steps closer, still not making a single noise, pulling his body weight up the lip of each step, staring at her.

“What?” she manages, finally, the word all air.

Din moves closer. Nova’s seated against the throne, the beskar suddenly warm against her bare skin. Everything in her is burning. “What do you want?” Din asks, his voice deep, rumbling through her like a honeyed thunderstorm. He doesn’t even have the modulator to filter his words, and even though the deepness of his voice through the helmet runs rivers through her, Nova’s suddenly glad for the bareness of all of this. It makes it easier, dirtier, better.

“I want you,” Nova manages, hollowly, the words surrender out of her parted lips. “Just you.”

“You want me?” Din repeats, and a flash of lust sparks up behind his beautiful brown eyes. There’s something dangerous in his tone, something deeper, something electric. She stares at him, unwilling to break his gaze. If it were anyone else, Nova would think that the timbre of Din’s voice was teasing, but the edge to it suggests towards pleading.

“Yes,” Nova echoes, and Din moves forward, towering over her. She stares up at him as one gloved hand easily notches against her right cheek, eyelashes fluttering as the pad of Din’s fabric-laden thumb traces over the mountain of her cheekbone. “I want you, Mand’alor—”

“I’m not Mand’alor right now, cyar’ika,” Din interrupts, his voice low and ragged, sparking somewhere in his throat. “Look at who’s on the throne.”

Nova gulps. Air is suddenly impossible to come by. Everything in her is electric, alive. Everything else fades out except for Din’s touch. Her doubt, her insecurity—it’s all been chased away and zapped into obliteration by the way Din’s speaking, touching, breathing. “I—”

“Say my name,” Din says, hooking his free hand under Nova’s chin. She swallows, letting the roughness of his gesture manipulate her body in any way that he wants, pliable against Din’s weathered hands. “Say you want me.”

“Din,” Nova squeaks out, and a single one of his dark eyebrows quirks up against the celestial darkness of the throne room, daring her to speak. “Din Djarin,” Nova rectifies, her voice suddenly loud and clear. It booms out, fills the throne room with sound. For once, the buzzing in her head completely drowns out her fear of being discovered. This palace doesn’t exist. Anyone walking the strange, ornate, blue halls doesn’t exist. Stars above, Mandalore itself doesn’t exist at this point. She’s emboldened, as if her will has flooded back, full-force. “Three things. There’s always three things included in how I want you. I want you without armor. I want you without titles. I want you like I had you back on Dagobah.”

“And how,” Din whispers, his voice running through Nova like heat, “is that?”

She gasps as Din’s hand slowly slips down to her throat, bracing itself there. He barely squeezes, and without all of her senses screaming at her that Din’s hand is against her, she thinks his touch would feel like a ghost, like nothing there at all. “Like we belong to each other,” Nova manages, and Din’s grip intensifies. It’s a slip. She can tell, with the way that his eyes roll back, with the way that a moan slips out from the hollow of his open mouth. Stars blur through her vision—some refracted from the open sky up above, and some from the restriction to her airflow, and she leans into the pressure just as Din retracts his grip.

“Cyar’ika—”

“I belong to you,” Nova whispers, the words sounding like a confessional, deeper and darker than she intended. Her hands find Din’s, wordlessly pulling his hand back to rest like a vice against her throat. “Everything in me is yours. Remember?”

Din squeezes again, and the grin that was hiding slowly spreads across Nova’s face. She knows that in the darkness, her teeth glow white, framed by the plump pinkness of her mouth. Din’s standing, still fully clothed, but she can tell by the way his grip tightens against her throat that he’s rock hard under all that beskar.

“Din,” she manages, her voice high and thready through the pressure of his hand, “what do you want?”

“I want you,” he chokes out, guttural and dangerous, his voice coming from somewhere beyond the horizon. Immediately, he pulls Nova to her feet by her throat, eyes flickering carefully over her own gaze to double-check that what he’s doing isn’t too far. She smiles back at him, and when she’s fully standing, smile still plastered across her starstruck face, she drops her grip on Din’s wrist and immediately moves to unhook his armor. She could do it in the dark. She could do it blind. By now, Nova’s memorized every single inch of Din’s body, whether he’s armored in all of his beskar or not. Even the new additions to his regalia since becoming Mand’alor are burned into Nova’s memory, bright and gleaming. She doesn’t break Din’s gaze as she undresses him, pulling the pauldrons off, the chest plates, the silver V of covering that protects his lower stomach and his crotch. It’s over in what feels like seconds, and then the only thing covering Din is the soft fabric of his underclothes. Nova tugs at his trousers first, pulling them down to reveal the silky feeling of his boxers. She positions herself in between Din’s legs, grabbing his right hip to anchor his hardness against her, and he groans out again, the desperate, wet sound filling up the throne room. It's loud. Too loud. The kind of loud that Din never reaches, not unless they’re the only two people on a planet, not unless they’re lost out there in the crush of space. If his cheeks redden at the sound, though, Nova doesn’t catch it, because her touch is too focused, her vision still spinning off starry, impassioned, loud. Slowly, she reaches up through Din’s weakening grip to pull the shirt off of his torso, breath catching in her throat as she takes the King of Mandalore without armor, without clothes, without anything. Nova smiles up at Din, blinking away the small tears of pleasure that gathered in the corners of her eyes, and then she sinks back down on the throne, squaring her shoulders, tossing her loose hair out of her face, eyes full of allure and desire.

“I want you,” she echoes, and then her mouth is on his stomach. Din gasps out, the sound of it ringing out like infernal bells, and Nova hides her teeth as she grins against his stomach, tongue swirling up and down his belly, fingers grazing like butterfly wings across the bones of his hips. She can feel him growing harder and harder as she teases, parting some of the faint hair that trails down his stomach with the wetness of her mouth. Din’s hands find her shoulders, and his fingers clench down, leaving small half-moons imprinted on either side of her neck. “Can I taste you?”

“W—want you,” Din chokes out, his voice demanding and desperate, but the rocking of his hips against her chest betrays him, and before he can make good on his command, Nova’s already slid every inch of him down her throat. She moans in rhythm with him, as Din’s hands leave her shoulders in a frenzy and instead tangle in her hair, wanting. Quietly, Nova swirls her tongue around the base before she pulls off of his cock with a loud, slurping, sucking noise, and she doesn’t even have time to be embarrassed before she’s sinking her mouth all the way down over Din again, the tears that have returned at the corners of her eyes springing back to life. They feel like satisfaction. She can feel him trembling, and when she drops one of her hands between his legs, lightly cupping his balls, Din cries out again. “Nova—”

“Shh,” she interrupts, which is truly a feat, considering her mouth is full of him and her saliva and not much else, “let me finish you here.”

“No,” Din interrupts, and his voice is strangled, muddled. Immediately, Nova does, pulling her mouth off of him regrettably, blinking up at him, lower lip slowly jutted out. “I k—fuck, I know you wanted to finish me like this, but—but I need you to break in my throne.”

A jolt of lightning strikes through Nova’s body, and she shudders as Din’s shaking grip finds the small of her back and pulls her to her trembling feet. For a moment, everything else evaporates, just the two of them breathing and holding each other, Din’s forehead stooped low to press against hers, and then he whirls her around.

Nova’s used to Din’s manhandling, the expert way he spins and lifts her, like she’s made of nothing but air. This is much clumsier than his usual vigor, and when she’s done a complete 180 and is facing her husband, Mand’alor, the big brave bounty hunter, he’s seated on his throne like he owns it, and his hands are on Nova’s hips in the same place where she was sitting a second ago. There’s something deeper and more intense in his gaze right now, something beyond just lust. It’s power, Nova recognizes as Din pulls her hips down, her knees splaying to the sides of the beskar throne. The metal is unyielding against her bones, but still, she doesn’t feel the impact. Din has collapsed her on top of him, the only thing keeping her upward is his grip and her knees trying desperately to cling onto the straddling position that Din’s holding her in.

For a moment, she just stares at him. He looks like divinity, here, something deeper than just another human being in front of him. Nova doesn’t know if it’s the starry sky spinning through the throne room, or because this feels like a holy place of worship, or if it’s just been weeks since they’ve had longer than a handful of minutes at the end of the day before they both fall asleep, too exhausted and dizzied by their work to touch each other relentlessly, but she feels like she’s spinning. Like this has been months in the making, even though it’s only been a handful of days since Din pulled her down over his lap and anchored her hips to his. Her eyes are on his, desperate, searching. When a single hand trails up to brush against her throat, she eagerly leans into his touch, nodding before his outstretched hand makes contact with her neck, skin on skin.

“You want this?” Din breathes, eyes fixed on her open mouth, and Nova nods against his question, his touch, everything.

“More than anything,” she manages, voice throaty and high, stars spinning beyond her eyes. Din nods in assent, and then his hand is gone, a claw rounded around her hipbones, his fingernails sinking into the plushy flesh. The way he holds her as he grinds her down on top of him is enough to make the rest of the world—and every insecurity—trickle out of Nova. When he pushes inside her, slick and warm and so big from this position, she gasps, the sound of it wet and obscene, too loud for the silent room.

“Fuck,” Din hisses, and then Nova starts moving of her accord. She can’t really feel her knees as they dig into the smooth, impenetrable surface of the beskar throne, but it doesn’t even matter. This is worth never feeling either patella ever again. There’s something humming low and urgent in Din’s throat, his scratchy face buried in Nova’s neck, tongue licking and snapping at her most sensitive pulse point. She groans. “You—you’re perfect, cyar’ika.”

“Not perfect,” she murmurs, hands wrapping around Din’s neck and tangling in his dark hair, eyes fluttering open enough to catch a glimpse at it, her fingers long and beautiful as they tug at his hair.

“Listento yourself,” Din pleads, one of his strong, toned arms wrapping around her waist, pulling her down over and over. In any other situation it would be embarrassing, the sucking noise coming ceaselessly between her thighs, but she’s so wet and so close to the edge that she doesn’t try to obscure it, and doesn’t try to fight Din’s insistent, guttural words. “You’re perfect. Everything about you. Your hips, the—the way they move. Your eyes, rolling back into your skull as I fuck you. Shit, Nova, everything about your pussy, I—”

She can feel her cheeks burning. It’s not often that Din is this vocal, this unhinged, especially not in this situation. It’s dirty and forbidden, and as she bounces up and down on his cock, eyes rolled back like he loves, everything wet and slippery between her legs, she forgets all about the fact that they’re naked and desecrating the throne of Mandalore. It’s everything. It’s so much, and when she’s right on the edge of orgasm, Din grinds his hips up into her.

“Din—”

“I want to show you off,” he grits out, and before she can ask him what he means, he’s lifting her off of him like she weighs fucking nothing, pushing himself down to the hilt inside her as she watches the empty throne room, the empty seats around the holotable, watched by the lifeless warriors painted on the wall. She doesn’t try to hide any part of her body. Din’s still whispering every dirty sound he can think of in her ear, one broad arm wrapped around her waist, the other hand tangled up in Nova’s hair.

“To whom?” she asks, the words barely even air. She’s on the edge still, eyes blinking, torso trembling. She wants Din to let her cum so bad, she can barely hear what he’s saying over the pumping rush of blood in her ears.

Din lifts up a lock of hair, the same stubborn wave that always falls in her face, tucking it gently behind her year. For a second, she sees red, legs shaking, completely subject to whatever Din’s doing. “Everyone,” he whispers, and the shock of how guttural and feral his voice sounds sends Nova right over the edge she’d been teetering on. He makes her cum so hard that everything explodes out into the same number of stars shimmering above, divine and dangerous, white-hot, so, so alive. And before she has a chance to gain her senses back, Din’s dragging and rushing as deep into her as he can, every inch of him warm and desirable, and when he lets go to follow Nova over the edge of the cliff they’re both standing on, she gasps as he fills her, hot and thick. It’s so much harder than the last time they fucked, both of them devastated, exhausted, fulfilled.

Nova leans back against Din’s chest, heaving, spinning, trying to catch her breath. They’re both inhaling and exhaling intently, trying to return back to the planet they rule, to the throne they just fucked on. “Well,” she starts, pulling the long waves off her back, looking over her bare shoulder at Din, “wow.”

He laughs, and he’s still inside her, slowly softening as he comes back down from the high of it, pressing his pink lips against her exposed skin. “High praise.”

“It’s the truth,” she whispers, giggling, suddenly remembering where they are. “I—I can’t believe we just did that—”

“We’re newlyweds,” Din interrupts, his voice still rough from the aftermath of sex, and something sparks up low in Nova’s belly as he talks, “plus I’m the ruler of this planet, remember?”

She grins, tipping her shoulder back into his bare chest, trailing her fingers over his tan skin, tracing fault lines she’s never seen but knows are there. “I like power on you.”

“Nova—”

“No, seriously,” she continues. “It’s hot. Do you get a crown, maybe? Do I?”

“I think one of us will have to duel Bo-Katan for that one,” Din groans, and Nova laughs again, sliding off of his lap, slowly pulling together the pieces of armor she discarded earlier, tossing them through the dark air for Din to collect. The mention of Bo-Katan, though, sends a shiver of a reminder down Nova’s very exposed spine. She pulls her own underclothes on, quickly whipping her tank top back over her head, suddenly remembering how cold it is in here when she’s not writhing between the proverbial sheets with her husband. She bites down on her lip, hastily zipping her trousers up, the noise loud and discordant. “Nova,” Din continues, squinting at her, “what’s wrong?”

“Oh,” she says, dazed, tossing the last piece of armor back over to him, “you know, we—we just desecrated a holy part of Mandalore, we don’t know how the hell to fight off the First Order, and Bo-Katan is probably standing right outside that door, ready to kick both of our asses.”

“She,” Din answers, pushing against the heavy beskar doors, “is not here. We’re working on how to stop the Order. And this holy part of Mandalore,” he breathes, walking back towards her, one eyebrow raised, as if he’s questioning the way his face is displaying expression, “is ours to desecrate.”

“When you said,” Nova breathes, staring back at him, everything else fading out, “that you wanted to show me off to everyone—”

Din suddenly looks sheepish, and she giggles. “Nova, I didn’t—I was just into the moment, if you don’t want to—you never have to, I—”

She grins, smile glittering in the dark, sliding past him and into the empty hall, drifting in the general direction of their bedroom. “I didn’t say,” she whispers coyly, holding out one hand for Din’s gloved one, “that I didn’t want to.” She winks, pulling a still-stammering Din behind her. “I just can’t believe you want to share me with anyone.”

They’re up the stairs and back to the entrance to the master bedroom, and Din finally finds his words—or his grip—and grabs her, twirling Nova back into his arms with the force of the bounty hunter that he used to be. “You’re mine,” he whispers. “I won’t let a single person in this galaxy forget it.”

Nova grins, heart doing backflips in her chest. By the time they finally make their way into the suite, it’s dark across the whole wide expanse of sky, and Grogu is asleep in their bed, comically small compared to the king-size that takes up most of the room. “I know,” she whispers, looking back and forth from her husband to their son, a smile etched into her lips. “We should get to bed,” she murmurs, after a second, and Din nods, pulling off the armor and his underclothes in his silent Mandalorian way, Nova weaving her hair back into her usual braid, feeling the bruises from her knees banging forcefully into the beskar throne.

“What’s on your schedule for tomorrow?” Din asks, both of them gently pulling the pillows that line the bed onto the ground, until it’s empty except for their usual spread and the baby’s tiny body. His eyes drift down to Grogu, and so do Nova’s. He knows. She knows. Neither of them want to say it aloud. It’s time for Grogu to go back with Luke and resume his Jedi training, even though none of them want him gone. Nova swallows.

“You know,” she tries, halfheartedly trying to lift her voice into excitement, “Back to business.”

Din rolls over, facing Nova in the darkness. “You don’t have to,” he whispers, and she knows losing Grogu again, even though it’s to Luke Skywalker, even though they’ll be able to fix it, is wreaking havoc on him too. Nova settles down next to him, ears focused only on the miniscule snores of Grogu’s open mouth, her hand finding Din’s, her eyes falling over where Luke’s lightsaber is hanging ceremoniously by the door.

“But I do,” she answers, finally, closing her tired eyes. “We have a galaxy to save. And I,” she breathes, snuggling in closer to the baby, “have a Jedi to see.”

if you would like to be taken off the taglist or put on it, send me a message/ask/comment!! <3

I HOPE YOU LOVED IT!!!! whether you're a returning reader or a longtime lover, i m so happy you're here with Din, Nova, Grogu, and me. i just simply could not stay away from this story, and i cannot wait to go across the stars and back with the second fic in the series!! leave all your thoughts in the comments here, or find me over at tumblr @ amiedala, or scroll through my tiktok @ padmeamydala

CHAPTER 2 WILL BE UP SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 11TH, @ 7:30 PM EST!

xoxo, amelie

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the-writers-bookshelf · 3 years ago

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This is embarrassing but I am bad at reading. I only read graphic novels sometimes but as a kid I always hated reading since my dad forced me to read those classics. I want to get into reading novels but I want to start easy. I want a book that's for an adult but the writing is for like a 12 year old. I also can't stand anything that's like 100 pages but I don't wanna read kid books since I want adult topics. Is there anything like this?

Hi lovely anon! ♥

Okay I'm THRILLED you asked this question because I get to put on my librarian thinking cap. :)

First, I want to say right off the top there is absolutely nothing to be embarrassed about.

People have different ways that they learn and absorb information and that’s perfectly fine! I really wish the publishing industry took into consideration other readers besides a generic population because so many readers are left behind and miss out on some great stories because they can’t access them for whatever reason.

Graphic novels get a bad rap for some reason, but they are FANTASTIC works of art. They connect visual storytelling with action, movement, and dialogue.

When I worked at my local library, it was so, so painful to watch parents ridicule their child for picking up a book that interested them but it didn't *fit this box* (wasn't their exact reading level, wasn't "educational" etc.)

For kids with ADHD or other learning problems, or just the way they interacted with the world...graphics novels were sometimes the ONLY thing that held their attention. They needed different stimulation - the art helped them visualize the story better than pages and pages of text ever could.

If you like something, read it. Enjoy it. That's the point of literature! ♥

Also, I really, really love illustrations with books. I like the visual aspect that adds extra punch to the story and I wish more adult literature had illustrations because I miss that so much. Graphic novels are badass so definitely don't feel bad about enjoying them! :)

I’m going to do my best to recommend some things here. I haven’t read everything on this list so take it with a grain of salt! Because most publishers require a set word count/page count, 100 pages or less might be a bit difficult to pin down. But I’ll see what I can do! :)

Anthologies/Magazines -

Anthologies and short fiction magazines are great because the stories are short - most of the time around 40 pages or less - and you get a range of authors so you can sample their writing styles.

Some anthologies/magazines I would recommend include:

Clarkesworld

They post their back issues online so you can read them AND listen to an audio recording of them for FREE.

Fantasy and Science Fiction Magazine

I recently picked up a few of their copies and I’m really enjoying the range of author styles they include in each edition. They include poems, short stories, and novelets (longer than a short story, shorter than a novel). The whole thing is roughly 200 pages but you can always stop reading after one story and get a satisfied ending :)

Podcastle (audio)

This is an honorary mention because of the compact storytelling they aim to cultivate. Podcastle (fantasy) and it’s branching publications - EscapePod (science fiction) and Pseudopod (horror) - publish stories via podcast. It’s not quite novels, like what you’re looking for, but they do look for stories that grab your attention and can be read well aloud. If you’re looking to spark an interest in a wide range of fiction, this might be a good resource to browse! :)

Fiction -

The Murderbot Diaries by Martha Wells

I personally haven’t read this one yet - it’s on my to-read list! - but each book is around 150 pages told through the eyes of an increasingly self-aware robot that has nicknamed itself “Murderbot.”

Wayward Children Series by Seanan McGuire

This adult series is about a home for wayward kids who regularly come and go through magic portals to other worlds. Each book is fairly short, a little under 200 pages.

