#i hope the day is very far distant on which i could ever be accused of making love to a woman

[britneyshakespeare]

Happy Pride Month to Miss Toilet and her lesbotic tendencies

[shadowsinger11]

Inspiration

Pairing: Fred Weasley x Reader

Requested by anon: Could you do a Fred Weasley imagine where he falls in love with Harry’s younger sister. (Maybe a after the war where he lives)

Word Count: 3.3k (my hand slipped oops)

Genre: Fluff, childhood friends to lovers, mutual pining etc.

Warnings: Slight innuendo, Fred being cute and hot simultaneously

Tags: @self-ship-love @susceptible-but-siriusexual @hufflexpuff @neovannii @jenniweasley @elf-punk @heart-of-tempered-steel @itseatyourdamnapples

Message me if you'd like to be added!

Masterlist

Ottery St Catchpole, Devon, England, July 16, 2000

It was a chilly Sunday evening. The summer air buzzed with excitement and the tender aroma of magnolia as tiny white and pink petals were gracefully falling from the huge cherry trees, carried by the light breeze. Twilight painted the horizon in liquid gold and fiery red, soon followed by mellow shades of dark blue that brought countless sparkling stars.

It was getting the slightest bit colder, but it did not matter; nothing else mattered but the loud cheers and cheerful music, celebrating the official bond between a Potter and a Weasley under the wide night sky.

You couldn't have been happier for your older brother, Harry, who was currently dancing with Ginny, his now wife - now and for the rest of his, hopefully, but not really likely, peaceful life. For the longest time you've been wondering how he'd always manage to get into trouble even as a small First year with no experience in the wizarding world whatsoever. Or, perhaps, that was the exact reason as to why evil-battling and rule-breaking were such common practices when hanging out with him.

However, there was no fighting that day. There was no room for worry and fear when the entire Weasley family and their loved ones were gathered on the clearing in front of the Burrow, chatting, laughing, dancing, singing, drinking, celebrating and living for what seemed to be the first time since Lord Voldemort's fall. Danger was practically nonexistent in that blissful moment which was frozen in time, once having looked agonizingly distant and impossible to hope for. But that dream was no longer just a foolish fantasy to heal wounded hearts. It was there, and it was happening in the most beautiful way imaginable.

And suddenly, all those clichés of a married life weren't even clichés. They were simply humble wishes of people who had witnessed far too many horrors in such a short period of time, and only craved stability among the massive chaos. So when you glanced at Ginny, a twirling blur of flaming red hair and a gorgeous wedding dress, you didn't feel the need to comment on how banal the color white was. You genuinely smiled, admiring the pure, exuberant joy, visible in her eyes and scarlet cheeks. Harry looked just as, if not even happier than his wife, dancing in the ridiculous but wholehearted way that only he could, and old memories of him winning the golden egg, training Dumbledore's Army and kissing Ginny in the common room for the very first time flooded into your mind.

It had truly been a long time since you had seen Harry careless and free like that.

You yourself had spent an ungodly amount of hours preparing the yard for the ceremony all day; rearranging chairs, decorating, making sure everything was going by schedule, only to then dance your tired feet off, and though you wanted to continue having fun with Hermione, Luna and the rest of the girls waiting for you, you really needed a break. And a drink.

Excusing yourself to leave the particularly interesting conversation you were having with distant Weasley relatives, you slipped off your black flats that, despite looking absolutely stunning, hurt your feet terribly after an entire day of fussing over the color of napkins and flower bouquets. Barefoot on the grass, you walked over to a chair next to a table which seemed to have been occupied, but judging by the mostly empty glasses and plates, the guests weren't coming back anytime soon.

You tossed your shoes aside with a sigh and rushed to rub your aching toes, hissing from how sore they were.

How has Ginny been dancing like that for hours?

"Enjoying the party, I see?" a familiar deep, slightly husky voice commented, causing you to look up.

It was none other than Fred Weasley, dear friend from childhood, staring down at you, his ever-present charming smirk resting on features and hands shoved into the pockets of his dragonskin suit. But it was his flaming red hair that made your eyes widen - it was carefully smoothed back, shining under the moonlight like liquid iron.

Fred's eyes still contained their famous, loveable mischief, except now slightly tamer and calmer. His firm biceps had visibly grown in size, stretching out the fabric of his coat just a bit to give you a prominent silhouette that caught you off guard.