Binti by Nnedi Okorafor

Binti is the first of the Himba people to go Oomza University - one of the best institutions in the galaxy. But learning comes at a price and her journey won’t be an easy one (96 pages, book 1 of the series)

The Gunslinger by Stephen King

This was 50-50 for me. I liked the concept, the ending was a little...too out there for me to grasp. But it’s 230 pages, a little gritty, a little grimdark, with action.

Honorable Mentions -

I’m not sure what genre of graphic novels you’re reading (humor? dark fantasy? superheroes?) but if you want to venture into some fun fiction that’s a little longer, here are some authors that have taken me on a wild romp across the pages -

Terry Pratchett

Neil Gaiman (I like some of his stories, others are a miss for me, but he explores a wide range of fiction so you can dabble in lots of different things! :)

Adrian Tchaikovsky (particularly Spiderlight, lots of epic high fantasy adventure)

A.J. Hartley

Jeff VanderMeer (Annihilation)

I hope some of these help a little! Good luck! :)

#asks #anonymous

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coffeeandcalligraphy · 4 years ago

Text

A chatty writing update | novels, short fiction, etc!

Hi folks!

It’s been a while since I last wrote an update on this blog! I thought it’d be fun to go back to basics, and just talk about writing. This post chats about: new plans for Feeding Habits, my newest novel, my short story goals & growing collection, along with process reflections.

(image description: a photo of green leaves with the text “writing update” in a white font written on top. /end image description)

Post starts under the cut!

General taglist (please ask to be added or removed)

@if-one-of-us-falls, @qatarcookie, @chloeswords, @alicewestwater, @laughtracksonata, @shylawrites, @ev–writes, @jaydewritesfiction, @jennawritesstories @eowynandfaramir, @august-iswriting, @aetherwrites, @avakrahn, @maisulli

What have I been up to?

For starters, I finished my second year of my Writing undergrad last week and got two of my final grades back today (A+ baby)! For anyone who has taken online university, y’all already KNOW, but this year was so difficult. Would not recommend! Really proud of myself to have gotten through this absolute rollercoaster of a school term and am excited to get into some writing. That leads us to:

What have I been up to (writing edition)?

2021 started off so fast. By the time January hit, I was so consumed in my new semester that I did not have time to write Feeding Habits (my novel). In the first few days of the term, I managed to write between class, until I could no longer keep up! Essentially, I did not write any of that novel until exam season (last week), where I did manage to get in about 3k words in ~4 days.

Feeding Habits

I’m currently drafting what I believe will be the last chapter of this book (chapter 10: Swan Song). This chapter is so bizarre for a few reasons. It begins the book’s third part and also marks the shift back into Lonan’s head from Harrison’s. I originally thought this part would be much, much longer, with at least another five chapters to go, but quickly realized the book’s content was nearly completed. In my 4 day 3k palooza, I hit 50k in the book (the word count goal), and couldn’t see myself extending past 60k. Since then, I’ve made the loose decision to write this final chapter as a ~novella. Here are a few reasons why:

1. This chapter is structurally very strange.

I unashamedly shift from present to past to present to past past, and so much more every 12 words. I mapped out the timeline on a sheet of paper, and there were over 20 shifts in scenes (the chapter is only about 4400 words at the moment). The fictive past is incredibly important to this chapter, more important than the present, and I thought it would make more sense to not break randomly for a chapter so I could upkeep the consistent inconsistency of the chapter.

2. The chapter is very abstract

This stems from the structural changes, but there are paragraphs in this chapter of the fictive present that are loosely based in reality. They’re more poems than they are factual paragraphs, and keeping them all contained in one place (so a mega chapter/ novella) would reduce the most confusion!

3. There’s not much left to cover

Like I said above, Feeding Habits is on its last leg, lol! I know exactly where the book needs to end up, which is very, very soon from where I’m currently at on the timeline. Swan Song should cover what 2-4 chapters would cover in terms of arcs.

Feeding Habits and I have a really weird relationship, tbh! When I realized a few weeks ago that it’d been over a year since I started the book, I realized I just needed to finish it. Not that I want to rush (because I’ve taken longer than a year to write a book in the past), but that in order to move onto another project, I’d like to put this one behind first. This book has been the hardest thing I’ve ever written, and has reminded me there’s always a time to let go. This sort of scrounges up a conversation about letting this entire series go, which is certainly something I’ve been contemplating doing soon(ish). If this spinoff series gets a third book, that may or may not be the last Fostered book for a very long time (or ever)! There are many complex reasons to move on, but the main one is that I have other projects I’d like to focus on. This is not a definitive decision, but something I’ve certainly been thinking about!

Here are a few excerpts I wrote recently:

(TW: death, gore)

Dying feels like being a trout dangled out of water. Clinging to a hook. Mouth open. Scales iridescent in a final death cry. It’s like blood spurting up the knuckles, drowning out the flesh. It’s that moment on the long fall down when the clouds cup the body. Easy drifting. The sound a skull makes when it cracks is really just the afterthought.

(TW: death, gore)

Kill shot. Death blow. Coup de grace. Right in the heart. He feels it. The blood swelling, slicking his palms. He can do it. Reach into the cavity. Feel for the ribs. Part each bone. Then cup the humming heart. Stay there. Right. It’s never been easier.

Look at this PURE moment of Lonan holding a baby I CANNOT:

The grocery store was a fifteen-minute walk away. With Olivia clinging to his shoulder, Lonan was acutely aware that she could feel his heartbeat. Open valve. Close. Repeat. Hers pulsed right above his, a miniature drumming. The sky had bruised purple, misted with clouds. The evening air nipped his cheeks, so he made sure Olivia was securely fastened between him and his jacket. With wide eyes, she absorbed the drowsy suburbia, all its family cars pulling into driveways, all its couples heading back home after a sunset walk. When Lonan passed a young boy walking two golden retrievers, Olivia giggled, and didn’t stop, even after he’d spent fifty dollars on groceries and nearly the rest on a red Corolla marked with a MUST GO NOW sign outside a convenience store.

Let’s move on!

Mandy and Cora

I said I wouldn’t talk too much about this project, but I just love it so much?? I wanted to share my SUPER early thoughts on drafting a novel, especially one that is SO different from what I’ve been writing recently. I talked about this before in THIS post, but the summary about this project is that it’s a YA contemporary novel! Can’t believe I’m writing YA again, it’s been so long, but I also think it’s going so well. Everything I’ve learned as a literary fiction writer has been a fantastic primer for transferring back to the genre. Admittedly, I have not written much, but I’m having a lot of fun diving back into a lighter project. This is the summary:

Cora and Mandy are identical twins who’ve always done everything together. But when Mandy decides to go to university out of province after graduation and Cora doesn’t, Cora takes this as an opportunity to “test run” life apart from her sister for the first time by spending the summer at her aunt’s house across the country.

I have come up with a few ~things since I last talked about this project, mostly how I’d like to structure it. As of now, I’d like the book to be structured super loosely. I’m really pulling on a lot of inspo from “We Are Okay” by Nina LaCour (which is SO good), particularly how “nothing happens-y” that book is. This project (which I still need a title for!!) will be structured in short chapters that cover something Cora does on her own for the first time (without Mandy). For example, a few ideas are “Flight”, “Lunch”, and “Groceries”. “Flight” is the first “chapter” (they’re really kind of vignettes) where Cora flies to her aunt’s house. I still can’t determine if this book will take place in Canada. On one hand, I feel like there will be a wider audience if it takes place in the US (is that just an assumption??? maybe?? someone let me know!), but also: don’t really care too much about an audience at the moment! It could also take place in Canada (So Ontario and British Columbia). But if it does take place in the US, I think it may take place in NYC and San Francisco. The problem is: I really don’t like researching lol, and while I’ve been to NYC many times, I will definitely write it wrong! Does this really matter on a first draft?? absolutely not lol, but of course I am already overthinking!

But back to structure: I am looking forward to seeing what this looser structure will do. This is a story that is solely around one half of a set of twins learning to be her own person (and ultimately that she doesn’t have to completely forget her sister in order to do that), and as a twin who KNOWS this feeling, I think this structure of her doing things for the first time is SUPER relatable.

I was worried it might sound silly/worrying to others who are not twins that Cora hadn’t done things like “lunch” or “groceries” on her own, but I feel this so much as an identical twin myself! Not that she hasn’t done anything at all by herself, but as a twin, when you do something without your twin for the first few times, at least in my experience, you notice. If any twins are reading this--weigh in!

This story is the most personal thing I’ve ever written. It definitely is an OwnVoices book! Usually, I avoid details that are remotely similar to me because they make me uncomfortable haha, but with this book, it’s all me, lol! The characters are all Guyanese, which is SO fun because I’ve been planning what they eat (my fellow Caribbean peeps know: the FOOD!), which is so fun (yes they have pumpkin and shrimp, yes they have roti, yes they have pera, yes they have mithai). Every time I’ve gone to dabble at this book, or even think about it, I get incredibly emotional for this reason? I don’t exactly know why. I think this is a story I just so want to tell, with the culture I love SO much that I definitely struggled to love as a child. This is reclamation bitchessss!

Not going to lie tho: the prospect of writing ~a book~ is kind of freaky! I’m going to make the minimum word count for this book pretty short (50k) and see where it goes from there. I think I will focus on this project this summer! Originally I was going to write a literary novel this summer, but I think this one’s calling my name!

Here’s a pretty rough excerpt:

Try. I remind myself that’s what I’m doing after the flight attendant fills me a disposable cup of Coca Cola and all I can think of is Mandy and I shoving Mentos into a bottle of the stuff when we were twelve. Just me, wedged in the middle seat between an exchange student heading out for summer break and a middle-aged woman sipping a cocktail, thinking of Mandy and I bursting whole oranges in a blender when we were bored one Winter break as the plane dips through a wave of turbulence. Mandy and I dying our hair neon green with highlighters (didn’t work—our hair is too dark) as the plane lands on the tarmac. Mandy and I arguing so loud last month, we both lost our voices as I lug my carry-on out of the overhead compartment and shuffle off the plane and through the airport, searching for Aunt Vel.

Short Fiction

I’ve written so much short fiction this year! I have a goal to write a short story a month (they can range in length, as long as 1 is “complete”), so my short story brain has seriously been soaking it all up lately. Let’s chat my month to month breakdown so far:

January:

I wrote four stories in January! The first is a flash fiction piece called “Shark Swimming” that follows a young woman who attends a shark swimming class after breaking up with her girlfriend. I wrote this story for a “test” workshop for my fiction class, and it was based off the prompt “think about something you’re afraid to do and make the character do that thing”. I’m not particularly afraid of sharks, but had been wanting to use the title “Shark Swimming” for AGES (literally since 2018).

This story is one of my favourites. It’s only about 900 words, but I think there’s something profound in how mundanely specific it is. The entire story doesn’t even see the narrator swim with sharks once; it actually takes place fully in the sanctuary’s lobby. But I really love this narrator. This is the first story I’ve written in second person in a while, though I felt really connected to the unnamed narrator. She struggles with accepting that she truly is a “boring” person, and there’s something about the final image that really gets me!

I’ve been submitting this around, though it’s been rejected a handful of times. Hoping I can secure it at a magazine one day because I really love it!

The second story is “Joanne, I’ll Pray for You” which is actually a rewrite of one of my very first short stories (the first story I did not write for a class haha), “NYC in Your Apartment”. I LOVE this rewrite a lot, and also learned the original is not a very good short story! Revising this story taught me just how much I’ve learned in the 2 years I’ve been writing short fiction. Seeing the 2019 version versus the 2021 version side by side is fascinating because I essentially “gutted’ the 2019 version of its beginning and end until all that was left was the middle of the story (aka the actual story). AKA: this is the only story I’ve ever written with a hopeful ending and I cut out all the happy bits lol I am SO sorry (that arc is more for a novel or novella). That’s how this went from a 5k word story to an 1800 word story (my Submittable thanks me for this lol). A lot of details and scenes I included were more pertinent to a 3 act structure/novel, which of course short stories don’t often have because of their brevity. I love rambling about writing theory, and seeing that actually pay off is so fascinating!

(TW: trauma)

Like the original, this story follows Joanne, a woman in her early twenties, who spontaneously breaks up with her boyfriend. She claims the poltergeist haunting her drove her to this decision. The original draft focused a lot more on the traumatic events Joanne survives, but this draft really loosens them up. It focuses less so on the events themselves, and more on how Joanne’s life is affected. I found the details of these events were less important, and even sort of contradicted Joanne’s insistence she is being haunted. Instead, the poltergeist really takes more precedence in the new draft as a force Joanne doesn’t understand. That ambiguity, I think, is what the story truly needed.

I also centralized Joanne’s relationship with her boyfriend, Julian, here. Now don’t get me wrong, I really didn’t add anything to this draft. It was a matter of trimming the fat around it to leave the lean “meat” in the centre. But by removing that fat, I was able to emphasize what was most important here, and that was her relationship. Julian always played a really big role in the original draft, but I feel like his role as both a friend and partner to Joanne is much more emphasized since this draft literally is only two scenes now. Because there is less, there is more room for Joanne to reflect, which I’m happy about!

A final change I made was the setting and therefore the title. The original, which was “NYC in Your Apartment,” I couldn’t keep because I shifted the setting to Toronto (this is how I originally saw it, but in 2019 I just?? couldn’t?? write?? canlit??), and “Toronto in Your Apartment” sounded sort of gross LOL. The new title comes from a line in the story which I think is more relevant to the themes!

The next short story I wrote in January was “How to Spell Alpaca.” This one is super fun because I wrote it SO fast (in about 15 minutes or so). THIS is the writing update if you’re interested in learning more. I talked extensively about this one in that update, but some developments are that I dove into an edit a few weeks ago to really understand the core of the story. I’m still not quite there (this is just an intuitive feeling; I know not everything has “clicked), but I am really intrigued by the two mothers in the story, the narrator, and her newfound acquaintance, Violet. Both really struggle to understand their place as mothers (the narrator even declares she isn’t a mother anymore). The narrator, who is in her 50s, sees herself in Violet, who is much younger (~20s), and so she views Violet’s relationship with her daughter in a cautionary, yet mournful way, like she can see it will end up like her own relationship with her daughter, despite wanting the opposite. This is a really subtle story. I feel like if you blink, you’ll miss the message. But I think it’s compelling for that reason. It’s really a portrait of parenting and how to grapple with mistakes you may make that inevitably affect your children. Wow just unlocked the theme writing this lol.

The final story I wrote in January is “The Party,” which may be in my top 3 faves I’ve ever written. This story follows Aida, a recent divorcee in her ~40s. The day her divorce turns official, she moves into a new house and receives a party invitation addressed to the previous homeowner, yet RSVP’s anyway. At this party, she’s hoping to find some sense of noticeability, having struggled with being nondescript her whole life. Things seem quite normal at the party, until it gets bizarre.

I LOVE this story, y’all. Like “How to Spell Alpaca” it really delves into motherhood. Aida, our narrator, is incredibly hurt after her divorce. She now lives farther from her children she struggled to feel connected to in the first place, and doesn’t really know how to reignite her life. This party is a means to do that. This is the first story I’ve written that contains a “twist” which is strange because I really prefer stories that give us as much info as possible upfront, but yes, this one sort of twists.

February

I wrote one story in February, and that was “Protect the Young.” This title is SO changing when I think of a new one because it’s thematically incorrect, haha, but this story follows a woman in her late 40s whose daughter, Lindy, announces she is married the same day all their backyard chickens turn up dead. The discovery of dead chickens prompts our narrator to recall her ex-husband’s murder and the role her daughter may have played in his death.

I love this story so much! I think this would make a great closing for my short story collection. It just has that vibe! I wrote this for my second fiction workshop. I thought I had to hand in the story a week earlier than I had to, so I panicked and wrote this in one sitting! Little did I know, I did not need to do that lol but I’m very happy because this story is so fun. We get to learn more about Arnold (her ex), his relationship with Lindy, and how that translates to Lindy’s relationship with her new husband, Malcolm. I LOVE true crime (I listen to about 3-4 hours of case coverage daily), and this is my first “true crime” story. Because of that, I’m very sus of a few details that probably wouldn’t slide in actual investigatory work, so I’ll also be working on that in a revision. My professor also gave me a great suggestion that may alter the story’s structure a bit, though I look forward to toggling with it in the future.

March

In March, I was really on a Criminal Minds kick lol. I’ve been watching this show since I was seven (oops), and dove into a rewatch since it hit Disney+! This story, “Where to Run When the Lamb Roars,” is very clearly Rachel watching 5 episodes of CM a day. Oops! We follow 14-year-old Astrid as she and her older half brother kidnap a young girl to sacrifice for their yearly ritual.

I knew a few things going into this story, but the main thing was that I did NOT want to show any details of a potential murder (if one even occurs). I really wanted to keep all of those elements off the page because this story is not about those events, but about Astrid’s relationship with her brother. They are a murderous duo, with Astrid actually being the dominant partner. I wanted to explore that. I knew her brother, Fox, was more of a submissive partner in their team, even when he used to do this same thing with his father when he was much younger (chilling!), and so it was a task to explore how this young girl’s desire for violence works. The end actually comes right before the story starts, one could say, but I like it for this reason. It really made me contemplate the story by the time I finished it, and helped me examine what it really was about versus what it appeared to be about.

April

(TW: sexual content, non explicit)

I was so busy this month! Who knows if I’ll write a story last minute, but I did write one story this month called “Five Times Fast.” I wrote this during a “writing sprint” that was being hosted at a flash fiction workshop I recently took with one of my favourite writers ever, K-Ming Chang. I learned so much from this class, and am so happy I came out of it with a draft! This story is just over 300 words, so the shortest flash I’ve ever written, but I’m really happy with it. It was based off the prompt “describe the last time you or your character was naked.” In this case, the narrator has a “friends with benefits” relationship with Ricky who works at a laundromat. This story highlights a moment in this relationship (and also Ricky’s goofy personality lol). I really like it! Hopefully I’ll submit it to some magazines soon.

My short story collection

Very briefly I wanted to touch on my short story collection which I’ve titled “She is Also Dead.” I’ve been meaning to make a blog post on this, so look out for that in the coming months, but this collection is already at around 35k words (about 14 stories so far). The collection also surprisingly has a solid amount of flash fiction which is kind of fun! There’s definitely a range here, which is what I personally love in short story collections.

I feel very professional now that I have a ~collection chart. This is her:

(image description: A chart with the title “She is Also Dead.” It is broken into four columns: Story, Status, Word Count, and Published. Entry 1 - Story: Slaughter the Animal. Status: Revisions, Word Count, 3982, Published: N/A. Entry 2 - Story: Joanne, I’ll Pray for You, Status: Polished, Word Count: 1809, Published: N/A. Entry 3 - Story: Primary Organs, Status: Published, Word Count: 2342, Published: The Malahat Review. Entry 4 - Story: Faberge, Status, Polished, Word Count: 619, Published: N/A. Entry 5 - Story: The Wolf-Antelope Will Not Come for Us, Status, Polished, Word Count: 1556, Published: filling Station (forthcoming). Entry 6 - Story: How to Spell Alpaca, Status: revisions, Word Count: 1327, Published: N/A. Entry 7 - Story: Blink Twice for Final Judgement, Status: Polished, Word Count: 6572, Published: N/A. Entry 8 - Story: The Species is Dead, Status: Published, Word Count: 1208, Published: Minola Review. Entry 9 - Story: Shark Swimming, Status: Polished, Word Count: 907, Published: N/A. Entry 10 - Story: The Party, Status, Polished, Word Count 2339, Published: N/A. Entry 11 - Story: Fig, Status: Polished, Word Counter: 947, Published: N/A. Entry 12 - Story: Protect the Young, Status: Revisions, Word Count: 4128, Published: N/A. Entry 13 - Story: Where to Run When the Lamb Roars, Status: Revisions, Word Count: 2174, Published: N/A. Entry 14 - Story: Phantom Limbs, Status: Revisions, Word Count: 4844, Published: N/A.) /end image description.

This order is DEFINITELY not permanent (at this point whenever I write a story, I just fit it randomly into this chart lol), and some of the info is outdated (for example, Slaughter the Animal is now polished!!! thank god!!!). But just an idea of what I’m thinking of including.

This is the summary so far:

In SHE IS ALSO DEAD, characters are pushed to act on their gravest impulses. A small town turns murderous when their local invasive species, the Janices, begin dying. A child struggles to understand her mother’s suicide. A college dropout who insists she’s being haunted by a poltergeist unexpectedly breaks up with her boyfriend. A mother acknowledges her daughter’s murderous tendencies after her backyard chickens mysteriously die. A young girl caters the funeral of a girl rumored to be killed by a wolf-antelope. A newly-divorced mother RSVP’s to a bizarre party she was not invited to, and a murderous brother and sister upkeep their yearly tradition of abducting a young girl. These stories follow characters who navigate death, violent desires, womanhood, and loss, both self-imposed and otherwise.

This is also so subject to change as I may pull and add stories to the collection!

I think I’m going to leave this update here for now! I’ve written TONS of poetry too, but I honestly ~hate my poetry right now lol, so! Hope you enjoyed this chill rambly update. Hope writing has going well for you all! All the best!

--Rachel

#writing #writeblr #writerblr #amwriting #writingupdates

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thebibliomancer · 4 years ago

Text

Essential Avengers: Marvel Super Heroes Secret Wars #1-3

May, 1984

THE WAR BEGINS

Oof, here we go.

Just gotta replicate the pace that let me do the Hawkeye miniseries in one go, three times in a row.

This is probably too much effort considering its Secret Wars (or more accurately Marvel Super Heroes Secret Wars) and maybe there’s not going to be a lot of big changes from this in the Avengers book to really justify it.

But we’re getting Jim Shooter writing the Avengers and his non-consecutive runs were a lot better than I had remembered. And it continues the theme he had from the Avengers book.

It just makes sense in a nonsense way to cover this story.

Last relevant time in Avengers! Acting Completely Normal Vision warned the Avengers about some weird, possibly hostile energy surges right in time for an energy surge to surge energetically in Central Park.

When the Avengers went to investigate, they found a weird structure that looked like a techy coliseum maybe. When some of the Avengers wandered into it (apparently the most bankable Avengers? Sucks to be Vision and Wanda, shrug) they vanished.

In the next issue, after several days, these heroes returned, speaking of a secret war they fought. Weird stuff like She-Hulk taking the Thing’s place on the Fantastic Four happened. In other books, Spidey got a cool new suit.

Would you know more?

After being raptured in their various books, the missing superheroes all end up on one of those distinctive structures like the one that appeared in Central Park, except IN SPACE.

Its cool that the Avengers will have some company.

We’ve got a terrific 3/4ths of the Fantastic Four, the X-Men (including Lockheed but not including Kitty Pryde for some reason), the Avengers, Iron Man, Spider-Man, the totally Articulate Hulk, and hilariously Magneto is also here.

Maybe Secret Wars is just setting up the most awkward moment in the universe, as a prank show.

I think I’d enjoy a big event that turned out to be a prank show at the last minute. The fan discontent. Imagine.

Everyone introduces themselves to each other but mostly the audience and Ben Grimm claims his new codename as the Easter Bunny.

Checking, marvel wiki doesn’t have Easter Bunny listed as one of Ben’s known aliases. Cowards.

Looking up into space, Captain America spots another one of the totally cool constructs and Professor X scans that it contains EEEEEEEVIL.

Specifically Amora the Enchantress, Ultron, the Wrecking Crew, the Absorbing Man, the Lizard, VICTOR VON DOOOOOM, Kang the Conqueror, Doctor Octopus, and Molecule Man. Also, hilariously, Galactus is there.

I’m more convinced than ever that this is a prank show.

You know what would be more hilarious? If Punisher ended up on this construct.

The distribution of villains is kind of odd though. Galactus and Doctor Doom map to the FF. Doctor Octopus and the Lizard to Spider-Man. Ultron, Molecule Man, and Kang are Avengers foes. The Absorbing Man and the Wrecking Crew can go a couple ways but started off as Thor villains. And Amora is usually a Thor villain but supposedly has chilled out around this time or at least is less of a pain than her horny sister.

No X-Men villains. Because Magneto is chilling with them in the generally heroic pod.

Also, all the heroes were raptured from Earth while the villains were grabbed from Earth, from space, from Asgard, resurrected just to be here, or from the FUTURE.

I know marketing is wagging the dog but be consistent, secret organizer who we don’t know yet.

The Thing points out that Magnet is off-sides, re: being in the hero construct, and Magneto is like ‘hey, chill out dudes’ and denies specifically doing murders.

Magneto: “I know not what power transported me here from my secret lair, nor why I was placed among you -- but I find it more appropriate to ask why such as you were judged fit to be placed in my presence!”

Oof.

Burn.

Then the conversation is put on halt on account of the wildest shit any of them have ever seen.

An entire galaxy vanishes but probably not due to a wave of anti-matter.

Thor: “It’s gone! Gone -- ! Swept away like dust before some unseen, giant hand!”

And then around that last star left unswept, various chunks merge together to form some sort of world, perhaps for battle.

A nice touch for later is that you can definitely see that one of the chunks is a stray chunk of city.

Some of the villains start squabbling because close quarters, ego, etc.

But Ultron goes hey we’re allowed to fight? I’m the best at that.

Ultron: “I am Ultron! I do not understand the events transpiring! I do not understand how I came to be resurrected... nor how I came to be here! Nothing computes... Insignificant! I am Ultron! My purpose is to slay that which lives. You are all living things, ergo -- Ultron must destroy you!”

With the benefit of having read all the Avengers up to now, I feel that Ultron got up on the wrong side of the resurrection a little.

He’s not not like this but he’s not usually this turned on?

(Then again, maybe he just came back cranky)

DOOM grabs and shakes Molecule Man to do something about this because given enough time even the mighty DOOM might fall before Ultron.

Ultron is famously annoying to defeat, what with that adamantium.

But Molecule Man is in therapy after the Avengers kicked his shit and Tigra yelled at him for being a punk. He doesn’t want to hurt anyone.

So Doom with all his brilliant genius tells MM a cool way to help out that won’t hurt anyone. Directly.

Using his Molecule Man power over molecules to lightly toss Ultron into Galactus.

So that Galactus goes ‘who the fuck scuffed my boots’ and rips out all the energy in Ultron’s Ultron.

He can do that.

Why wouldn’t he? If he can do that to a planet, he can do it to a pissbaby robot. Even one apparently containing more power than an atom bomb.

Then, because this is one of those plots where things are always thenning, a rift opens in the nothingness of space and a heavenly esque light shines out. A warbly voice commands the action figures beat each other up.

I mean. Its more like

The Beyonder: “I am from beyond! Slay your enemies and all you desire shall be yours! Nothing you dream of is impossible for me to accomplish!”

But you have to admire that this toy commercial of a comic book is being honest and upfront about being a story where action figures bonk off of each other.

Galactus just hears ‘i can finally shake off these persistent forever munchies’ and flies off to demand prepayment for action figure bonking, with DOOM following behind him.

The Beyonder speaks up warning Galactus that hey, personal space. And that a guy that can effortlessly wipe out a galaxy is gonna have a sweet barrier but Galactus wants the hunger pangs gone and does not listen.

DOOM recognizes a bad idea when he sees one once in a while and hangs back but still gets blown out of space by the force of Galactus bonking off the Beyonder’s barriers.

Captain America: “They were swatted back like flies!”

Professor X: “To the Beyonder, even Galactus is less than a fly, Captain!”

Interruption dealt with, the Beyonder gets the show on the road and sends the two constructs to different parts of the patchwork planet.

The Marvel Super Heroes And Magneto land on some hill and quickly make sure that there are no villains excepting Magneto around.

With Magneto around, the non-X-Men raise an objection to Magneto being around.

He sank a Russian submarine with all hands back in X-Men #150 but he insists that it was self-defense and also they started it.

The X-Men’s position is ‘hey he’s a jerk but he’s our jerk plus we could use his help? The bad guys get GALACTUS, how is that fair?’

Well, they don’t say it but they’re probably thinking it.

And Hawkeye decides to be a little racist today.

Hawkeye: “You mutants stick together, huh? Well, sticking to a blood-soaked maniac like him doesn’t speak well of you, pal!”

Dude, Clint. Your dear old friend is Wanda.

Wait, why ISN’T Wanda here? Did the toy people really not want her? Fools. Her husband is toyetic as all get out.

Also, point of order, Wolverine? If anyone qualifies as ‘hey he’s a jerk but he’s our jerk!’ here its you.

Johnny “good life choices” Storm decides he’ll just kick Magneto’s ass and end the debate but yeah. Yeah, no. Magneto makes a fool of him.

And then Magneto decides eff this noise and flies off.

With Magneto alienated (good job, guys), Professor X decides this group needs some dang leadership and throws a nomination to Reed Richards. Reed defers since he’s thinking of Sue, left at home and not able to participate in the event.

Wasp, the cool leader of the Avengers, nominates instead Captain America.

Wasp: “We’re off in a strange land, up to our ears in a little secret war that may decide the fate of the universe! Some people don’t know me well! They might have doubts... and there’s no room for that!”

I’m baffled that there’s people here who don’t know Wasp who has been heroing since the 60s but sure. Cap(tain America) probably gets more crossovers and whatever.

I mean, heck, we’re talking a group of heroes consisting of the Avengers (who she already leads), the Fantastic Three (who she’s well acquainted with), and the X-Men (who I’m sure she’s met, although awkwardly its going to later be revealed that Wasp is in the Hellfire Club, but only the sex parts).

And I guess Wolverine’s extensive backstory with Cap doesn’t exist yet because Wolverine isn’t keen on him being the leader, describing him as the least of the assembled heroes. When Hawkeye is right there!

I kid because I love.

Meanwhile, DOOM wakes up adjacent to Galactus ankle and heads to a nearby fortress which he correctly assumes is where the villains have ended up.

Wait, the heroes get beamed down to a random hill while the villains get sent to an advanced fortress with weaponry and we later learn vehicles sold separately?

Kinda stacking the deck, the Beyonder.

You gave the villains GALACTUS and A FORTRESS PLAYSET right out of the gate.

The other villains tell Doom that they’ve (mostly) decided that he should be their leader. But Doom has bigger fish to fry than the prizes that the Beyonder is offering.

In typical Doomesque fashion, he wants the whole kettle. But the other villains what with their petty concerns think he’s too afraid to fight.

So he ditches.

He goes to steal-borrow a spaceship and even though he hates the thought, takes off to go talk to Richards. And then Kang shoots him out of the sky with a GIANT GUN THAT THE VILLAIN FORTRESS ALSO HAS? to stop him from allying with the heroes.

Said (marvel super) heroes see the distant explosion and fly as a group in the most hilarious way possible to check it out.

God, I have always loved this image. Its squished down into the bottom third of the page but its a delight.

They find Doom sprawled in the crash site, rambling that he’ll only speak to RICHARRRRRDS and about the Beyonder’s power. But Cap offends Doom mightily but offering him a hand up and because Doom sees pity in Cap and RICHARRRRRRDS eyes.

So he blasts the heroes and fucks off.

How very Bakugou of him.

And right as the heroes recover from that, a bunch of villains arrive to get this secret war started.

I have a fondness for this particular issue. For a long while, issue 1 was the only issue of Secret Wars I could find. So I just had the start of this story with all these non-Spider-Man non-X-Men heroes I barely knew cliffhangering into an attack by villains I really didn’t recognize except for Doc Ock and the Lizard.

It was a window into another side of the Marvel Universe. And for child me, this first issue worked perfectly to intrigue me. All these characters, the very straightforward conflict, all the complications that immediately pop up like Magneto, Galactus, and Doom. Alas, small child resources.

June, 1984

PRISONERS of War!

The heroes react slowly to the sudden villain attack but thankfully, the villains aren’t working together well. Unthankfully, half of the heroes were already knocked out by the first attack.

Meanwhile, over at Doctor Doom’s side of the plot, he flies back over to where Galactus just in time to see him finally rouse from being slapped down by the Beyonder.

Galactus floats to his feet and wanders off.

Doom: “He ignored me! As though I were a gnat buzzing at his feet! And so I am... Just as all of us, even Galactus himself, are but insects to the all-powerful Beyonder! Thus, the others have chosen to play the Beyonder’s simple game -- thereby, in effect, paying homage to him. Should I, too, pay homage? Should I worship at the feet of this god-like being -- or chose another path... one only Doom would dare!”

I think anyone that knows Doom knows which option he’s gonna choose.

He heads back to the villain fortress and finds Ultron’s deactivated body and decides Doom can use this.

Meanwhile, back at the first secret battle of the secret war, the heroes rally and start fighting back under Cap(tain America)’s leadership.

She-Hulk even gets a designated girl fight with the only female villain on the villain team.

I’d complain, I would. But at least She-Hulk isn’t the only heroine on the hero side.

She-Hulk: “Hiya! I’m the She-Hulk! You must be the Enchantress! Gee, I’ve heard so much about you -- ! You’re a not-nice lady!”

Enchantress: “A green woman? Is there no end to the varieties of mortals?”

The Enchantress magic slaps She-Hulk away and comments that she could crush She-Hulk physically but its beneath her.

Yeah, all Asgardians have some level of super strength, that’s right. Even the squishy wizards.

But all She-Hulk heard was, ‘someone I can really punch!’

She-Hulk: “I don’t often duke it out with someone solid enough to really unload on -- and slow enough to let me! Oh, wow! That was, like tubular, you know -- to the max!”

Uh. Jen, are you okay? Did you have a stroke? You don’t usually talk so much in Mario World secret world levels.

I think maybe Jim Shooter didn’t have a good grasp on her. I don’t think he’s ever written for her. And the other heroes mostly don’t vary too much from generic hero speaking patterns. Add some smart for smart characters, add some rude to Wolverine, and so on.

The battle wraps up with Kang, the Enchantress, and the Wrecking Crew captured and the rest of the villains fleeing when the battle didn’t go their way.

Cap sends Storm off to scout for a cool playset that they can use as shelter and she does so, noting that the winds on Battleworld are super easy to control. Like Battleworld was created to create ideal fighting conditions for everyone. Pretty neat, the Beyonder.

Storm finds a particularly rad fortress (”Bigger than fifty-four and a half Pentagons, I’d estimate!” Wow!) and the heroes move in.

I unironically enjoy how toyetic this story is with the fortresses and the vehicles and the weapons. Because I’m almost positive that Mattel barely capitalized on it.

There were only two playsets. Pitiful.

Over in their new headquarters, Reed stashes the captured villains in some form of psychostasis which “works by controlling aggression through brainwave modulation!”

He also sticks Enchantress in a healing pod to address that nasty case of being She-Hulked right in the face. Nothing will salve her ego though.

Captain America: “It’s no wonder that the name Mister Fantastic is renowned for compassion as well as courage! You give added meaning to the word hero, Richards!”

Whenever someone loudly announces that Reed is super compassionate, it makes me feel like they’re overcompensating.

Nobody ever makes note of, say, Captain America’s compassion.

With the prisoners (of war? Is that the whole reason for the title?) accommodated, Cap calls everyone for a meeting in a cool meeting dome he found which has a small waterfall for aesthetic and so everyone has to yell to be heard.

Wolverine yells that they should mop up the rest of the villains and get this over with.

Not mentioning that in order to “win it” they’d have to kill the villains, which none of the heroes have shown any interest in doing so far.

Cap(tain America) replies that A) planet big and they have no idea where the villains got to. And B) the remaining villains slash antagonists are Galactus, Doctor Doom, Molecule Man, Doctor Octopus, the Wrecker, the Absorbing Man, and Magneto. Not really people you mop up.

In a fun logistics bit, Cap sends out a patrol to make sure the area is secure but he also sends out two additional groups to find if there are any places in this fortress they can sleep and whether there's any... food.

Makes me imagine a Secret Survival War where the sides have to wrestle over limited resources.

Hours later, the villains that escaped the fracas arrive back at their fortress.

I’m sort of confused here.

Maybe it took so long because they had to make sure they weren’t followed. Or maybe because they didn’t have the sweet tripod vehicle anymore. But think about the flow of events of: everyone beamed down to Battleworld > Doom ditches the villains and gets shot down > heroes investigate and Doom ditches > villains show up for cliffhanger fight.

The villain fortress should be pretty close to where that fight took place. And then the heroes find a nearby fortress of their own so their fortress should be pretty close to the villain fortress. Maybe not in the same neighborhood but surely the same zip code.

Anyway, they find that while they were gone, Doom swanned in and renamed the place the Doombase.

If they have problems with it, they can talk to his Ultron.

Which I’m surprised he didn’t rename Doomtron.

Doom also tells them that he’s in charge now.

Absorbing Man: “Aw! Who gives a hoot! I need a meal an’ sleep! You wanna be in charge, Doom? Okay by me!”

If you think about it, this is just some steps added what the villains wanted all along.

They wanted Doom to be their leader but he told them he had bigger fish to fry and fucked off. Now he’s fucked back on and told them all that he’s their leader. They initially object before reconsidering due to Doomtron but, yeah, its all gone full circle.

Doom is a lot more cordial to Molecule Man though.

Doom: “Molecule Man... uh, Mr. Reece, I believe it is? I trust you were not inconvenienced.”

Molecule Man: “Well, being absolute master of molecules I can just assimilate molecules when I want, so I never have to be hungry, and I can just shoo away dirt molecules, so I’m always nice and clean -- but I am tired!”

Doom: “I have prepared a special chamber for you! I hope you like it!”

Molecule Man: “If not, I can always reconstruct the molecules -- !”

Heh.

Nice to see Jim Shooter able to follow up on the trajectory he sent Molecule Man on.

The rest of the villains head off but Doctor Octopus, the only other brain cell in this group, hangs back to talk to DOOM.

He wants to know what he plans to do about Galactus and then shows Doom on the biggest screen TV that Galactus is standing on a mountain glowing with an awesome power.

Doom just retorts that his plans are for his forces to triumph.

Doctor Octopus: Something tells me he’s got ambitions that dwarf merely triumphing in the Beyonder’s little contest! The question is whether he will destroy us in trying to achieve them -- or immediately after fulfilling them?!

Like I said, the only other brain cell in this group.

Meanwhile, while Magneto secretly sneaks into the hero fortress for Reasons, the heroes have a quiet moment that lets this Secret Wars biz really sink in.

Wasp: “I’d be having tea in my studio now, Jenny... And lunch on my patio tomorrow... This... um... situation we’re in... is kind of... much, you know? I feel there’s just a little thin wall inside me holding back a flood of despair!”

Its a nice touch, if intentional, that Wasp only admits this kind of thing now that she’s passed off the leadership responsibilities to Captain America. Its been a recurring character beat that she’s been keeping these sorts of worries to herself as chairwoman.

Over in another part of the fortress, Cyclops complains that he was right in the middle of his dang honeymoon when he was yanked into this event.

Cyclops: “I don’t know about you, Richards, but more than angry or afraid, I feel cheated! I -- I was on the verge of real happiness...”

Oof. This really sets the tone for his marriage with Madelyne Pryor.

Spider-Man and the Human Torch even have a little conversation.

Spider-Man: “You mean it doesn’t shake you, Torch, being here? What if we don’t get home?”

Human Torch: “The Fantastic Four have been off on space missions a couple of times, Spider-Man! We’ll get back! Believe me!”

I like when they’re friends.

So, I’m not sure what Magneto’s plan actually was. He was going to sabotage the fortress’ fusion generator as a distraction but Spider-Man’s Spider-Sense Spider-Alerts him to shenanigans afoot and he runs off to the power plant while Johnny Storm goes to get the other heroes.

Magneto decides to abandon whatever his plan was and captures Wasp as a consolation prize.

Gasp, another prisoner of war!

The Thing tries to give chase but inexplicably turns back to normal, smooth skinned Ben Grimm.

Also, Magneto escapes with the Wasp.

It’s like the aardvark says, you can get what you want and still not be happy.