It had been two years; he had changed so much.

And you were afraid to admit you had too.

You blinked in surprise, processing his uncharacteristically sophisticated appearance before realizing what he had asked you.

"Would've enjoyed it far more if my legs weren't killing me," you groaned half-heartedly and leaned back on your chair. "What's with your hair?"

"What's with your feet?"

"I asked you first," you cut him off. "I bet Ginny is responsible for this."

"Actually…" Fred trailed off, and, whether on purpose or not, ran a hand through the ginger locks to keep them in place, unaware of how you suddenly wished the hand doing the graceful motion wasn't his. "Mum insisted that I looked my best. What can I say, it's not like George and I usually listen to her, but we thought we'd make an exception this time; our sister doesn't get married every day. But honestly, Ginny couldn't care less about how we looked as long we showed up."

"So like usual, you mean?" you giggled. "Showing up is an achievement for you even if you're underdressed?"

Fred beamed, pearly white smile complementing his formal outfit. You wondered if he used that exact smile to effortlessly allure costumers and business partners at work.

He rested an elbow on the table as he leaned forward.

"Come on now, darling. I know you find my messy hair irresistible either way."

His cockiness only caused you to laugh, though Fred was quick to spot the flash of nervousness in your eyes; it brought him immense pride to know he was the one to turn you from confident to adorably bashful and flustered in the matter of seconds.

He was looking at you intensely, expectantly waiting for you to deny his flirty accusation despite your shyness.

"Nah, Weasley. It only reminds me that even at twenty-two you still do not know how to use a comb."

Fred's eyebrows shot straight up to his hairline, mouth agape. For the first time, he actually needed a second to form a reply.

"Didn't see that coming, I give you that. Courageous one, you are."

Your heart fluttered with joy and you openly grinned, shrugging in half-hearted humbleness.

"Perhaps I am."

Speaking to him felt unusually energizing, as though you had jumped headfirst into a chilly lake. It was unfamiliar and it set your nerves on fire, causing your stomach to twist and turn with sensations that left you dizzy, but unbelievably thrilled. And you wanted more of it, you wanted more of him.

"Fancy a drink?" Fred offered, already pouring champagne into a glass before handing it to you, and you keenly took it.

"Thanks, I've been thirsty with all the preparations I was doing."

"Is that why your legs are killing you?"

"Exactly, I've been running around all day, making sure everything was in order… you know, a lot of organizing and the like."

"It must hurt quite a bit then," Fred commented with a pained grimace. "But I absolutely get you, Georgie and I are just like that when it comes to the shop. It's a lot of accounting if I'm being honest, though I admit he's way better at it. We need to be completely precise; we can't allow any mistakes."

"Woah," you laughed. "Control freak much?"

He wettened his lips, never breaking eye contact.

"Perhaps I am."

You tilted your head to the side, gaze piercing into his in hopes of finding out what those gorgeous brown eyes were hiding. The tiny playful flames in them were eloquent.

Shifting slightly in your seat, you smoothed out your bridesmaid dress and raised your glass, the ghost of a smirk playing on your lips.

"Cheers to us control freaks then."

Fred mirrored your smug expression and your glasses met with a clink. The bubbly liquid tingled your throat, undoubtedly refreshing you and cooling you off. You glanced at the people dancing in the centre of the clearing and giggled - Ginny had apparently thrown away her white shoes long ago, bare feet stepping elegantly on the grass.

"You see, I'd like to chat a bit more with you, but I'm afraid it's a bit too loud here. What about we go to the pond across the field?" Fred suggested, pointing at the woods behind his back. You had visited them countless times when staying with Harry at the Burrow during holidays years ago; the tall trees and the glistening waters had never ceased to bring you comfort.

The noise started to become bothersome, and you felt it even more necessary to continue your conversation somewhere private, the unknown causing butterflies to erupt in your stomach. Fred's presence could only be compared to a shot of whiskey, or the sensation of anticipating a tidal wave to crash into you in less than a second. It was wild and the tiniest bit terrifying, but oh so tempting as it pulled you in.

"I'd love that, but… you know," you grinned and playfully swang your sore feet. "Can't really walk."

But this didn't at all seem like a problem to Fred Weasley who only shrugged and stood up, "You don't have to. I'll carry you."

"Merlin, no! Please, it's not necessary."