Captain Marvel is holding the randomly anti-mutant ball for Hawkeye here and comments that none of the X-Men showed up to help stop Magneto.

Cap(tain America) tells her to belay that.

Captain America: “Let’s keep our minds on solving problems, not creating more!”

And they can’t even go after Magneto or rescue the Wasp right now because they have bigger problems: Galactus glowing with an awesome power and a massive storm that’s forming on Battleworld.

July, 1984

TEMPEST WITHOUT, CRISIS WITHIN!

The Beyonder has thrown in a nice stage hazard to keep things fresh in the form of a massive storm raging on Battleworld, with lighting that shatters mountains and winds that could tear someone’s limbs clean off.

Or perhaps its the unintentional result of just slapping a planet together out of random stuff you have lying around. The climate must be shot to shit.

I like it either way. Secret Wars has a lot of very toyetic collisions between groups of characters so its nice when Battleworld itself manages to be an obstacle.

Over in his giant U-shaped fortress, Magneto finally unwraps Wasp from the ball of random metal crap he has her in.

He lets her wander around until she finds him so that he can be all casual and eating a space scone.

Magneto: “Do not bother trying to attack me, my dear! My person is magnetically shielded!”

Wasp: “Well, la-de-da!”

Wasp: -blows up his space scone- “You think I have to strike at you directly to hurt you, monster?”

Hilarious spite, thy name is Janet van Dyne.

She also makes the point that magnetic shielding or no, she could bring this whole room down. Her being able to knock over a small house with her pew pew hasn’t stopped being true.

Magneto hastens to ask her not to do that because neither of them want to be out in the storm outside.

Besides, he just wants to talk! And flirt!

Magneto: “You are obviously a woman of intelligence and understanding as well as great beauty -- and I am not the monster you believe I am -- which is precisely what I wish to discuss!”

Wasp: “Oh? My intelligence, understanding and beauty or your non-monsterhood?”

Magneto: “Why... both!”

Back at the hero base (which is apparently ROUGHLY THE SIZE OF CHICAGO?? I want that playset), the storm has almost completely flooded the area, leaving just the top dome and such poking above the water.

The storm keeps dropping chunks of mountain at the base but Thor is standing on top, protecting it while grinning like a loon.

Captain Marvel even speculates that Thor could calm the storm but is whipping it up into a greater frenzy instead. Those storm gods, amirite?

Hawkeye is also standing by, with his explosive arrow, thinking to himself that if Thor fails, Hawkeye will totally save the day.

I don’t know whether that’s sad or endearing.

Mostly though he’s trying to distract himself from thinking about the new wife he left behind.

Cap, Reed, and Hulk are watching the villain base because apparently they do know where it is. The storm is keeping the villains in too but Cap figures they’ll pull one desperate attack as soon as the storm breaks.

They’ve already lost four of their dudes. Plus, Galactus isn’t a team player.

Spider-Man is just swinging around, enjoying how good for swinging the random technological pipes and tubes and whatsits are when he stumbles upon the X-Men having a secret meeting.

Professor X has decided, possibly on the basis of two (2) rude comments from Hawkeye and Captain Marvel, that the X-Men just don’t belong here and that they’d be better off going and teaming up with Magneto.

This... sure is a take.

Rogue comments that the Avengers don’t trust her because of that time she kicked their asses collectively. Which, hey, very possibly. They haven’t really had a thing to say about you though. They’ve mostly been grouchy about Magneto.

Which is kinda born out by the way he tried to blow up their base and definitely kidnapped the Wasp?? And is even now aggressively eating scones at her?

That’s the Magneto you guys want to go join because he’s more your people than the Fantastic Avengers and friends are?

You know, there’s a pattern I sometimes see with the X-Men where they loudly insist that the other superheroes don’t help them and don’t care about mutant stuff while at the same time doing shit like this.

“Should we get Reed Richards, smartest dick in the world to help with the legacy virus or the techno-organic virus Stryfe shot into Xavier? NAHHHH Beast can handle it.”

“Should we stick with the other superheroes or go hang with Magneto instead in a cool mutants only U-shaped fortress? Well, U is the coolest letter that isn’t X...”

If you squint, you can definitely see Krakoa all the way in the future.

Anyway, Spider-Man overheard all of this and goes ‘I’M TELLING!’

Wolverine tries to tell him that snitches get stitches but the thing is?

Spider-Man is ridiculous. He’s a ridiculously good combination of skills and powers which lets him make chumps out of entire groups at a time.

He’s embarrassed the Fantastic Four, the Avengers, and now he’s about to embarrass the X-Men.

After making them all feel foolish, Spider-Man gets away and goes to tell Reed what that doody-head Xavier said when Xavier uses his psychic powers to just wipe the entire encounter out of Spider-Man’s memory.

Yeah, it’s to cover their imminent blowing off but also? I don’t think he wants anyone else to find out how badly his X-Men just got stomped.

Psychics are too OP, I tell you what.

In fairness IN FAIRNESS, the X-Men kind of have the right to fuck right off if they wish. I don’t even know what it had to be in secret. In fact, doing it in secret is a massive dick move of its own for reasons.

What would the Fantastic Avengers have done if the X-Men had just said ‘hey we’re heading out’? Would they have put them in stasis tube jail? I doubt it.

Professor X made the decision to handle this the stupidest way for whatever reason. That scamp.

Speaking of Magneto, he’s over at the U-Lair turning down a partnership offer from DOOM. So, hey, he has standards.

Wasp has become less ‘i’ll blow up this room and your breakfast’ about him over the course of whatever the hell they discussed in their offscreen chat.

Magneto even starts to make out with her and Wasp is like ehhhhhhhhhh what the fuck why not.

Why is this happening?

I guess he has a...................... magnetic personality?

Eh? Eh??

No, but seriously, I do have a theory that I heard someplace but it’ll have to wait.

What’s weird is that there’s a Marvel What If about some spinoff babies that come about if the heroes and villains got stuck on Battleworld and never managed to leave.

Wasp has a son with Human Torch. Which is pretty weird and comes from nowhere. I guess a lot can happen during a massive time skip. My point being though, its weird that they didn’t have a Wasp/Magneto baby instead given the weird chemistry they have here.

Meanwhile, over at DOOMBASE, DOOM has some women in giant tubes.

That’s So Doom.

Doctor Doom: “All is ready -- ! This alien technology, so rich, so subtle... so easily harnessed to serve my purpose... Energy, tapped from the raging tempest... And two mortal subjects who dare to gamble for power -- knowing that to lose is death, for truly, here I shall test the limits of power a human body can contain! With the throwing of a switch... so -- the die is cast! Hear me -- ! Power must be seized -- ! Crave it! Welcome it! Drink it in, despite the pain... or it will destroy you.”

And thus are Volcana and Titania created!

Talk about lasting effects of Secret Wars! Titania is going to be around forever! Mostly annoying She-Hulk!

Where did Doom find two random women to give superpowers?

Denver, Colorado.

No, seriously.

That city chunk we saw as Battleworld formed? That’s Denver, Colorado, USA, EARTH.

Why isn’t there a miniseries or one-shot about a normal ass civilian from Denver having to deal with OH MY GOD WHERE DID EARTH GO?

I actually read an interesting thing re: this scene. It exists because Mattel asked Marvel to introduce some new female characters so Shooter wrote in these two and a third who I’ll get to when I do.

Mattel then promptly used none of these characters for the associated toyline.

The toyline, in fact, used none female characters at all. It made toys of characters who weren’t in the story but did not have a single female character.

So its very weird that they asked Marvel to introduce some but I’m not going to knock the results.

Doom introduces these two new characters to the other villains.

Hilariously, Absorbing Man guesses that Doctor Doom just made women from scratch. Because doesn’t it sound like something he could do?

Volcana and Molecule Man immediately hit it off, her being attracted to his sensitivity and him being attracted to... positive attention at all, I guess?

He muses that he could easily stop the storm outside, because molecules, but his therapist told him to let nature take its course. “Unless Doom asks me to!”

And Titania and Absorbing Man. They don’t hit it off. She either wants to hit him or hit that and its not clear and it might be both.

(Spoilers: Its both)

Titania: “You! Absorbing Man! You look like the toughest man here! Get up!”

Absorbing Man: “Whatcha got in mind?”

Titania: “I’m going to do anything I want to you! Everything I always wanted to do to everybody who used to be bigger and stronger than me! Maybe I’ll just play with you... or maybe I’ll make you eat dirt... or maybe...”

Absorbing Man: “Woman, if you got somethin’ to prove, prove it tomorrow against the guys we’re fightin’!”

Titania: “You’re backing down?”

Absorbing Man: “Nope! I just ain’t getting up! I got nothin’ to prove... to a dame!”

Would you believe that they become one of the healthiest and most stable romantic relationships in Marvel?

Speaking of weird relationships, back over at hero base, Thor goes and pops the lid on Enchanteress’ healing tube because he’s bored and wants to talk to a peer. A god peer.

Enchantress is at first more characteristically worried about what her face looks like after being She-Hulked.

But she then creates a portal so she and Thor can go have a chat.

Later, it’s morning and Hulk has been too busy stressing over losing his Banner smarts to actually keep watch or wake up Cap for watch like he was supposed to.

So when the villains ram an airship into the hero base, the heroes are not at all prepared.

Titania hurls a giant slab of wall through the room the Terrific Three are sharing, breaking Johnny Torch’s arm and ribs and knocking out the other two. He manages to get himself and co out of danger by melting through the floor.

Meanwhile, She-Hulk is carrying a big heavy as she’s been doing since the previous night and is caught unaware by Volcana who blasts her off her feet and then collapses the room on top of her.

Doctor Octopus knocks out Captain Marvel who is in the hot springs dome but gets chased away by Hawkeye, claiming that long-range firepower is his weakness.

I’m stunned at the implication that Doc Ock is one of Spider-Man’s most dangerous foes but could be scared off by Hawkeye while Spider-Man could pretty easily drop Clint’s ass. There’s some rock-paper-scissors nonsense at play here.

Spider-Man and Iron Man are also taken unawares by Ultron but manage to hide under some rubble.

Hulk leaps into the fray at Molecule Man and Doom but Cap convinces him to fall back to a defensible position.

The villains reconvene with all the captured villains freed except Enchantress (since she fucked off to have a chat with Thor) and the heroes scattered and buried under various rubbles. How the fortunes of Secret War turn.

Sure would have been nice if the X-Men had been around to help or if they mentioned they wouldn’t be. Sure would have been.

Doom: “We have accomplished much here today! And to finish it, we shall level this place so that no stone remains on stone!”

No wonder Mattel didn’t make a playset of this base! Dammit Doom, you’re ruining the merchandising!

Follow @essential-avengers for more of Secret Wars! At this same pace! Its sustainable! This is fine! Like and reblog too!

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annzybwrites · 4 years ago

Text

Rainy Days

Anonymous: u asked for fluffy snufmin prompts and I’m here to deliver!:) it’s cold and rainy and gross out so moomin convinces snufkin to stay in at moominhouse. snufkin tries to teach moomin how to play an instrument and moomin tries to teach him how to bake smth. they’re both bad at the thing which the other finds adorable <3

Annzy: I am so sorry this took so long, but I hope there’s enough fluff <3

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Snufkin, can you put aside your pride for one second?” Moomin wasn’t sure if he was scolding or pleading with his boyfriend at this point. All he knew was that it had been raining for the past two days, and Snufkin had to keep moving his tent to higher and higher ground to avoid the mud, and really things would be so much simpler if he would just come stay in Moominhouse until the rain cleared up.

“This is the last rainy day,” Snufkin argued, rolling up his tent while Moomin held an umbrella over them. “I can feel it.”

“You said that yesterday.”

“That was yesterday.”

“Just come inside!” Moomin pulled at the skin underneath one of his eyes. “If today really is the last rainy day, then staying in a nice, warm, dry house until it clears up would be best. And then we can go worm hunting as soon as the rain stops!”

Snufkin hummed, fixing his tent to the top of his pack before looking at Moomin with a small smile on his lips. “Trying to butter me up?”

“More like trying to resist throwing you over my shoulder and carrying you to Moominhouse.”

Snufkin laughed at that, swinging his backpack on with a small sigh. “All right, you’ve won me over.”

“Finally!” Moomin groaned, snatching Snufkin’s hand and starting to lead him off before he could change his mind.

~~~

Moominmamma wasn’t usually too strict when it came to messes and dirt. But at the sight of Snufkin with dried mud in his hair, on his legs, and stuck on the ends of his tunic, she insisted he take a warm bath while she washed out his clothes for him. Thankfully they had a worn-in outfit that Snufkin considered acceptable to wear for brief periods; a plain, mustard yellow, cotton frock.

“It’s so weird to see you in anything other than green,” Moomin commented when Snufkin entered his room. He’d spent the time idly doodling some flowers, but he was happy to put it away for awhile.

“Is it?” Snufkin brushed out the fabric, chuckling a little. “How would I look in red?”

“I can’t even imagine,” Moomin shook his head, happily padding over with a smile. “Well, what should we do for our rainy day adventure? Play a board game? Act out scenes from a book? Oh! Let’s bake something!”

“Bake?” Snufkin was already looking forward to whatever sweets Moomin was in the mood for. He’d become quite a fantastic baker over the years.

“Yes!” Moomin was already walking out of his room and down the stairs. “I can show you how to make a rhubarb pie!”

“Oh…” Snufkin hesitantly followed him down the stairs. “Aren’t pies rather hard to make?”

“Maybe at first,” Moomin admitted. “But I’d say they just take more time. Especially if you want the lattice covering on top, but it just looks cuter, don’t you think?”

“If you say so.” Snufkin tried not to feel too nervous. If it was a rhubarb pie, he could just help prepare the filling and let Moomin worry about the rest. He absolutely hated working with pastry dough; it always turned out lumpy and stuck to his hands or his utensils whenever he tried.

At first his plan worked out well; Snufkin washed and cut the rhubarb while Moomin started mixing the flour, sugar, and butter together into a nice, large ball of dough. But once Snufkin was done preparing the rhubarb, Moomin called him over to the table, insisting, “Rolling out the dough into a big circle is the best part.”

“Oh, is it?” Snufkin kept a smile on his face despite his heart leaping into his throat.

“Oh yes!” Moomin separated the ball into two, smaller spheres, handing one to Snufkin. “I’ll let you use the rolling pin; a little easier than using your hands.”

“I’m sure.” Snufkin nodded, acting like he knew what he was doing as Moomin handed him the rolling pin. He stared down at his ball of dough, noticing out of the corner of his eye that Moomin was already making good progress with flattening out his own ball with his hands. With a deep breath, he pressed the pin into the center and started rolling, hoping it would work out and that he wouldn’t look like a goon.

He should have known that was too much to hope for.

With each new roll, more and more of the dough started sticking to the pin, and Snufkin was quickly becoming frustrated with just how often he had to peel it off and lay it back down on the table. “A little easier than using your hands” indeed. He was so absorbed with his struggle that he didn’t realize Moomin had already finished flattening and rounding his ball of dough.

“Snufkin.” Moomin was clearly amused, and when Snufkin turned to look he saw a playful gleam in those baby blue eyes. “Need some help?”

“Oh, no.” Snufkin shook his head, trying to roll out the dough fast, hoping it wouldn’t stick. No such luck; if anything that made it worse. “I have it all under control, thank you.”

“Ah, I see.” Moomin nodded, obviously stifling a large grin. “Then I’ll start mixing the filling together while you finish… that.”

“Yes, I’d appreciate it.”

Moomin nodded, chuckling a little as he began gathering spices from the cabinets. Snufkin watched him for a moment to make sure he wasn’t looking before returning to the menacing pastry. The dough looked more like a lumpy, cracked plate rather than a nice circle, so he began rolling it into a ball again before starting over. He put the rolling pin aside before digging in with his hands, since that had seemed to work for Moomintroll just fine. Except, just like before, all that ended up happening was the dough sticking to his hands rather than the rolling pin.

“How’s it going?”

Snufkin felt the fur on his back stand on end as he turned to look at his grinning boyfriend. “It’s going.”

Moomin chuckled, tactfully sliding the flour to him. “A little of this should take care of that stickiness you’re struggling with.”

“Right, of course.” Snufkin tried to smile nonchalantly, hoping his cheeks weren’t red as he reached for the flour. A little sprinkle later, and the dough was finally behaving properly. Now all he had to deal with was the fact that he was apparently incapable of flattening it evenly; some parts were thin as paper while others were little, thick pockets.

Snufkin bristled when he heard Moomin start to laugh, and he quickly turned to glare softly. “You’re enjoying my suffering?”

“Sorry!” Moomin covered his mouth, shoulders shaking with his laughter. “It’s just such a rare sight to see you like this.”

“Like what?”

“Like…” Moomin paused, trying to think of the best way to word this. “Like someone who doesn’t know everything?”

“I never claimed to know everything—”

“But you do act like it sometimes,” Moomin pointed out, grinning wider. “With all your grand stories and wise words. I’m just saying, it’s nice to see you failing at something.”

Snufkin pouted at him, certain his cheeks were at least pink as Moomin continued laughing at him. “What use is dough-making for a tramp?”

Moomin shrugged, leaning in to nuzzle his nose against Snufkin’s cheek as he pushed his hands away from the dough. “Just let me take care of this, all right? You can be adorable somewhere else.”

Snufkin tensed up from the casual way Moomin said that, a warm shiver running down his spine. “What, you—my struggling is adorable?”

“Very much so, actually.” Moomin was thoroughly enjoying himself as he rounded the dough for the third time that afternoon, picking up the rolling pin and humming away as he easily levelled it into a perfect, little circle. “And there we go.” Moomin grinned at him again, pointing towards the counter. “Can you get me a knife so I can cut out the lattice?”

Snufkin huffed quietly, stepping over to fetch him his knife while embarrassment sat heavy in his stomach. He really didn’t like looking like a fool, but at least it was only Moomintroll who saw. And to be called adorable on top of it all! How completely undignified.

“Thank you, Snufkin.” Moomin beamed as he took the knife from him. “And just so you know, you look even more adorable with that pout on your lips.”

Snufkin was sure his entire face was red as he covered his mouth with his hand. “I am not pouting.”

“Oh, you’re not?”

“Absolutely. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be in the living room.” Mamma could use some company as she knitted, anyway.

~~~

The pie turned out beautifully, and the whole family came to the kitchen to enjoy it. Pappa complimented them on their perfect, flaky crust, and Moomin couldn’t help but laugh a little until Snufkin gave him a look. He didn’t say anything, of course; he didn’t want to embarrass Snufkin. No, he’d rather keep the image of Snufkin glaring down at the dough with flushed cheeks and a frustrated pout all to himself. Maybe he’d try and sketch it out later in his journal, just for posterity’s sake.

It was still raining after they finished their rhubarb snack, so Moomin and Snufkin went up to his room to stare out across the cloudy skies and damp valley.

“What should we do now?” Moomin asked.

“Hm.” Snufkin tapped his fingers twice against the windowsill before pushing himself towards his pack. “Let’s make some music. Rainy weather is perfect to compose to.”

Moomin brightened, happily going to sit on his bed. “I do love your songs.” And it would be so exciting to hear him compose something in real time!

“I’m glad.” Snufkin pulled out his trusty harmonica before going to sit next to him on the bed. He blew through it once, as if to check to make sure it still worked, and then he began to play. Short, brisk notes, as if to imitate the pitter-patter of the rain, but sudden and loud enough to make Moomin’s ears twitch occasionally. He stopped after a few moments, turning to Moomintroll with a small grin of his own. “Actually, would you like to learn how to play?”

“Me?” Moomin’s eyes widened as he pointed to himself. “Oh, I don’t know how good I’d be.”

“Give it a try.” Snufkin handed the instrument over. “Can’t be any worse than me with pie dough.”

Moomin couldn’t help but laugh at that, covering his mouth again as he did. He was glad that Snufkin wasn’t too sore about earlier; he’d wondered if he’d gone a bit far with his teasing. “You have a point.” He took the harmonica, simply staring at it for a few moments before blowing into it experimentally. It was surprising how loud it was, but he supposed it was bound to sound louder to the one playing it.