Fred frowned, but his confused expression was soon replaced by an amused one.

"You said it yourself that your feet hurt like hell. And even if carrying you around isn't necessary, it doesn't mean I don't want to."

You attempted to tame the butterflies.

"No, no! You seriously don't have to, I promise," you frantically protested as you held up your hands in front of you to reassure him, but he only gave you a weird look. "I can walk on my own. I'll be too heavy for you."

"There's only one way to find out."

Fred walked over to you and leaned down, one hand sneaking around your waist and the other slipping under your knees. You shrieked in terror, arms flying to clutch at his shoulders, and heat rose to your cheeks from the abrupt contact. Your chests were pressed together, and you were afraid he'd be able to feel your racing heart. His skin was warmer than you had thought, and it successfully fought off the night summer chill.

"Are we going?" Fred whispered down at you, lips so close to yours that you recognized the nuance of champagne in his breath, mixing unbelievably well with the scent of cinnamon and sandalwood of his cologne.

Not only is he sinfully attractive, but he smells heavenly too?

"Yes," you breathed and let Fred effortlessly walk across the meadow with you in his arms. They brought this new, odd, yet familiar sense of security, and you allowed your head to rest against his chest, nervous gaze wandering off into the distance in hopes of not meeting his. Nevertheless, curiosity eventually took the best of you, and your eyes would occasionally flicker to his, which were now completely black under the night sky. They could swallow you whole, you swore.

Minutes later, you found yourselves in the company of old, enormous willows which surrounded the pond you so vividly remembered from your teenage years. You thanked Fred as he carefully let you down, and took a few steps forward to look around and drench in the misty moonlight that enveloped the area. The waters were crystal clear and completely still, reflecting the moon and its majestic silver glow. The bushes had grown significantly over the time you were away, and you fondly looked back at the moments when you would pick up colorful wildflowers in the summer before your fourth year.

"Shall we sit?" Fred asked quietly from right behind your shoulder, and you followed him with a nod. You found a comfortable spot on the fresh grass to sit, a few feet away from where the water met the soil and moved back and forth ever so slightly.

"It's more beautiful than I remember," you noted, lips curled up in a barely visible smile. Fred hummed in agreement.

"That's why I always make sure to come here every chance I get when I return. But, unfortunately, that's very rare in my case."

For a moment, there was only the chirping of crickets and the soft bubbling of water.

Fred turned to you.

"Remember when mum used to call for us to de-gnome the garden and we'd hide here? We could stay in the bushes for hours before we eventually came back," he recalled, seeming deep in thought. It was an extraordinary sight; for once the playful spark in his eyes was more mellow, there was no cockiness seeping into the way he was holding himself. He was just Fred, the man who was currently thinking with so much adoration and love about his childhood, the most significant memories of it being marked by you.

You wondered, given you ever had the chance to spend with Fred as much time as your older brother did, if the charismatic prankster would have fallen for you like you had done. You wondered, given the chance you had let Fred get to know you better all those summers ago, if his heart would have belonged to you by now just like yours did to him.

Had you possibly missed your chance?

"Oh, I do," you sighed, the tension in your chest vanishing as warm nostalgia crept in like an old friend. "I also remember when I got this really bad nightmare that night. I was so terrified that you took me on a ride with your broom in the middle of the night to cheer me up."

"That's true! My parents don't know about it to this day," he replied smugly. "I can still hear you screaming like a lunatic."

You jokingly smacked his arm, "I was twelve!"

Fred's grin grew wider.

"Excuses…"

This only caused you to stare at him in disbelief and cross your arms, managing your most serious expression, but Fred was aware you were on the verge of failing to keep your stern facade. He squinted his eyes as a teasing attempt to provoke you, smile threatening to split his face in two.

"Alright then, that's enough about me," you announced, and Fred nodded in mock agreement as he studied your playful pretence. "If you're so much better than me, Mr Darcy, what else do you do aside from stealing ladies away?"

"Stealing their hearts," he said confidently, flashing you a seductive smirk, reserved only for special girls back in your Hogwarts days. You giggled, finding his antic utterly ridiculous, but you hated to admit that it still turned your blood into liquid fire. Fred apparently saw right through you, because when your eyes landed on his, they appeared completely dark once again, but, you suspected, for a reason other than the lack of light.

Your throat went dry, and you found it hard to swallow down the lump that cut your breath short.