Snufkin began trying to explain two different ways to isolate one note on the harmonica. One involved puckering your lips into a small oval shape, while the other involved using your tongue to block some of the other holes.

“You put your tongue on this thing?” Moomin interrupted.

“Sometimes.” Snufkin shrugged. “To get a certain sound. It makes it easier to add in or take away chords, too.”

“And you’re sure you want me to play this?”

“You’re clean enough, aren’t you?”

“That’s not really the point.”

“I don’t mind, Moomintroll.” Snufkin shook his head, a fond smile on his face. “Go on, try and play something. Just search until you find the note you want.”

“All right.” Moomin swallowed nervously, staring into the daunting holes of the harmonica before holding it up to his puckered lips and giving a cautious blow. It did take a bit of practice to play just one note, and whenever he tried to find a new one he found all sorts of unpleasant sounds coming out of the instrument before he got to where he wanted. After only a few minutes, his mouth was already starting to hurt and he stopped to rub at his lips.

“How do you play this for hours?”

Snufkin laughed, taking the harmonica back as he explained, “Well, for one thing, you were moving your mouth too much. You should move the instrument with your hands, not your lips.”

“Oooh.” Moomin groaned. “That makes sense.”

Snufkin chuckled for a bit longer, wiping the instrument down once with his sleeve. “I know what you meant earlier now,” he spoke up, eyes twinkling with mischief as he teased, “You also look adorable when you’re struggling.”

Moomin felt his fur stand on end as heat travelled down his body. “Oh, hush.” Moomin gently pushed at his shoulder, smiling a little at the joyful laugh that came out of Snufkin’s mouth. “Let’s just agree that we’re both adorable, all right?”

Snufkin paused for a moment, thinking that over. “Only if you agree that you’re the most adorable, being so large and fluffy.”

Moomin snorted, leaning in to nuzzle Snufkin’s forehead. “Deal.”

#springdove #snufmin #snufkin #moomin #moominvalley #sorry there's more emphasis on Snufkin being bad at the thing #but Moomin is always struggling with new things so it seemed only fair #also I had to look up how a person actually plays the harmonica for this XD #annzy writes

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izzyfandoms · 5 years ago

Text

Remile - Moonbeams and Poetry

(This is a part of my Clouds and Moss au, which is a gods au, though you don't have to read it in order or even all of it to understand this, as each oneshot in this au has been about separate characters so far)

GENERAL TAGLIST: @quillfics42 @ajdraws0430 @phantomofthesanderssides @creativity-killed-thekitten @phlying-squirrel @sly-is-my-name-loving-is-my-game @because-were-fam-ily @imtryingthisout @a-creepycookie @emo-disaster @littlestr @spooky-scary-virgil @fuyel @mimsidoodles @soupgremlinn @aroaceagenderfluid @birdsbookshiddeninrealbirdsskin @quirkalurk @gingers-trashy-stuff

CLOUDS AND MOSS TAGLIST: @emerald-and-fluorite @noisavalidmood @themagicheartmailman

WARNINGS: Crying, talking about death

Masterpost

Clouds and Moss AU Masterpost

Emile had a problem, and it was getting out of hand.

He fell in love far too often, and far too easily.

And not with people, either, not usually. No, with stories.

He fell in love with the handsome heroes and perfect princes that leapt off the pages of his favourite books, through the stories people told, right into his daydreams, and then into his poems. These were often his best works, his most favourites, coming straight from the heart, but he could never show them to another living soul. His family and few friends already thought him to be odd – an eccentric loner, one who didn’t belong. They didn’t understand him, they’d never understand this.

But, now? He had somehow managed to fall for someone even more spectacularly out of his league.

Emile had fallen for Remy, the god of the moon.

There were just so many wondrous stories about him – he was one of the most worshipped gods, after all, applicable to most everyone – about his various antics and adventures, about his countless lovers (both divine and mortal alike), with vivid descriptions of his eternal beauty. There were numerous statues, too, especially in his temples – which Emile frequented often – of his most-used form, and Emile couldn’t look at any of them without his heart skipping a beat.

Emile paused mid-step, running his fingers through his already mussed up hair, his eyes scanning over his piece of paper, over the words he’d just been writing, a third of them already scribbled out. It was okay, he could write a perfect copy later – dotting every I with a star and doodling hearts and crescent moons across the page – and add it to his ever-expanding collection, hidden in his desk drawer. His hands were speckled with ink stains, matching the freckles on his face, and there was a smear of black on his cheek that he’d yet to notice.

“His skin was woven from moonlight,” Emile mumbled to himself, before wrinkling his nose and shaking his head as the line still didn’t sound quite right.

He sat down on his bed, smoothing out the sheets beside him and pulling his legs up to sit cross-legged, his back against the wall, balancing his paper on one knee.

“His hair... no, his eyes...”

“I like the part about my hair.”

Emile yelped, his paper slipping off his leg and his pen falling through his fingers, cluttering to the ground and hitting the floorboards noisily. His glasses almost fell right off his face, but he caught them just in time, pushing them back up his nose. He couldn’t afford to let them shatter, not now. His head then swivelled around, his eyes immediately landing on the man now sitting casually on his windowsill, his legs crossed, one over the other, who definitely hadn’t been there just a minute earlier.

It took a moment for Emile’s vision to adjust, to separate the beams of moonlight that shone through the window from the moon god’s smooth, identical skin. They were one and the same, made up of the exact same material, Emile could only tell them apart because Remy wanted him to. His hair and his eyes were as black as night, matching his clothes and the sky behind him, speckled with tiny, near-invisible stars. He looked like one of those gorgeous, hand-carved statues had burst to life, stepping right off their pedestal and wandering up to Emile like it was nothing, and Emile was sure he was going to melt on the spot.

Remy grinned, showing off two rows of perfect white teeth that shone like moonlight, and tilted his head to one side, looking over Emile with an indecipherable expression.

“Wow,” Emile breathed, before he could stop himself. “You’re beautiful.”

There was a beat, and then his eyes widened dramatically, his hands shooting up to cover his mouth, as he certainly hadn’t meant to say that out loud.

Fortunately, the god didn’t seem offended in the slightest, just amused, and with a slight twinkle in his eye.

“Well, I’ve never heard that one before,” He mused.

Emile blinked, dropping his hands and tilting his head. “That... that can’t be right.”

Remy thought about it for a moment, humming. “Hmm, I suppose you’re right. But never from someone as pretty as you before,” He said, leaning forward, his hands still gripping the windowsill, watching Emile with a teasing grin.

Emile’s heart was going to burst (and what a way to die that would’ve been), it was racing so fast. He was sure that his face had turned even redder than a strawberry, his eyes wide, which couldn’t have been very attractive, but Remy was staring at him like he was the cutest thing he’d ever seen. He didn’t blink, he didn’t need to, which perhaps should’ve been a little off-putting, but Emile couldn’t stop staring at him.

(Was he dreaming? Was this all just a dream – a wonderful, fantastic dream? Simply a product of his subconscious? And did that really matter? Remy was the god of dreams, too, after all. Was he any more real in dreams versus reality? Did even he know the answer to that?)

“But you must’ve come across so many humans in your lifetime?”

Remy nodded, his eyes shining, entertained. “I have,” He said, as if that changed nothing. Then, he paused. “Can I see that?” He continued, gesturing to the paper that now lay face-up, abandoned, on the floorboards.

Emile slid off the bed, bending down and snatching it up quickly. He held it to his chest protectively, guarding the words like they were precious secrets he was desperate to keep.

“It’s, um... it’s not done,” He said weakly.

Remy didn’t say anything else, just tilted his head, waiting.

“Uh...” Emile swallowed, mulling things over for a moment, before he slowly walked up to the god, cautiously handing him the paper. “Here.”

Remy took it, his fingertips almost brushing against Emile’s, but not quite, barely a centimetre apart, though that was probably a good thing, as Emile likely wouldn’t have been able to handle the physical contact. He wouldn’t have put it past himself to pass out. He then took a step back, fiddling awkwardly with his hands and shifting his weight from one foot to the other, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. He held his breath as the moon god’s eyes scanned the page, reading the lines, his expression unchanging.

Then, Remy glanced back up at him.

“It’s good,” He complimented smoothly. “Can I keep it?”

Emile nodded before he could really think it through, and then watched, wide-eyed and nervous, as the paper sunk into Remy’s hands, through his skin, disappearing as if absorbed. The unfinished words lingered on his skin for another moment or two, flashing silver, before they, too, were gone.

Emile didn’t understand what had just happened, but didn’t have the chance to ask, before Remy melted back into the moonlight, leaving nothing but a feeling of emptiness in Emile’s soul behind.

Had he ever really been there in the first place?

***

To Emile’s surprise, it turned out that, yes, Remy had been there, as he returned again three days later, sitting with Emile and talking with him for hours and hours about nothing, and everything.

And then two days after that.

(Remy read another poem, and another and another and another, complimenting them as he did so, and then gave Emile a charming smile that made him want to kiss him until he ran out of breath.)

And then a week after that.

(They held hands as they talked, Remy letting Emile ramble on about his day, and Emile couldn’t stop smiling for hours afterwards.)

And then three days after that.

(Emile fell asleep listening to Remy sing.)

And then, by the sixth visit, it had somehow become a semi-regular occurrence, which Emile couldn’t possibly hope to understand. Why would a god want to spend so many nights with him? It didn’t seem real, but Emile was too busy floating on cloud nine to care.

“Hey,” Remy greeted, his arms crossed and laying on top of Emile’s windowsill. His legs were floating in the air behind him, drifting up and down at a leisurely pace, and Emile wondered what his neighbours would think if he saw him. “Can I come in?”

Emile giggled, putting down his pen and smiling at Remy. “It’s not like you to ask,” He teased.

(He was teasing a god, a god. What had his life come to?)

Remy grinned widely, hopping through the window, and then strolled up to Emile’s desk, where the human was sat. He stopped just behind his chair, wrapping his arms around Emile’s neck, placing his chin on his curly head of hair, and peering over to see what he was working on. Emile froze, his breath hitching, but then immediately tried to pretend that that hadn’t happened, though there was no way that Remy hadn’t noticed. He leant forward, covering his paper with his arms, trying very hard to ignore his rapidly reddening cheeks, and Remy pouted.

“Why can’t I see it?”

“It’s not done, yet,” Emile explained.

Remy huffed, though he didn’t actually seem too annoyed, as he didn’t argue, and just stayed where he was, pressed against Emile’s shoulders.

After a moment, his grin returned, and though Emile couldn’t see it, he could practically sense it.

“Is it about me?” Remy teased playfully.

“Um...”

Perhaps Emile should have ceased writing these poems since meeting and befriending Remy, but he just couldn’t help himself. He continued spilling his feelings through his pens, onto the paper, into his poems, despite their newly blossoming friendship. His attraction to the god – previously shallow and based solely on stories and statues and appearances – had increased tenfold since their first meeting. He was just... perfect. Indescribably perfect. All of the tales and legends had described him as smug, self-centred and flirtatious – vain, too. And whilst these descriptions weren’t quite wrong, per se, they were incomplete. Missing multiple pieces. He was also playful and funny, teasing Emile almost constantly, and not quite as arrogant as he’d first seemed.

His beauty was unmatched.

“So, it is, then?” Remy smirked.

Emile opened and closed his mouth, his face warming further.

Then, suddenly, Remy took a step back, removing his arms from around Emile – to the human’s obvious disappointment – and flicking his wrist, causing Emile’s chair to spin around to face him. Emile blinked, surprised, his eyes widening, his face still flushed, his hands tightly gripping the arms of his chair so he didn’t slip off.

He looked up at Remy, who was still grinning smugly.

“Hmm?” Remy tilted his head, still awaiting Emile’s answer.

Emile cleared his throat, awkwardly looking down at his lap. “Um... maybe?”

He then bit his lip, glancing back up at Remy and watching as the god stared at him, his eyes drifting downwards, remaining on Emile’s lips for a few moments, before moving back up to look into his eyes. Emile’s heart was pounding in his chest, and he was sure that Remy could hear it. He could hear everything.

There was a beat.

(A heartbeat.)

And then Remy moved forward, placing one hand on the back of the chair, over Emile’s shoulder, and the other on his arm, leaning in close so their faces were only inches apart.

“Can I kiss you?” He asked suddenly.

Emile’s eyes widened even further, and he inhaled sharply in surprise, but before Remy could pull back and apologise, he answered quickly.

“Yes!”

Emile didn’t have the time to really process what was happening after he said that, as Remy’s hand immediately moved to cup his cheek, and then his lips were on Emile’s, and it was suddenly impossible to think of anything but him, him, him.

For a brief moment, it was like kissing a marble statue – cold and solid, too smooth and uncomfortable – but then Remy softened, his touch now gentle, his lips still cool but now feeling almost human. Remy kissed him like he was handling a beam of moonlight, like Emile was fragile and breakable (and he was, compared to Remy), but skilled, so skilled. He knew what he was doing.

Emile would keep kissing him forever, if he could.

When Remy pulled back – his mouth remaining oh-so close to Emile’s – Emile whined softly, involuntarily, and Remy huffed out a quiet laugh against his lips.

“Can we, um... can we keep doing that?” Emile asked, breathing softly, sure that his face couldn’t get any warmer.

Remy hummed an ambiguous answer, but Emile didn’t have the chance to question him any further before Remy’s lips were on his again, his hands slipping down Emile’s sides as the human wrapped his arms around the god’s neck, pulling him in closer.

They didn’t talk for a while after that.

***

It was impossible to forget that Remy wasn’t human.

Sure, sometimes he looked human enough, when he wanted to. Sometimes his skin was more peach than moon-white, his eyes more earth-brown than night-black. If Emile hadn’t known him so well, he wouldn’t have been able to distinguish this form – a near-perfect imitation – from any regular human’s. But, even then, his skin was perfect and unmarred, his cheeks never rosy, and his eyes shone with ancient, incomprehensible knowledge. They were the night sky; it was impossible to truly hide that.

And he never behaved quite human-like, either.

His kisses were like nothing Emile had ever experienced before, like touching moonbeams, like floating amongst the stars – cool and perfect and practically addicting. Whenever he held Emile, it was like being wrapped up in moonlight, protected from the dangers of the world, and he’d never felt safer, never felt happier. It was bliss: pure, unwavering bliss.

And Remy always moved like he was floating, dancing – flawless and perfect. He never missed a step, never stumbled, not even once.

He stared a lot, too: unblinking, unmoving, practically a frozen, marble statue. It often looked like he was staring right into Emile’s soul, reading him like a poem. Emile wasn’t sure he would’ve minded if that was the case.

Emile shifted, nudging Remy with his elbow and breaking the god’s trance.

“What are you looking at?” He teased.

(Teased, teased, teased.)

Remy blinked, like a statue coming to life, and then smiled, taking Emile’s hand in his own, much colder one. He didn’t squeeze it – Remy never wanted to risk hurting him, even though he was always perfectly in control of his own strength – just held it softly. His skin was like smooth, perfect stone for just a moment, before it changed, like melting into flesh.

“You,” He said simply, as he always did. “You’re gorgeous.”

That was always such a silly thing for him to say, in Emile’s opinion. Compared to the eternal beauty of a god, Emile was nothing. You may compliment and smile at a child’s first experiments with clay, but they will always pale in comparison to the flawless creations of a practiced sculptor.

He didn’t say that, though – didn't want to ruin the otherwise pleasant moment – and instead just smiled back, leaning forward to affectionately nuzzle his nose against Remy’s. The gesture was quickly returned, and Emile sighed contentedly, his eyes fluttering closed as he moved again, pressing his lips against Remy’s with a kiss that was immediately and enthusiastically reciprocated.

Cold, and then slightly warmer. Stone, and then flesh.

It ended too quickly, however, as, to Emile’s disappointment, Remy suddenly pulled away with an exasperated groan.

Emile tilted his head, making a quiet, questioning noise.

“My brother’s summoning me,” Remy explained, leaning back on his hands and rolling his eyes in annoyance. “He knows I don’t like to be disturbed when I’m with you.”

Emile blinked, surprised. “He knows about me?” He asked softly.

That was news to him.

“Of course, he does,” Remy answered simply, shrugging, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “He’s my brother, and it’s been, like, six months, babe. I told him ages ago.”

It had been about six months since their first kiss – the best six months of Emile’s life. He had almost expected the god to never show up again after that first night, but he had, again and again and again, almost every night since, and Emile had found himself falling deeper and deeper in love with every encounter.

(This couldn’t end well. It just couldn’t. Remy would move on eventually; it was an inevitability – a relationship between a god and a human was unsustainable at best, and Emile’s heart would soon break. It would shatter like a mirror – seven years of bad luck – into a million tiny shards, and it would be practically impossible to put the pieces back together again.)

(But was that really certain? If Remy had told his brother, Thomas, the almighty king of the gods, who surely had better things to talk about, then... then, maybe Emile meant more to him than he’d thought. Maybe...)

Emile pushed that thought down. That kind of hope was dangerous.

“Ages ago?” He prompted.

Remy nodded, though he looked a little distracted, like he was listening to something: maybe a voice in his head, a whisper in his ear, or maybe something a little more abstract, more of a feeling. There was no way for Emile to know.

Emile smiled, though it was a little sad, placing his hand on Remy’s arm and squeezing it lightly.

“It’s alright,” He said sympathetically. “I get it. These things can’t be helped. You should go, it might be important.”

Remy sighed. “Ugh, you’re probably right.”

He looked up at the ceiling, like he was looking right through it, glaring at and silently cursing out the sky. This continued for another moment or two, before he turned back to Emile, taking his hand and pressing a surprisingly warm kiss to the knuckle. He held it there for another moment or two, before pulling back, giving Emile a small smile.

Remy was so close that Emile could see all the stars in his eyes (he could practically count them) a sight that he’d never tire of.

There was a beat.

“I love you,” Remy said suddenly.

Emile’s eyes widened to the size of dinner plates, and he could’ve sworn his heart had just stopped in his chest. He felt a little faint, like he might pass out, his mouth opening and closing a few times. He didn’t know how to put into words the sudden wave of love and shock and pure joy that had just washed over him.

“I... I love you, too,” Emile whispered, when the words finally unstuck from his throat.

Remy smiled, reaching out and cradling Emile’s cheek with his hand – light and gentle. He then leant forward, pressing a feather-light kiss to his lips. He pulled back before Emile could really start to enjoy it, though, and it was like suddenly waking up from the best dream Emile had ever had.

“I have to go,” Remy said softly.

“I know.”

“I’ll be back tomorrow night,” Remy assured him. “If you’ll have me.”

Emile smiled. “Always.”

Another moment passed, with lingering eye contact that seemed to last eons, and then Remy disappeared, as quickly and suddenly as he often appeared.

In his place, he left a blurry silhouette, like a portion of the night sky had been brought right into Emile’s bedroom, stars and all. The edges were fuzzy, and if Emile looked too hard, it made his head hurt, like he wasn’t supposed to be able to comprehend it. But he couldn’t tear his eyes away, that wouldn’t feel right, so he just kept staring, watching as it melted away, until he was truly alone again.

Emile lay down on his bed, his limbs spread out like a starfish, staring up at the ceiling as the weight of the words Remy had spoken finally hit him.

Remy... loved him.

Remy loved him?

Remy loved him.

Oh.

Emile burst into thrilled, ecstatic laughter, burying his face in his hands as it spilled out of him like an overflowing waterfall of emotions. He was giddy with delight, beaming so wide his face almost hurt, but he couldn’t possibly have cared any less about the pain. He was so full of joy, it felt like he was amongst the stars, amongst the heavens, like the weight of the world had just been lifted from his shoulders. He felt like he could do anything, anything imaginable.

Remy loved him.

***

That night, Emile dreamt he was the size of the moon, floating in space beside the bright white crescent, feeling the stars’ warm light on his bare skin. The night sky was a blanket, wrapped around him, holding him right, keeping him safe. It was warm and soft, like the comfiest bed he’d ever been in, and if he hadn’t already been sleeping, he was sure he would’ve fallen asleep right then and there.