He ran a hand through his ginger hair as he began to explain, "I'm kidding, you know. But to answer your question, George and I have been working on this potion that should be able to change the color of the eyes and hair. Fun for those who enjoy experimenting with their appearance, but it can also be useful to the Ministry. They're actually going to send a team of a couple of aurors to visit us next month so we can update them on our progress and negotiate the details."

"Wow! That's certainly exciting!"

"Is it? I mean, it probably is, but I've been having second thoughts lately if I'm being honest." He scratched the back of his neck, and you realised you had only witnessed him being anxious when it came to his greatest passion. "I'm afraid we might not be done on time, there's still plenty left to improve."

You put a hand on his shoulder to get his attention, and said, "I'm sure you'll figure it all out eventually. Keep working as you normally do, try not to stress too much over the deadline, and even if things go wrong at some point, don't go too hard on yourself. It wouldn't take away any progress you've made so far."

Fred's body relaxed just a bit and he looked down at you. He couldn't deny the sense of serenity that he felt only when he was with you. Even as a careless young boy, he was able to pinpoint the way his midriff would clench every time you'd laugh at his jokes or ask him to play with you, without knowing what it all meant.

But now, as a grown man, he had a word to describe the bittersweet fire within.

"You know what?" He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. "I could really benefit from having someone like you around to give me motivation."

"Motivation, huh?" you raised an eyebrow, fighting back a smile. Fred sneaked a hand around your waist and pulled you closer.

"Yes, motivation."

"Motivation for what?"

"Marketing strategies, work projects…" he shrugged nonchalantly, "...among other things."

You quickly caught on, suddenly becoming way too self-aware of the way you were practically cuddled into Fred's side, hand resting on his shoulder while his were wrapped around your waist. But his shining confidence seemed to rub off on you, because you asked.

"What's with you offering me a job all of a sudden?"

His bottom lip was tucked between his teeth as he took his sweet time devouring you with his darkened gaze. You didn't know whether you wanted to hide from it, or expose yourself even further to the way it burned its way straight to your core.

"Well…" Fred dragged out in his low, hoarse voice, and caressed your cheek with his thumb before slipping it under your chin to guide it towards his face. You could nearly taste the remaining flavour of champagne on his lips. "I've certainly been feeling…"

Fred went quiet as he got lost in the way you fit so perfectly in his arms; you had always meant to be there, he realised. His mouth crashed into yours, hands tightly gripping your waist, and you let out a gasp. Fred's lips were soft, although slightly chapped, and they moved gently but firmly against yours, turning you into their slave. Your palms naturally slid up his chest and he closed any remaining distance between your bodies by placing you to straddle his lap. The kiss was a dance of pushing forward and pulling back, two lovers having finally found their rhythm after years of living in fearful desire. You were positively drunk on his taste, on him, and you wished to never become sober.

When your need for air overcame the one for physical contact, you pulled away. Your chests were heaving with rapid, shallow breaths, hearts beating in synch like they had always done. You let a finger tenderly trace his cheekbone down to his jawline, then it came back up to draw different affectionate patterns on his face.

"What were you saying?" you asked, clearly out of breath. "How were you feeling?"

He fondly took your hand that was caressing his skin, and lifted it up to press feather-light kisses on your knuckles. His lips retraced their path until they reached the tips of your fingers, and he kissed those with the gentlest of touch.

You heart ached pleasurably from the way he was handling you with such care, much more than you ever believed he was capable of.

After minutes of worshipping you by the moonlit lake, Fred looked back at you as though you were his entire world. And replied with a smile.

"Inspired."

Reblogs and feedback are greatly appreciated!

Masterlist

[earnestly-endlessly]

Hi, how are you? Your blog is amazing and your recommendations have already allowed me to read wonderful stories, so thank you so much! I wonder if you could suggest me any cherik fics of them as detectives? I remember reading one a long time ago, but unfortunately I don't know the name and even less the synopsis. Thank you in advance for your help.

Thank you so much @remember5novemberv for your kind words. I'm so sorry this took me so long but I hope you enjoy this list. There are some excellent detective AUs in this fandom so you're in for a treat.

Cherik Detective AUs

Their Mouths Always Lie – keire_ke

Summary: Charles adheres to most police protocols like they are a personal code of conduct. Erik gets things done and over with, for better or worse. Raven knows what she's doing, most of the time. The serial killer kills, regardless. Police AU.