Then, the moon turned over, and suddenly it was Remy, reclining beside him, one leg over the other, watching him with the same half-curious, half-amused expression that he often wore.

Emile felt Remy’s hands on his skin – cool and soft – though the moon god hadn’t moved another inch, his hands still folded in his lap.

“Is this what you usually dream about?” Remy asked.

He didn’t speak the words aloud, his mouth remaining firmly closed, but Emile heard the words in his mind, as clearly as if they’d been spoken.

“Are you real?” Emile thought, the words projecting from his thoughts, echoing through the dream, and then landing in Remy’s mind.

Remy laughed, sliding closer and cupping Emile’s cheek with his hand. His touch wasn’t quite as light and careful as it usually was; it didn’t need to be, Emile wasn’t quite so breakable in here.

Remy ran his thumb over Emile’s lips. “Honey, I’m always real.”

“Always?”

“Always,” Remy nodded, tracing invisible constellations across Emile’s skin with his other hand. “In every dream, every nightmare, every star in the sky, I exist. It’s always night somewhere, there’s always a moon shining in the sky, always moonlight shining through someone’s window. Even if you can’t see me, I’m always there. I can exist in multiple places at once – I always exist in multiple places at once – and I’m existing right now, with you.”

Emile leant into his touch. “It must get confusing.”

“Not to me,” Remy smiled. “This is just how I exist.”

“What’s it like?”

Remy made a quiet sound – it was almost like humming, if the stars hummed back, a symphony of music – his hands still dancing over Emile’s body. The touch felt almost real; everything about this dream felt more solid and real than any other Emile had ever experienced, though he knew that that was likely due to Remy’s influence. Time passed differently there, too, like they’d been there for either a moment or an eternity. Both at once.

“I don’t know,�� Remy admitted eventually. “It’s all I've ever known. I have nothing to compare it to. I can’t explain it.”

Emile nodded as if he understood.

“Oh,” He said. “Is it... nice?”

“Yes,” Remy answered. “But it gets lonely, sometimes.”

“Lonely?”

Remy laughed. It was a big, echoing sound, and Emile felt in resonate throughout his whole body. “I know. It’s silly, right? I’m a god – I have the whole world in the palm of my hand. I can do anything I want, see anything I want, see anyone I want. And yet, I’m... lonely.”

“It’s not silly,” Emile reassured. “It’s understandable.”

Remy smiled, though it was still a little sad. “There’s no one else like me in the whole universe, no one at all – not even my brother. We may both be divine, may both be immortal, but we’re opposites. Night and day. Darkness and light. Moon and sun. We oppose one another. I’ll never truly understand him; he’ll never truly understand me. That’s just how it works.”

“That’s... sad.”

Remy gave Emile an undecipherable expression, though it was unmistakably loving, looking him over, before reaching out and cradling his face in both hands.

“It’s life,” He said. “But I feel a lot less lonely when I’m with you.”

***

Emile wanted to cry.

His feelings, his dread. They only increased with every passing day. Whenever he was with Remy, they went down, overtaken by his overwhelming love and joy. When he was with him, he felt better, more at peace.

But when he was alone, especially during the day, it could become practically unbearable.

Emile pulled his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms around his legs and burying his face in them, trying his best to keep the tears that pricked his eyes from falling. His breath was shaky and his heart felt tight, like someone was sitting on his chest.

He had to breathe, breathe, breathe.

(Remy would move on eventually, leaving Emile behind. He’d had hundreds of lovers in the past, maybe even thousands, too many to count, who knows how many he’d loved and left. Once this was all over, Emile wouldn’t stand out amongst them, amongst gods and heroes, amongst all the people Remy had loved before. He’d be forgotten by the one he loved most.)

Emile tugged at his hair, like he was trying to forcibly remove those nasty thoughts from his head.

(And even if Remy never left him, Emile would die someday. It was the curse of mortality. The thought of breaking Remy’s heart like that was killing him.)

There was a bad taste in his mouth.

(But the thought of Remy moving on afterwards didn’t feel much better, and that filled Emile with guilt.)

(There was no point in thinking about that, though. Remy was a god; Emile was a human. Their views on this relationship were different. Remy knew what was inevitable, knew that this was only temporary, Emile just had to accept it.)

Emile finally allowed himself to sob, to let the tears drip down his face, his lower lip quivering and his hands shaking. He clutched desperately at the blankets beneath him, letting them bunch up in his fists, releasing them and then grabbing them again and again repetitively. He knew that his thoughts were ridiculous, that he was overthinking things, that he should just enjoy his time with Remy while it lasted and not worry about it, but he just couldn’t help himself, he just couldn’t calm himself down.

He exhaled shakily.

This was fine, he could handle this. As long as he calmed down by sunset, Remy would never know of his distress, and he could pretend that everything was okay.

(Remy. Remy. Remy.)

There was a flash of moon-bright light, and then suddenly Remy was right in front of him, standing in the middle of the room, his brow creased with worry. He immediately walked up to Emile, sitting on his bed and placing his hand on his arm.

“Honey, what’s wrong? Are you hurt? Did someone hurt you?”

Emile looked up at him with wide, startled eyes. “How- Remy, it’s daytime, what are you doing here?”

“You were praying to me,” Remy explained, the concerned look never fading. “I didn’t think you meant to, so I didn’t listen too hard, I didn’t want to pry. What’s wrong? Talk to me.”

He looked a little different during the day – a little less shiny, a little less divine, a little more down to earth. He was still obviously a god, but not in his natural habitat. Weaker, but still beyond anything Emile could ever hope to reach. The sunlight that shone through the open window seemed to make him uncomfortable, making him fidget, but not enough for him to move away from Emile.

Emile sniffled, looking down at his lap, fiddling anxiously with his hands as he avoided eye contact.

“It’s... it’s nothing,” He said weakly. “Sorry for pulling you away from the night.”

“You’re lying, I can see you’re lying. What’s wrong? Did something happen?”

Emile shook his head. “Nothing happened.”

“Then why are you crying?” Remy asked.

His voice was soft, gentle, like a moonbeam taken form. It enveloped Emile, comforting him, making him want to open up to Remy, to be honest and blurt out all of his feelings at once. He barely managed to suppress that urge.

“I...” Emile began.

He finally looked up at Remy, making eye contact with him – his brown, human eyes meeting the night sky as equals – and it was like a dam had suddenly burst. The tears started flowing again, dripping down his cheeks as his lower lip trembled.

There was a blur of motion, and suddenly he was in Remy’s lap, arms wrapped around him, holding him tight. Emile inhaled shakily, before he buried his face in Remy’s shoulder, allowing himself to sob against him as Remy drew invisible constellations on his back with his finger. It was reassuring, comforting, but not enough to keep Emile from crying.

His hands were in fists, bunching up Remy’s clothing, though he was sure the moon god looked as dignified as ever, despite the sobbing mess in his lap.

“It’s okay,” Remy whispered. “It’ll all be okay.”

“It’s not, it’s not okay.” Emile shook his head, pulling back and wiping his nose with his sleeve. He was sure he looked a mess, a very unattractive mess, but Remy was looking at him the same way he always did.

Remy cupped his cheek, his brow creased. “What’s going on?”

“I- I...” Emile trailed off, opening and closing his mouth a few times. “I don’t... I don’t know how to...”

“Can’t find the right words?” Remy offered.

Emile nodded.

“Do you want me to take a look?” Remy asked carefully, gently brushing a stray lock of hair out of Emile’s face.

Emile blinked, tilting his head, confused. “Take a look?”

Remy reached out, lightly tapping the centre of Emile’s forehead with the tip of his finger. “I can look inside your mind, see what’s bothering you. It... it might be easier, but only if you want me to.”

“Oh,” Emile said. “Oh, um... okay.”

“Are you sure?”

Emile nodded.

“I won’t look at anything else,” Remy said gently.

Then, he leant forward, pressing his lips to Emile’s forehead, and, for a brief moment, Emile saw stars – bright, twinkling stars – like there was a vision of the night sky flashing before his eyes: a shining moon and stars against a black backdrop. It was gorgeous, like staring right into Remy’s eyes, his hair, his clothes. Him.

Then, the vision was gone, like waking up from a dream, and Remy pulled back.

He was frowning, his brow pinched together, and Emile’s stomach filled with guilt. It rose in the back of his throat and left a bitter taste in his mouth.

(How could he? He shouldn’t have gotten so upset over an inevitability. There was no point, and now Remy was upset, too.)

“I’m sorry,” Emile whispered. “It was... it was a bad idea to let you see that.”

Remy shook his head. “No. No, I’m glad you did,” He said softly, reaching out and cupping Emile’s face with his hand, stroking his cheek with his thumb.

“It’s- it’s dumb, I know. You’re a god, I’m a human. We’re different. This relationship just means different things to us, that’s all. It’s... it’s just how these things work. I know that, and I should stop being upset about it.”

“No,” Remy said firmly. “I love you.”

Emile blinked, and then sighed. “Y-yeah, I know. I love you, too.”

Remy shook his head, taking his other hand and cradling Emile’s face with it, too. “No, I love you. I love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone. Ever.”

Emile felt a little feverish – warm and red and a little bit fuzzy. He didn’t know what to think. Did Remy really mean that? He must’ve, right? He wouldn’t lie to Emile.

“Anyone?” Emile squeaked.

“Anyone.”

There was a beat.

“Oh, really?”

Remy nodded. “Mhm.”

“Oh, well... um. Me, too. I love you that much, too” Emile said, a little awkwardly. “What- what do we do?”

Remy gave him a questioning look.

“I mean... you’re a god, and I’m a human. I’m- I’m gonna grow up and die, and you... aren’t.”

“Do you want to?”

“What?”

“Do you want to?” Remy repeated. “To grow up and die, I mean.”

Emile tilted his head. “Is... is there another option?”

Remy’s expression – it was one Emile wasn’t used to seeing on his face. It was thoughtful, almost calculating. He looked like he was thinking deeply about something, something Emile wasn’t supposed to be able to comprehend. He was as still as a statue, frozen, unblinking, and it took Emile reaching out and touching his face to unfreeze him, to snap him out of it.

“Yes, there is,” He said. “We aren’t supposed to do it. It’s not really allowed, but I can.”

“Can do what?”

“It would bind us together – almost like you’d become another part of me, but not really. You’d become immortal, just like me. You won’t die.”

“You can do that?” Emile breathed.

Remy nodded. “We’re not supposed to, so it’s only been done a few times. I’d need Thomas’s permission. And Patton’s, and Janus’s.”

“Do... do you think they’d allow it?”

Remy grinned. “I can be very persuasive.”

“And- and you’d do that? You’d really do that?”

“Honey, I’d do anything for you,” Remy said seriously, not a trace of insincerity on his face.

Emile’s heart felt far too big for his ribcage, so full of love and adoration that it was practically about to burst, especially as – as a god – anything for Remy, meant anything. This almost felt too good to be true, but it was impossible to suppress the hope that built up inside of him.

“It’s a big decision,” Remy continued, taking Emile’s hand in his own and fiddling with his fingers, tracing shapes across his palm. “The biggest you’ll ever make, probably, and it would be difficult to undo, uncomfortable, almost impossible. But you don’t have to make it now – or ever, if you don’t want to. I’ll wait as long as you need. And even if you say no, I’ll accept it. I won’t be upset.”

Emile smiled. “Thank you.”

***

It was time.

After months and months and months of preparation and persuasion, it was finally time.

Emile sat down on his bed, drumming his fingers on his knees and repetitively tapping the floorboards with his foot – the rhythm of a song Remy liked to sing to him. It was in a language Emile didn’t understand, from a country he knew nothing about, but it was always the quickest to lull him to sleep. It was his favourite.

His eyes scanned the room – the drab walls, the little furniture (only a desk and a wardrobe, both worn out and second-hand). He’d miss this place, miss all the memories he’d made in it, but not enough to make him regret his choice. Nothing could ever make him regret this choice.

Excitement bubbled up inside him, like a volcano ready to blow, and he couldn’t keep the grin off his face.

The sun had gone down, the moon was high in the sky – full and shining brighter than usual, like it was happy, too. It was.

Ecstatic.

Emile laughed – loud and giddy. He couldn’t help it; he was just so overcome with love and joy and pure, overwhelming excitement. He kicked his legs, falling back onto his bed and spreading his arms out like a starfish as he giggled.

“That’s my favourite sound in the whole damn world.”

Emile sat up, spinning around and beaming when he spotted Remy, sat on the windowsill, one leg crossed over the other, an amused expression on his face, like the first moment they’d met. But before the god had the chance to get up and walk over to him, Emile hopped off the bed, bouncing over to him and wrapping his arms around Remy’s neck, kissing him quickly. He covered the god’s face in a million tiny kisses, before finally kissing him properly, without even taking a moment to catch his breath.

When they pulled apart, Remy smiled. “I can’t believe I’m gonna get to hear it forever.”

“Forever,” Emile repeated. “I can’t wait.”

Remy nudged him gently. “You sure you’re not having any second thoughts?” He teased, though there was a hint of sincerity underneath. He had to check.

“I’m sure.”

“Good,” Remy smiled. “I love you.”

“I know,” Emile replied. “I love you, too.”

“Are you ready to go?”

Emile nodded. “Mhm!”

“Alright.”

Remy looked around the room, scanning the furniture and Emile’s various belongings. The bed was made, the desk was empty. The clothes were all neatly tucked away in the closet. The poems were stacked in the desk drawers. Remy had read all of them, and loved and cherished every single one.

“We can come collect your things tomorrow,” Remy continued, wrapping one arm around Emile’s waist, settling his hand on his hip.

Emile covered Remy’s hand with his own, placing the other on Remy’s shoulder. “Will I need them?”

“Nah, but you might want them.”

“Okay,” Emile nodded. “Shall we go now?”

Remy smiled, pecking him on the cheek. “Of course. Close your eyes.”

Emile did as he was told, and as soon as he screwed his eyes shut, his vision filled with a bright white light, one that he was sure would’ve hurt him if he’d opened his eyes and looked directly at it, maybe even killed him – vaporised in an instant. The hand’s grip on his hip tightened, pulling him in closer, and for a moment, he felt like he was floating in mid-air, with only Remy pressed up against him.

Then, his shoes hit the ground, and he stumbled, but Remy caught him quickly.

He opened his eyes, looking around at his new, unfamiliar surroundings.

Emile was now in a large, white room, with no doors or windows, but he could practically sense that it was still night outside. It was always night here, or, to be more specific, here was always where it was night. Always moving, always changing. It followed the moon, or maybe it was the moon. Emile wasn’t supposed to know the answer to that.

There were numerous large, white columns that towered above them, intricately designed and holding up the ceiling. It looked like they was all made of some kind of white rock – almost like marble, but not quite – smooth and strong. There was little furniture, and, right beside them, there was a replica of Emile’s room, with the same furniture, all laid out identically, though excluding the walls and ceiling, a stark contrast against the bright white of everything else around them.

The only different was that the mattress, pillows and blankets all looked new – patterned like the night sky.

Emile turned back to Remy, tilting his head, giving him a confused look.

Remy gave him a slightly sheepish smile in return. “I figured I’d make things more comfortable for you. Is this alright?”

Emile stood up on his tiptoes, pressing a quick kiss to Remy’s ice-cold cheek. “It’s perfect, thank you,” He smiled. “Is this where you live?”

“Uh, kinda. I don’t really need to live anywhere, I just exist. But, yeah, this is my home.”

“I love it.”

Remy smiled, taking Emile’s hand and kissing the knuckle, squeezing it lightly.

“We should sit on the bed for this?” He said. “You... might pass out.”

Emile wrinkled his nose. “Is it- is it gonna hurt?” He asked nervously.

“I don’t know,” Remy answered honestly. “I think so, but I’ll do everything in my power to make sure it doesn’t, or to lessen it, at least.”

Emile nodded, and Remy tugged gently on his arm, pulling him over to the bed. They sat down on the edge, and Emile found himself practically sinking into the mattress – it was so soft and squishy, like a delicate cloud; he could imagine himself sleeping in this bed for an eternity.

Remy reached out, plucking the glasses from Emile’s face and placing them on the blanket on his other side.

“Don’t wanna break these,” He said, turning back to Emile and tucking a stray lock of curly hair behind his ear.

“Wouldn’t you be able to fix them?”

Remy nodded. “Mhm. But, still, they mean a lot to you.”

“Thank you.”

Remy smiled, cradling Emile’s cheek. “Are you ready?” He asked.

Emile nodded eagerly.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes! Yes, I’m sure,” Emile smiled, covering Remy’s hand with his own. “We’ve been talking about this a lot, and I’m certain. I love you, and I’ll love you forever.”

“I love you, too.”

Remy then leant forward, kissing Emile quickly, softly. It was cold, but comforting, and helped soothe Emile’s remaining nerves.

Then, he reached up, pressing his thumb against the centre of Emile’s forehead. For a moment, nothing happened, and then his head went fuzzy, like someone was slowly replacing his brain with cotton, bit by bit. His eyelids got heavier and heavier, and he closed them just in time for his vision to go bright white again. This time, it seared his eyes like burning fire, a white-hot flame, and he screamed, loud and painful, the cry being ripped from his throat before he could stop himself.

He heard Remy make a pained noise in front of him, helpless and distressed, but he didn’t pull his hand away. If Emile had been looking, he would’ve noticed that Remy was shaking.

And then Emile blacked out.

***

When he woke up, the first thing he saw was white.

The white of the ceiling, the white of the walls. The white of Remy’s skin.

Remy.

Remy was holding him in his lap, rocking him back and forth in his arms, mumbling words in a language that Emile was surprised he understood. It was full of sounds he’d never heard before, sounds a human mouth couldn’t make, sounds a human ear couldn’t hear. He wouldn’t have been able to understand it before, but he could now. The language of the gods.

It sounded like music, almost. Music that could lull Emile to sleep, if he let it.

Emile pulled back, meeting Remy’s eyes. He looked concerned, worried – almost afraid, even – but didn’t say a word, just waited, watching.

Emile’s breath caught in his throat (he didn’t even need it anymore, but old habits die hard), and his eyes widened. What Remy had looked like before, the eternal beauty that had stunned Emile every time he laid eyes on him, it was nothing compared to how he looked now.

It was like Emile was seeing him for the first time, with a fresh set of eyes. He could make out every detail of his face perfectly, even without his glasses. Remy still looked similar, recognisable, but so so different. Flawless. Divine.

He looked even more like a perfect statue – no pores on his face, not a hair out of place – like he was hand-carved by someone trying to create the perfect man. He matched the walls and the floor and the ceiling, like they were carved from the same stone. White skin. White lips. White teeth. Black hair. Black clothes.

Black and white. Black and white. Black and white.

Emile reached out, touching Remy’s face with his hands.

His skin was warm, soft, and he didn’t even need to change anything to feel like that. He and Emile were made of the same stuff now – like two humans, on the same level, but divine. They felt the same.

Emile’s fingers traced his features. His jaw. His cheekbones. His nose. His lips. Perfect. All perfect.

And his eyes, oh, his eyes.

Before, they were like windows to the night sky: gorgeous and hypnotising, but still just that: windows. Now, they were so much more.

Every star in the sky, every shooting comet – every swirling galaxy, every spinning planet. Emile had never seen the sky like this before, never seen these things so clearly, didn’t even recognise the majority of them, yet he could taste their names on the tip of his tongue. He didn’t need to say them aloud, to recite them like a poem, Remy already understood.

Infinity.

In his eyes, there was infinity.

Remy was infinity, and now Emile was infinity, too.

He could feel the power swirling under his skin, in the back of his throat, in the tips of his fingers. He could do anything, anything. Anything he wanted.

Infinite possibilities.

Emile leant forward, and kissed Remy.

#me #writing #remile #clouds and moss au #sanders shorts #cartoon therapy #remy sanders #sleep sanders #emile picani #fluff #gods au #human au

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wistfulcynic · 5 years ago

Text

A Uniquely Portable Magic

Summary: Tucked into the crossroads of the world we know and another one that we very much don’t, there lies a bookshop. Killian Jones knows the moment he enters that there is more to it than meets the eye, but he has no way of knowing just how much it holds in store for him until he meets its owner, Emma Swan.

In which there is tea and cake and books and magic, a witch and a cat, and a lost soul finding his home.

HAPPIEST OF BIRTHDAYS to the wonderful @katie-dub, who some time ago now gave me a prompt about a magical bookstore, possibly my FAVOURITE EVER THING, and perfect for witch!Emma. There’s also a bit of inspiration from Neverwhere and of course the tea is Bird&Blend. I hope you have the most fantastic day, my dear, and that you can feel all the hugs I tried to write into this for you 😘

Thanks of course and always to @thisonesatellite and @ohmightydevviepuu for keeping things tight.

Rating: T Words: 8.5k Tags: magic, magic AU, witch!Emma, bookstore, bookstore AU

On AO3

A Uniquely Portable Magic:

He’s not sure what draws him through the door. The look of it, perhaps, the twisted grain and the knotholes, polished to a patina by centuries of wind and rain and hands upon it. Some hands much like his own and others very different. He finds comfort in that, as he places his hand on the door. His hand.

His only hand.

On the other side of the door is a bookshop. He knew that of course, from the sign in the window, another thing tempting him inside. It’s far too long since he read a good book, too long since he let himself get lost in stories other than his own. He’s not quite ready for what he sees.

The shelves are made of the same wood as the door. Carved from it, it seems. Hewn might be the word. The knobbly, knothole-y wood that even his limited carpentry knowledge tells him could not form straight shelves. It doesn’t, yet they hold the books. Row upon row of them, dizzying rows. His head spins when he tries to look at them, like a kaleidoscope or a funhouse mirror, too many things, too many angles, too little space.

He blinks, and everything is fine again. It’s just a bookstore.

“It’s just a bookstore,” he tells the cat in the window, a huge grey tabby with long, silky fur and pale blue, unblinking eyes.

“Of course it is,” the cat replies. “What were you expecting?”

“I—what?”

“Meow,” says the cat.

“Can I help you?” asks a voice to his left and he turns, grateful for an excuse to look away from the cat.

“Yes, I’m looking for a… book…”

The woman gives him a faint smile. “Well, we do sell those.”

She’s an ordinary woman, quite stunningly beautiful but dressed in a plain ivory sweater and jeans, hair pulled back in a tidy ponytail and not whipped to a frenzy by eldritch winds as she raises her arms to call down the midnight sky. Of course it isn’t. He blinks and shakes his head, and when he looks at her again her smile is still in place.

“Any particular book you’re looking for?” she asks.

“Erm, no,” he replies. “Something meaty. Complex. But no politics or business or murder. Something… something that feeds the soul.” He has no idea why he says that, but the woman’s smile softens.

“That’s a tall order,” she says. “But I think I can fill it. Come with me.”

She leads him through the maze of shelves, muttering under her breath and pulling books from them seemingly at random. He tries to look at the books for himself but she moves so quickly he gets little more than a glimpse of their titles as he takes long strides to keep up. He recognises none of them.

They emerge into the back of the shop where a small cafe nestles into the wall. Its counter is made of the same knotted wood, its display case filled with cakes and pastries laid out beneath a curving pane of glass he’s somehow certain was hand-blown. It’s softly rippled with a pearlescent sheen and inside it the baked goods glow.

He blinks again and they are simple cakes.

Small tables and chairs are scattered throughout, wrought-iron painted eau-de-nil, and onto one of these the woman drops her armload of books. “Have a look through these and see if any of them appeal,” she says. “Take your time. I’ll have Ruby make you a coffee.”

“I—”

“Don’t be silly, Emma,” says another voice, that of a tall and sleek red-streaked brunette who saunters up from behind the counter. “He’d clearly prefer tea.”

“I—” he doesn’t really want either, but then it’s been so long since he’s had a book and a nice cup of tea, and so “I would,” he replies.

“And cake.” Ruby grins, wide and only a bit predatory. “Tea and cake.”

He doesn’t dare argue. “Thank you.”

“Coming right up.”

He sits at the table and opens the book at the top of the pile, glances into it, and is absorbed. It’s the tale of a lonely man, a wanderer without a home who finds his place in the hearts of those he meets along his travels. It grips him so entirely that he fails to notice Ruby as she sets a pot of tea before him, with a mismatched cup and saucer and a plate bearing a thick slice of cake, fragrant with lemon and dotted with plump blueberries. Absently he prepares his tea—a splash of milk, no sugar—and sips it as he reads. It has a bright, floral aroma but a rich flavour that reminds him of the Earl Grey his brother favoured, and he has to pause for a moment to allow the ache to pass. It does, faster than it once did, and so he risks another sip and sighs this time in pleasure. It’s delicious. He settles deeper into the chair and the book, sips the tea and nibbles the cake and doesn’t notice either one disappearing or the afternoon sunshine fading into twilight beyond the windows until Ruby comes to clear the table with a clatter of silver on porcelain.

He startles at the sound and looks up, frowning.

“Sorry to interrupt you,” says Ruby. She sounds the opposite of sorry. “But we’re closing soon. Can I get you anything else?”

“Oh. Sorry. No, I’ll just take this book. And… do you think I could get a list of these others? For reference?”

Ruby grins, and there’s something triumphant in it. “I’m sure Emma would write them down for you,” she says. “She’s at the register.”

“Thanks.”

She nods. “Come back soon.”

The woman—Emma—is waiting at the register, a large apothecary-style chest equipped with all the cash-and-card accoutrements necessary to a modern retail establishment. He wonders why this surprises him.

“Did you find what you were looking for?” she asks, with a professional smile and an undercurrent of something in her voice that he can’t quite put his finger on, a depth to the question that makes him hesitate before he answers.

“Aye,” he says after a moment’s pause, endeavouring a lightness he doesn’t feel. “This one sucked me in and I don’t think I can rest until I finish it. I’ll take it now, and, er, Ruby said you would also make a list of the others for me, so I can find them again?”

“I’ll do you one better,” she says. “I’ll leave them here at the register, and you can choose another when you come back.”

There seems to be no question in her mind that he will come back. He’s not certain he cares for the presumption, but he agrees with a smile. “That would be lovely, if you don’t mind keeping them from your other customers.”

She gives him an odd, sharp look. “It won’t be a problem.” She tears a sheet of paper from a pad next to the register and continues “If I could just get your name?”

Once again he hears a weight in her words that doesn’t seem to belong to them. It’s a simple enough question and the answer hardly a secret, and there is surely no reason at all to feel as though he’s giving anything away by replying.

“Killian Jones,” he says.

“Killian. Is that with a C or a K?”

“K.” He keeps the smile on his face as she writes his name on the paper and places it atop his stack of books, then tells him the price of the one he’s buying. As he reaches into his pocket for his wallet she flicks her fingers at his sleeve, the tiniest twitch of motion, barely noticeable even if he were watching her do it.

He doesn’t notice.

He pays for his book and gives her another smile, one that she returns warmly. He notices again how beautiful she is, how her green eyes sparkle, and feels foolish that he ever imagined that there may be something sinister in the way she spoke to him. She’s just a lovely woman who runs a lovely bookstore, and of course he’ll be coming back again why wouldn’t he?

He turns to go and finds the door is easily visible from where he’s standing. Of course it is, he thinks, why wouldn’t it be? He shakes off the feeling that his way to the back of the store was far more convoluted than his way from it, and takes his leave, ignoring the unblinking gaze and swishing tail of the cat in the window.

Emma watches him go, and once the door clicks shut behind him she takes the hair she plucked from the sleeve of his sweater and places it carefully on the sheet of paper that bears his name. She folds the paper several times upon itself until the hair is safely enclosed within it and puts it in her pocket.

The moon is high in the sky, round and luminous, when Emma lights the fire beneath her cauldron with a flick of her wrist. She tosses in a bit of this and a pinch of that, gives it a stir and lets it simmer as she consults a crumbling, leather-bound book.

The grey cat leaps onto her table, delicately avoiding the bottles of potions and powders that litter it. He sits on the edge and curls his tail around his paws, regarding her with his cool blue eyes.

“He saw you,” the cat says.

“I know.”

The cat flicks the tip of his tail. “He heard me.”

“I know, David!” Emma huffs in annoyance as she stirs the contents of the cauldron.

“Who is he?”

“That I don’t know.”

She tips a handful of bright blue powder from a glass bottle and into her palm, then tosses it into the cauldron. The contents bubble up with a hiss then settle into a smooth, flat surface. Onto which, when she drops the single dark hair upon it, resolves the image of Killian Jones.

“But I intend to find out.”

He’s back again three days later, having finished his book and found himself unable to stop wondering what other gems may be among the pile that Emma has tucked away for him. The one he bought was more satisfying than anything he can recall reading since his youth, when tales of adventure kept him awake late into the night, reading beneath the covers with a flickering torch so Liam wouldn’t see.

Killian knows now that Liam did see, but kept it to himself.

He feels so little these days other than tired, worn threadbare by stress and sadness, and a book that not only holds his interest but actively engages it is an inestimable treasure. These past few nights have seen him sleeping soundly through them, his mind too exhausted—in the good way this time—to keep him awake with remembering. And all because of a beautiful woman who found him a book.

This Emma has a gift, he thinks, and with it she’s given him one. He’s deeply grateful but he wants more. Needs more. Needs to know more about her.

The cat is not in the window when he arrives this time, nor is Emma anywhere to be seen. The shop itself is perfectly normal—he’s not sure why he thought it might be otherwise—with its crooked shelves standing straight…well, not straight precisely but lined up, er, in a line… He sighs. It makes sense in his head.

He heads back towards the cafe, which is empty save for the cat and a young woman with short, dark hair upon whose lap he’s sprawled, his pose relaxed but his gaze sharply observant. The woman is petite and very pretty, reclining in her chair at an odd angle to accommodate the cat’s generous size, holding her book carefully in one hand and stroking his head with the other while a cup of coffee steams invitingly on the table beside her. She casts the cup a longing look from time to time, but it’s too far away for her to reach without disturbing the cat and so she leaves it be.

Killian isn’t sure the cat would move even if she did disturb him. His purr is audible from across the cafe and his expression one of perfect, smug contentment. He regards Killian coolly, fluffy tail flicking, daring him to make something of it.

Killian raises an eyebrow and strides purposefully across the cafe, keeping his eye on the cat as he slides the woman’s coffee cup across her table. She casts him a grateful glance and he nods, smirks at the cat, and when he looks up again Ruby is there behind the counter grinning her wide grin.

“Hey, Killian,” she says. “It is Killian, right?”

“Er—yes.”

“Yeah. Emma said.”

“Oh.” He feels an odd thrill at the thought of Emma mentioning him. Thinking about him after he had gone. “Er, yes. Is she here?”

“She’s in the back. Is there something I can help you with?”

“Um.” He shoots a glance at the woman. Her attention seems wholly on her book, and though the cat continues to stare, Killian figures there’s nothing he can do about that. “Perhaps you can,” he replies. “I left some books here on my last visit, and Emma said she would hold them for me. I’d like to look at them, if I could, and choose another.”

“Killian Jones.” It’s Emma’s voice that speaks, from behind him and just to his left. The sound of it shivers across his skin in a way he’s not entirely sure he likes.

He definitely doesn’t not like it, though.

He turns to see her smiling at him. Her hair is loose today, curling over her shoulders in soft waves, bright against the blue of her blouse. She’s wearing jeans and sandals that reveal red-painted toenails and she looks completely unthreatening.

Of course she does. He gives his head a little shake to clear it.

“Have you come for your books?” she asks him.

“Yes. If that’s all right.”

“Of course it is. Let’s go have a look. Ruby, would you make him some tea?”

Killian doesn’t bother to protest. He accepts that the tea is inevitable, and actually he’s quite looking forward to it.

He follows Emma to the register where she retrieves the stack of books and watches intently while he looks through them and makes his selection. He watches her watching him, noting the subtle changes in her expression and body language each time he picks up a book to read the blurb on its cover. He lets her reactions guide him, and when he holds up his final selection her approving smile lights up the room.

He blinks and the light is as it was before.

Killian holds the book carefully in his prosthetic hand and scratches his ear with the other.

“Lass,” he says. “I hate to ask, but—”

“Can I hold the rest of these here until the next time you come?” she says, deadpan but with a twinkle in her eye. “Of course. It’s no trouble at all.”

“Are you this kind to all your customers?” he asks with a grin.

Her lips curve in response, into the most peculiar smile he’s ever beheld. “No,” she says. “I’m not.”

His heart thumps and for a moment he feels his old self again. “So I’m just lucky then,” he says.

“That remains to be seen.”

She holds his gaze a beat too long for comfort then turns away.

He takes his book back to the cafe where Ruby has tea waiting and a slice of cake. At first he’s disappointed to note that it’s a different cake than he had the last time and a different aroma emanating from the teapot but once he’s had a sip and a bite that disappointment turns to delight. The cake is soft and mildly tangy with a crunchy pecan topping and the tea is rich and malty and perfect with a splash of milk.

Killian sinks into it, into all of it—the cosiness of the room and the tea and the cake and the book, and the sunshine through the windows and the purr of the cat. He melts into the story as he reads, lets the pages enfold him and wrap him up in their embrace, and when the dark-haired woman eases the cat from her lap with soothing words and a kiss on the top of his head, he doesn’t notice. Nor does he hear the chat she has with Ruby or the petulant mewl of the cat, or sense her walking past him when she leaves.

Other customers come and go as well. There’s a slight man in round spectacles accompanied by a Dalmatian whom the cat, much to what would have been Killian’s astonishment had he been watching, seems to adore; they curl up together beneath the corner table as the man enjoys a cup of coffee and a slice of buttered raisin bread. There’s a haughty woman, sharply dressed, who sweeps in and holds a hissed conversation with Emma at the back of the shop then leaves with the same sweep and several parcels wrapped in brown paper beneath her arm. There’s a man in a tattered velvet jacket and a few too many scarves; Emma’s smile strains at the edges as she helps him and the flash in her eye has a dangerous edge. There’s a man who takes his coffee black like the typewriter he pecks at in an armchair beneath the window as Ruby rolls her eyes, and there’s a little boy with a bright, eager face and incessant chatter who drinks hot chocolate dusted with cinnamon and makes her laugh.

Throughout all the intermittent bustle and quiet of the day Emma watches Killian read. She watches as the tension drains from his shoulders and the frown fades from between his eyes, and as he gets lost in the story his expressive face reveals the sharp intelligence and wry humour that struggle valiantly beneath the weight of his burdens. Killian doesn’t notice her gaze but he feels it all the same and all the same it warms him, soothes him even when he sighs and leans back in his chair to roll his shoulders and rub his neck and it sharpens, just briefly, with something darker.

All too soon the day begins to fade behind the windows and when Ruby comes to clear his table he looks up at her with a smile.

“Closing time already?”

“It sneaks up on you sometimes, doesn’t it?” she replies.

“Aye.”

He stands and stretches, glances over to see that Emma is on duty at the register. As he approaches her expression softens in a way that makes his heart do a little skip in his chest.

“How was it?” she asks.

“Brilliant. I’ll take it.”

She beams. “I’m so glad. Ah, that you liked it, I mean, not that—”

“Aye. I know.”

She rings up his sale with a flush on the tops of her cheeks that captivates him, and when she hands him the bag her fingers brush against his. Killian gasps as the world explodes with colour and sound and light, but when he blinks it’s gone and Emma is smiling at him, the same as before.

He thanks her and starts to go, still all of a whirl, but something stops him. He turns back.

“May I ask you a question, love?”

“Sure.”

“How did you know? What books to choose for me, I mean? These two have been—well, exactly what I didn’t realise I was looking for. I’d never have found them for myself. How did you know?”

“I’m afraid that’s a trade secret.” She grins and taps the side of her nose. “Let’s just say I’m good at reading people.”

He clears his throat. “And what do you read in me?” he asks.

Her tone is light, draped over something deeper. “Would you really like to know?”

“Aye,” he says gruffly. “I think perhaps I would.”

She places her hand on his arm and this time the light is gentle, the sound is soothing harmonies and the colours soft as a rain-washed meadow.

“Another time,” she says.

It’s not long before the bookshop becomes a part of his routine, such as it is. Routine is important in recovery, so he’s told, and he does his best to set and stick to one. He gets up at the same time every day—early, as always, the habits of a lifetime are hard to break—he cooks and eats and exercises, and attends his meetings. And two or three times a week he stops by the bookshop for tea and cake and a new addition to his rapidly growing personal library. He makes a mild joke to Emma about affording all this luxury and she replies with a careful smile.

“I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

And it is. His navy pension barely covers his expenses but although he buys a book each time he finds he’s never short on funds; rather he always seems to be discovering twenty dollar bills in trouser pockets and handfuls of change from things he can’t remember buying.

He adores the books, of course. They fill his lonely nights and give his mind the respite it craves, an alternative to painful memories or sluggish retreat. But they are not what draws him back to the shop, again and again. It’s also not the cake.

It’s the way that Emma smiles at him, the warmth that radiates from her and into him, that seals the fissures in his soul. The conversations he so treasures that begin with books and end in a pause, a we’ll talk more next time, but they never do. There’s always something new to discuss, next time.

He thinks about her often as he goes about his day, when he finds something he thinks she’d enjoy or sees sunlight dappled through the trees the way it is through her hair. He looks forward to the glint in her eye and the twist in her smile when she tells him she’s added a new book to his pile; he forces himself not to rush as he reads. The books will still be there tomorrow, he reminds himself, and the next day and the next, and he is determined to savour them.

Determined, though he knows all too well the fragile nature of this kind of happiness.

The greenhouse is lit by moonlight alone, the only light that doesn’t kill the Nocturnam dentifolia with its glow. Emma wakens the plant with a gentle stroke of her finger down its curled-up frond, and smiles as the frond unfurls and wraps itself around her palm in greeting. She begins harvesting tiny beads of venom from the plant’s sharp teeth, ignoring David when he leaps onto the table and sniffs the dentifolia in feline disapproval.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” he says.

“I’ve been harvesting dentifolia venom since I was ten years old—”

“You know that’s not what I mean. I hope you know what you’re doing with him.”

Emma considers dissembling but decides it’s not worth the effort. “I do,” she replies.

“Do you, though?”

“He’s lonely, David. And sad. He needs me.”

“And what about what you need?”

She shakes her head, willing away the thoughts of Killian and his crinkly smile and the pain behind his eyes and the way those eyes light up when they see her.

“I have everything I need.”

“Yeah? Then what about what you want?”

Emma focuses her attention on catching the venom in her vial, made of a hardened smoky quartz that won’t dissolve on contact with it. It’s delicate work, and requires concentration.

David hisses and the tip of his tail flicks. “You take too much on yourself, Emma.”

“I can handle it.”

“I know you can. But you don’t have to do it alone.”

Emma sets the venom down on the table with a sharp thunk. “So what do you think I should do, David? Force him to give up everything he knows—”

“I doubt much force would be required.”

“—drag him into an entirely new world—”

“Not entirely new.”

“—when he’s known more than enough suffering already in his own?”

“You don’t have to do everything alone,” David repeats. “Let him help you.”

“He’s the one who needs help.”

“You’re so damned stubborn, Emma. Don’t forget that I saw the same things you did in that cauldron—”

“Pah.”

“—I saw who he is, and who he could be. To you. All you have to do is let him in.”

“I’m fine as I am.”

David’s tail swishes as it whips across the table and his ears turn back against his head. He catches her gaze and holds it as he reaches out with his paw, a single claw extended, and with slow deliberation tips over the vial. They both watch as venom oozes out of it and through the cracks in the table, dripping down to burn a sizzling hole in the concrete floor.

“I’m going to spend the night at Mary Margaret’s,” he says.