Guilty by Association – Reagan

Summary: While investigating the homicide of a John Doe who he suspects might've been murdered while working the streets as a prostitute, Detective Erik Lehnsherr finds an unexpected ally in a hooker named Charles who seems as determined as he to solve the case. As they become more deeply involved both with the case and each other, there's just one thing that Charles neglects to mention -- that he's really an investigative journalist, one quickly convinced that what they're dealing with is more than simple murder. cop!Erik, fake-hooker-slash-reporter!Charles, Modern AU.

Incy Wincy Spider – Tawabids

Summary: Erik Lehnsherr is a renowned homicide detective, with his husband Charles at home and his partner on the job, Moira MacTaggert. When a twisted serial killer starts targeting mutants, Erik and Moira are the perfect team for the job, especially since Erik himself is the mutant poster-boy of an NYPD trying to improve their image.

But what they don't yet know is that the serial killer is an old soul out of Erik's past, and his next move is to pull Charles into his web.

The Theory of Partnership Dynamics – Pangea

Summary: “Detective Lehnsherr, how wonderful to see you out on the job!” The fed in the front greets him as they draw nearer. He’s shorter than the other two by a full head, and he’s beaming at Lehnsherr as if completely undeterred by Lehnsherr’s paint-peeling scowl.

“What do the feds want?” Lehnsherr asks bluntly.

“You know I can’t tell you that,” the fed answers cheerfully. Then his gaze lands on Alex, and, impossibly, his grin gets even brighter. “Did you get a new partner?"

“No,” Lehnsherr says through his teeth while at the same time Alex says, “Yes.”

Charles’ Killer – luchia

Summary: When detective Charles Xavier finds himself hunting down a vendetta-driven serial killer, it doesn't take long for him to realize he's in over his head. It only takes a little longer for him to realize his killer is, too.

Demoted – JayPendragon

Summary: Erik Lehnsherr is a detective-specialist with the NYPD Mutant Tactical Unit, ready to help out where his skills are needed. Or he would be, if he and his partner hadn’t been demoted. For the next four months, he is patrolling the Lenox Hill precinct with Azazel – if he doesn’t die of boredom first.

One night they are called in to investigate a potential case of domestic violence, yet the tenant assures them he is both alone and unharmed. However, there is something about this Charles Xavier that compels Erik to follow up.

Watching the Detectives – Clocks

Summary: Detectives Charles Xavier and Erik Lehnsherr are good friends and colleagues. However, when they go undercover at a Christmas party to nab a prime suspect, Erik keeps reminding himself to stay professional and ignore feelings of unexpected jealousy.

Oh, Sinnerman (Where you gonna run to?) – TintagelCastle (orphan–account)

Summary: Erik Lehnsherr is one of the best homicide detectives in New York. From small time stabbings to high end mob hits, Erik (and his equally scary partner Logan) makes sure all the bad guys get caught, searching for the final clue to nail his mother's killer. As a string of murders draws the net ever tighter on Erik's life's work, he needs to catch the nightmare of his past whilst continuing to be the darling of the Force...

And so what if he's completely in love with the British guy on Forensics? Who's he ever going to tell?

Wrap up my bones – waifornight

Summary: Damaged detective Erik Lehnsherr is grimly searching for a serial killer whose victims all have extraordinary gifts. But without any clues or leads he and his partner Logan are in the dark. Until Charles Xavier, abducted by the killer, escapes. Together Erik and Charles must confront something far darker than either of them had ever imagined.

Alternate Universe loosely based off the crime movie Kiss the Girls.

I’ll see your heart (and I’ll race you mine) – sirona

Summary: For Kriminalhauptkommissar Erik Lehnsherr, this case will change everything.

Paralyzer – Yahtzee

Summary: In 1965, Erik Lehnsherr has infiltrated the NYPD for his own purposes -- but his powers make him a brilliant detective. Yet that's not why FBI agent Charles Xavier has sought him out. It's because the mysterious killer they're both trying to find is murdering people like them: other mutants.

Their search for a madman binds them together. Their inner demons may tear them apart. But the greatest danger comes when the killer they're looking for looks back.

Wrap up my bones – waifornight

Summary: Damaged detective Erik Lehnsherr is grimly searching for a serial killer whose victims all have extraordinary gifts. But without any clues or leads he and his partner Logan are in the dark. Until Charles Xavier, abducted by the killer, escapes. Together Erik and Charles must confront something far darker than either of them had ever imagined.