As the days become weeks and then ease into months, Killian begins to notice certain things about the shop. They enter his consciousness in a slow drip, never too many at once, never more than he can handle. The shelf by the register lined with candles and powders and tinctures in crystal vials. The arcane symbols carved along the edges of the bookshelves and the ones formed of silver and set with cut glass that dangle in the windows and twist the sunlight into rainbow hues. The odd way that the time stretches, the depth and stillness of the shadows, how the tea is always hot. The glimpses from the corner of his eye, gone the moment he blinks, of Ruby’s smile baring dripping fangs and David’s crystalline eyes in a human face.

Killian is a practical man, well-educated and vastly travelled, and he accepts the existence of things in this world that lie beyond his ken. He’s seen hints of them all his life, faintly on the misty edges of Cornish cliffs in his childhood and more clearly during his years in the navy, around corners he turned down on a whim and on the faces of those people whom most folk barely notice. The bookshop and its patrons are the clearest yet, unlike anything he has encountered before. This doesn’t trouble him in the least though it thoroughly intrigues him, just as everything connected with Emma intrigues him.

The last traces of spring have faded and the air is warm and fragrant, with the gentle weight and drawn-out softness of an early-summer twilight, on the day Killian leaves the bookshop and turns, quite without any intent to do so, around a corner that he’s never noticed before. He finds himself in a narrow alleyway far darker than the street, still and close and vaguely menacing, though he feels certain that it means him no harm whatever it may hold in store for other travellers. He follows it to where it ends in a stone archway and a rusty iron gate which swings open before he can reach out his hand to push it, beckoning him into the hazy gloom beyond.

This is how mortals end up kidnapped, Killian thinks, and yet he barely hesitates before stepping through the arch and through the gloom and into a garden bright with golden sunlight and riotous with colour. Woody vines and trunks of trees twist together to form a wall that marks its boundaries on three sides; those he recognises are apple and hawthorn and cherry and yew. Two greenhouses make up the fourth side, one a fairly typical model in his estimation and the other much the same, except its windows are all stained a smoky black. Together they frame a wild carpet of blooms in hues that range from bright white to deepest indigo, nodding atop stems and stalks in every shade of green.

It appears random, Killian thinks, but there is method in it, a species of order underlying chaos that is so familiar he feels no surprise at all when the greenhouse door opens and Emma emerges.

“Oh!” she cries and stops abruptly, staring at him. “Killian! What—how did you get here?”

“I... don’t know exactly,” he replies. “I’ve never turned down this path before.”

“No,” says Emma, “I don’t suppose you have.”

She’s annoyed, he thinks, though not with him. “Is all this yours?” he asks, indicating the garden with an expansive gesture of his arms. “It’s extraordinary.”

“Yes, it’s mine. It’s where I grow the ingredients for my—” She snaps her mouth shut and looks at him warily.

“For the things you sell in the shop,” he supplies, with an encouraging smile. “The candles and balms and… the like.”

“Er—yes.”

“You make them all yourself, then.” It’s less a question than a gentle acknowledgement, to let her know that he knows too.

She softens. “Yeah. It’s, um, kind of a family tradition.”

“And a lovely one. May I see it?”

She hesitates. “Do you really want to?”

“Aye, of course I do. I’d love to know more of your heritage.”

The look she gives him is both sweet and sharp, tenderness with an edge that makes his gut clench. She nods.

“Follow me.”

It’s those damned eyes, Emma thinks, as she leads him on a tour around the garden, stopping to introduce each plant and explain its properties and uses. They’re so interested, so intent on her and on everything she says, and the sadness ever lurking in their depths breaks her heart.

They’re shining now, though, as he looks around her garden, and when he looks at her she feels lit up from within, warm and glowing in a way she never imagined she could feel without using magic.

This is magic.

Emma ignores the whisper in her ear just as she’s been doing now for months. No cauldron is going to tell her what to do, she thinks obstinately. She’s perfectly capable of managing her own fate. And anyway, cauldrons are designed to observe, not predict. If she wanted to mess around with the Foretelling she’d get herself a damned crystal ball.

“And what’s in the greenhouses?” Killian’s voice snaps her back to herself, and she realises that they’ve made a full circle of the garden.

“Oh. Um. Just more things I use. For, uh, more specific needs.”

“For personalised spells.”

“Well, yes. Things that people request that need to be tailored to them and—wait, what?”

He turns to her with that dimpled smile and so much warmth in his eyes. “Emma,” he says gently. “I’ve been around the world ten times over and seen many things on the way. I know a witch when I meet one.”

“Oh.” She stares at him as he continues to smile. “And that doesn’t, um. Freak you out at all?”

“Of course not.”

He’s so close she can feel the heat of his body and she shivers despite it, and despite the warmth of the evening. He sees of course, just as he sees everything in her, and she hears the catch in his breath, feels the tension straining in his every sinew as he steps closer still. His fingers brush across her cheek and trace the edge of her jaw and she gasps at the sensation, grips tightly to his shirt to keep from falling as he whispers her name across her lips and she rises on her toes to meet his kiss.

Killian feels suffused in light, bursts of it behind his eyes and sparks that dance along his skin. He thinks at first that it must come from Emma but no, he realises, it’s within him, pouring out from him and into her.

He catches her startled gasp with his lips and takes the kiss deep, slowly savouring the taste of honey cake and of mint tea—a sweetness and a burn that’s so very her—until the noise she makes at the back of her throat nearly ends him. With a growl he pulls her closer and just for a moment she goes, melting into him and firing his blood, but then she shoves hard against his chest and breaks the kiss and the light is gone.

She stumbles backwards, staring at him with a tangle of emotions in her eyes, apprehension and longing and the heat of both passion and pique. “I felt—” she whispers, raising a trembling hand to touch her lips. “I thought—but you can’t—I—I—”

“Emma,” he says softly, taking a hesitant step towards her, but she holds up her hands and backs away.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “It’s too much. You can’t—we can’t do this. I’m sorry.”

“Emma!” he calls after her as she turns and flees across the garden, heedless of her precious plants, but the name returns to his ears in a hollow echo when she slips through the solid wall of trees and then is gone.

He gives her space, and time. She needs both, he knows, and plenty of them. Emma is not a woman who accepts lightly, or deals easily with things outside her control. When the time is right to return to her he’ll feel the pull.

It doesn’t come for nearly a month and when it does he goes without hesitation. His arrival finds the shop empty of customers and eerily silent, a still, expectant silence so deep that the swish of David’s tail along the knotted wood of the windowsill is deafening.

Emma is standing where she was when he first beheld her, beneath a tall window and swathed in moonlight, though the sun is high in the sky. Her hair is loose and wild around her shoulders and she wears a flowing crimson gown. The same gown he saw her in, that first time. The same gown and the same moonlight.

“You see me,” she says.

“Aye. Of course I do.”

“No, but—” she breaks off as her eyes turn to David, now standing in front of the window in soft leathers and silk, very stern and very human. “You see me, I mean.”

Killian nods. “I see you both.”

Emma sighs and the scene around them melts away, gently as chalk in the rain, and the bookstore is as normal. The swish of David’s tail is drowned out by the bustle and hum of customers, and Emma is dressed in jeans and a sage green sweater that brings out her eyes.

“Emma,” he says, stepping closer and taking her hands, the bright magic that flares up at their touch familiar now. “What does this mean?”

“I don’t entirely know,” she admits. “Magic doesn’t always have an explanation. Sometimes it just is.”

“And what magic is this?”

“True love magic,” says David, and Emma flushes.

“True love?” Killian repeats as he twines his fingers in hers. He imagines this should feel like a revelation, but it does not.

“Maybe,” she says, biting her lip. “I mean, it’s possible, or maybe more like potential.”

“Potential true love?”

She nods. “The seeds are there,” she whispers. “We only have to let them grow.”

“Growing seeds is something you do remarkably well, love,” he says with a soft smile. “What will we need to nurture these ones into full flower?”

She huffs a little breath through her own, reluctant smile. “Don’t torture the metaphor,” she retorts, and then her face grows solemn. “It’s not as simple or straightforward as nurturing something until it grows,” she says. “Magic isn’t for everyone. There are dangers—”

“I’ll face them,” he assures her, tightening his hold on her hands. “Whatever may come, I’ll face it with you.”

She shakes her head. “You don’t understand, Killian.”

“Then explain it to me.”

Emma pulls her hands from his and twists them together anxiously as she speaks. “We can’t talk about this here,” she says. “Come with me.”

She leads him back to the corner of the shop where the register sits beneath a tall window and opposite an archway of precisely the same material and shape as the one that brought him to her garden, though this one is fitted with a sturdy wooden door. He’s seen her pass through this door a hundred times, into ‘the back,’ as it is known, with no other name nor explanation ever given. The door swings open as Emma approaches and he follows her through it, David at his heels, and if anyone finds it odd that he’s gone with Emma into a place where no customer before has ever been, they do not show it.

“Ruby,” Emma calls. “Bring tea.”

The room they enter is long and narrow, with the same tall windows that grace the bookshop on either side. Along one windowless wall is a cluttered wooden workbench and the other is lined with shelves that stretch from floor to ceiling, crammed with supplies. There are ceramic bowls of all different sizes, glass vials and stone ones, herb bundles and crystals and lumpy leather bags, and, Killian notes to his amusement, no fewer than three cauldrons, one copper and one iron and one that appears to his untrained eye to be carved from moonstone.

Beneath the nearest window two armchairs sit, deep and inviting ones made of worn brocade. A table like the ones in the cafe nestles between them, and onto this Ruby, appearing quite suddenly through a smaller doorway that opens up from between the shelves, places a teapot and three cups.

She flashes her feral grin at Killian and saunters away. Emma gestures for him to take one of the chairs and he does, watching wordlessly as she settles herself into the other and pours the tea. David leaps onto the arm of her chair and sits like a sentry at her elbow, accepting the cup she balances in front of him with regal grace.

She hands Killian the second cup and takes the third for herself, and the three of them sip in silence for a moment. A dozen questions clamour on the tip of Killian’s tongue, but he holds them in. He waits.

“Magic,” Emma says finally, “is a capricious, tricksy thing. It doesn’t sit comfortably in the world you know.” She sets her cup down on the table and folds her hands together in her lap. “It can exist only at the edges of it, deep within crannies and around corners and on certain people, a part of those things but also outside them.”

“Beyond them,” says David.

“Yes. It extends beyond what most can perceive and into a place that’s much wilder and less ordered. One that’s run on arcane powers and ruled by the people who wield them, and wielding them sometimes requires a darkness and a sacrifice that changes those people, makes them less than human. Dangerous.”

Killian nods. “But such people exist in my world too,” he points out. “The ones who sacrifice their humanity for power. The difference, it seems to me, is only in the nature of the power.”

Emma frowns as she considers this. “I see what you mean,” she says. “But. I’d guess that the people who wield power in your world don’t take any particular interest in you?”

“Decidedly not.” He can’t hold back a bitter laugh. “I’m quite insignificant, really.”

“In your world.”

Killian looks at her sharply. “But not in yours?”

“No.”

“But—how can that be?” He scowls. “How can I be of importance in a place I’ve never been?”

Emma picks up her tea again, and her fingers tremble as she wraps them around the cup. “Killian, why did you come into the shop, the first time?” she asks.

“I wanted a book.”

“Was that all?”

“Aye… although perhaps not.” He frowns, trying to remember. “The shop just—appealed to me, in an odd sort of way.”

“Odd how?”

“Like it was beckoning to me, almost. I’d been down this street dozens of times before, hundreds even, and never noticed it. Then one day I did.”

Her expression doesn’t change, and he realises she was expecting this very answer. “And why did you keep coming back?”

His mouth quirks. “To see you.”

She huffs a short sigh, though her cheeks flush faintly. “And?” she presses.

“And, well, I suppose it kept beckoning.”

“Did you never think to wonder how?” David interjects. “Or why?”

“David!” snaps Emma, but Killian replies calmly.

“No, mate, I confess I didn’t. I’ve learnt not to question any good fortune that happens to come my way. I prefer to simply enjoy it”—he pauses as he thinks of Liam—“for as long as it may last.”

“Are you happy now?” hisses Emma, glaring at David. “Do you have anything more you’d like to contribute?”

David looks away from them and begins to wash his face.

“It’s a reasonable thing to ask, though, love,” says Killian. “Why didn’t I question it? Should I have?”

Emma gives him a searching look, as a sunbeam from the window falls across her face. “Would you have stopped coming here if you had?”

He wishes he could say no, but “I’m not sure,” he answers truthfully. “Perhaps.”

She nods. “That’s why you didn’t question it.”

“But I still don’t understand,” he says, setting down his empty cup. Emma refills it without asking, and without thinking he takes it up again and sips some more. “Why did the shop call to me? Why me?”

“True Love magic is extremely rare,” David says, ignoring the scowl Emma turns on him. “And powerful. It behaves as it must to draw together the people capable of sharing it.”

Something in his voice, a bleak sort of yearning, catches Killian’s attention. “You, and the brunette,” he says. “Mary Margaret, is it?”

David’s tail swishes, and though he doesn’t clench his jaw he gives the impression of it. “Yes,” he replies. “And we have suffered for it. Magic that powerful can do incredible things, so you can imagine there are many people who seek to harness it for themselves.” The light bends and he shifts, from cat to man and back again. “By whatever means necessary.”

“That’s the danger you spoke of,” Killian says, looking at Emma. “You’re worried something similar might befall me.”

She nods. “Or worse.”

“But not necessarily,” says David. “You have to tell him everything, Emma.”

The anxiety is back on Emma’s face, evident in the wrinkling of her brow and the way she bites her lip. She replaces her teacup in its saucer with a clatter and clasps her hands again, digging the nails of one into the flesh of the other.

“Killian,” she says, “I'm so sorry to unearth the painful past with this, but—what do you remember about your mother?”

He blinks in surprise. “Er—not much. She died when I was very young. I remember that she was beautiful. Blue eyes like mine but red hair, a dark auburn red. Her name was Alice. Alice Pendyr, as she was born.”

“Pendyr,” Emma repeats, her expression sharp and sorrowful. “Cornish?”

“Aye. Meaning end of the—”

“—land,” Emma finishes. “Alice of the land’s end.”

“Aye.”

She pauses and the silence builds, settling like snow upon their shoulders. “But,” she says softly, “of what land?”

Killian starts, and stares at her. She meets his eyes calmly, though her hands remain tense and twisted in her lap. He makes a fist of his own.

“How can you know to ask that,” he whispers. “No one outside my family ever learned of it.”

“What land, Killian?” Emma presses, gentle and implacable.

He forces his body to relax, unclenches his fist and lays his hand flat against the arm of his chair. “Nobody knows,” he replies. “She was found in a basket on the edge of a cliff, wrapped in a blanket of a weave and fibre none had seen before, less than one day old. The couple who found her raised her as their child but with her own name, a name for her origins, they said. They were called Chenoweth. I—” he frowns. “I don’t know why no one ever questioned that. The difference in names, I mean, when they always called her their daughter.”

“How did she die?”

“I—” He shakes his head. “I’m not certain. As I said I was very young. One day she was fine and the next—we went for a walk.” He blinks again as the memory, so long forgotten, returns in vivid force and he is there again—there on the wind-whipped precipice, clinging to his mother’s leg as clouds swirled above them and rocks churned the sea into a lather far below their feet. “We walked right to the edge of the cliff and she told me the tale of how my grandparents found her there, on that very spot where we stood. Then she… she stared out at the sea for the longest time, and when she looked at me again her eyes were so sad. She said it was time to go home. I held her hand the whole way back because I didn’t want her to be sad, and she laughed and hugged me, as she always did. But then… the next day she was gone. My father told me she had taken ill in the night and died before sunrise.”

There are tears in Emma’s eyes, and she clears her throat before she asks “Was there a funeral?”

Killian’s frown deepens, and he rubs his temple. “I—I don’t—I don’t remember one.”

Emma smiles, a small smile full of heartrending empathy. “I see.”

“What—what are you saying?” Killian demands. “That my mother didn’t die?”

“She did not,” says Emma gently. “She went home.”

“Home. You think she was from this magical world.”

“Yes I do, and I don’t think that it truly surprises you to hear it,” Emma replies, and he swears the earth tilts as she speaks, telescopes around her until she is all that he can see, her voice the only sound in his ears. “It explains a lot that’s never quite made sense to you, I’d bet, like why you’ve always felt slightly out of place wherever you are and why you spent so long wandering. Why you are able to see more than you should.” Her gaze is intent now, her face and form aglow with the moonlight that empowers her. “Because you do, don’t you Killian?” she says softly. “You’ve always seen things others don’t, seen and accepted them without judgment. You embrace the world in all its strange and wondrous tapestry because deep down you’ve always known that there is more to it than meets the eye. Haven’t you?”

“A-aye.” Killian clears his throat. There’s light behind his eyes and on his skin and in his very bones. “I believe I have.”

“You wandered for years observing that world and seeking your place in it,” Emma continues, “until the time was right and you were called here, to a haven for the lost and the cursed.”

He nods. He can feel her words, and he can feel the truth in them, a truth he’s always felt but never understood. “Why was the time right now though?” he asks, a wealth of pain behind the question. “After so many years, why now?”

“Because now is when you truly needed it.”

“I needed it before—” he chokes, but she shakes her head, tears shimmering again in her eyes.

“Now is when you truly needed it,” she whispers. “And I—I need you.”

She takes his hand, smiling as he catches his breath at the magic that leaps between them. “It won’t always be like this,” she says. “If you come to me, eventually our magic will settle. Right now it’s really new and you just—excite it.”

He smiles at this, and at the flutter in his chest. “I excite your magic?”

“Mmmm,” she replies with a wry smirk. “Among other things.”

David swishes his tail and gives a hacking cough.

“Hairball?” queries Emma sweetly.

“But love.” Killian turns his hand in hers so that their fingers entwine, shivering at the power that crackles between their palms. “What do you mean if I come to you? And why do you say our magic?”

“You don’t think that all this only comes from me?” Emma gestures at him, at the silvery light from his hand that mingles with the golden glow of hers. “You have magic too. It’s what had me so scared that day in the garden. I had been shown your origins and the True Love potential, but not the magic. There’s so much in you, Killian. If you come to my world, you’ll learn just how much.”

“Come to your world?” He stares at her in awe. “I can do that?”

“If you wish.” She smiles at his expression, then her own turns solemn. “But it’s a one-way journey. Once you go, you can never come back. Not fully.”

“I’ll go.”

She shakes her head. “This is a big decision. You need to think about it.”

“I don’t believe I do.” Killian feels as he is sure a ship must, when docking at last in her native harbour after a journey long and fraught and rife with loss. It’s a homecoming he has never known, not truly. Not until now.

“The world I’m in holds nothing for me now,” he says. “Everything I once had is gone—my family, my career, even my bloody hand. I was barely living anymore... until I met you.” He draws their clasped hands to his lips and presses a kiss to the back of hers, and their magic sings. “If we have True Love, or the potential for it,” he continues, “if there’s a chance I might see my mother again—well, I don’t have to think about either of those. I want them both, and if there is danger to be faced in the pursuit of them, I’ll face it. I’ll go.”

The light of Emma’s smile holds no surprise for him this time nor does the joyous dance of their magic through the air, though David’s approving purr does rather take him aback. Emma stands and he follows, their hands still joined, by touch and by magic and by choice.

“Come, then,” she says.

As she speaks the shimmer between their hands brightens to a glow that spreads out from where they stand, silver light entwined with gold and curling open as a spring bud unfolds, until it reaches the arched doorway that leads to the shop. The light bursts—blinding for a moment—then it fades into a gentle gleam and the door swings open.

Emma’s hand tightens in his, and they step through the doorway together.

@kmomof4 @stahlop @mariakov81 @teamhook @winterbaby89 @allons-y-to-hogwarts-713 @darkcolinodonorgasm @shireness-says

#cs fic #cs ff #cs fanfic #magic au #captain swan #witch!emma #magic bookstore #there's tea #and cake #and magic #and true love #and books #all the books #and love for katie-dub #because it's her birthday #and she's the loveliest #and deserves nice things #a uniquely portable magic #profdanglaisstuff

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