Alternate Universe loosely based off the crime movie Kiss the Girls.

The Long Bright Dark – lachatblanche

Summary: Ten years ago Detectives Charles Xavier and Erik Lehnsherr closed the case on a grotesque series of murders that continue to haunt them even in the present day. When they are pulled in for questioning a decade later, they finally have confirmation of something that they have both suspected for a very long time - that there is unfinished business for them to take care of and that the case they thought they had closed so very long ago is in reality still all too open.

A True Detective AU.

Finding North – ClarkeStetler, Goosenik

Summary: Charles and Erik are (loosely) friends with benefits. They don't share personal details, last names, or anything concrete about their lives. This is ruined rather spectacularly when Charles gets recruited by the Mutant Apprehension Division of the FBI. Surprised is a bit of an understatement for their reaction to finding themselves partnered up and sent out on cases with the team.

Closer (to God) – dsrobertson

Summary: Se7en/The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo AU-ish.

Political journalist and editor, Erik Lehnsherr, has just lost £150,000 in a libel case against businessman, Kurt Marko. Down on his luck and in need of money, Erik is approached by the Metropolitan Police’s Detective Inspector Charles Xavier. Well-known for his investigative journalism, Erik is asked to help in the search for a serial killer in return for £200,000 if the killer is caught.

Wrapped up in murder, religion, and sex, Erik gets more than he bargained for.

Homo Sacer – unveiled

Summary: In a not too distant future, Detective Erik Lehnsherr meets Charles Xavier: street magician, former academician, and telepath.

One Good Day – troll_under_the_bridge

Summary: One case which is going to turn Charles' world upside down, while he struggles to pacify his boss, investigate murders and come to terms with the mess his life has become.

Playing With Fire – professor

Summary: Charles is a detective determined to catch a serial killer.

If the serial killer doesn't catch him first.

Hold on or let go – aesc, pearl_o

Summary: Teenage telepath Charles Xavier takes a job as a consultant, working with prickly police detective Erik Lehnsherr. Charles is used to being on his own and taking care of himself; he has no reason to think that his relationship with this stern, icy man is going to change any of that. (Also known as: Tough Little Baby Telepath.)

MCIS: First Case – Pookaseraph

Summary: Erik Lehnsherr considers himself a great MCIS agent, and he puts up with a lot from his boss - Moira MacTaggart - in the name of solving crimes against mutants, but he's not so sure about this new empath, Charles Xavier. Their first case together will test Erik's patience, but doubtless be the beginning of a brilliant friendship.

MCIS: Fathers, Sons, and Brothers – Pookaseraph

Summary: Alex Summers has a single case that he has obsessed about ever since coming to MCIS two years ago: Su-M-94-0708-0034, the murder of Christopher and Katherine Summers, and the presumed kidnapping and possible murder of Scott Summers. Very little evidence was found at the time, but hopefully a new team - and new leads - can shed light on the case that left Alex an orphan.

When the Crazies come to town – Chinchillaatthedisc0

Summary: Erik is a surly detective with zero people skills who has just been assigned the murder case of Kurt Marko. Prime suspect? Charles xavier. Who's no where to be found.

My old man is a bad man – faerie_ground

Summary: Sebastian Shaw dies at two am in the morning with a dagger embedded in his forehead. Detective Erik Lehnsherr is on the case, and the number one suspect is the recently widowed Dr Charles Xavier, Sebastian Shaw's husband.

Deep Cover – Subtilior

Summary: Omegas in heat? The perfect whores. Sebastian Shaw? The bastard who kidnaps them for his Hellfire Club. Erik Lehnsherr? A hard-boiled detective who's been on the Hellfire case for months. The catastrophe that unfolds when he goes in on retrieval and finds Charles Xavier still writhing in a Hellfire bed? .... Deep Cover.

A Murder of Ravens – AbandonedWorld

Summary:Charles Xavier is wrongfully accused. Erik Lehnsherr is a top-notch homicide Lieutenant who stumbles upon the case of a lifetime: a serial killer targeting mutants–and only mutants. Charles bides his incarceration waiting on a miracle, reciting Poe's timeless gem in effort to retain his sanity...

Note: Unfinished

[writing-in-april]

Paint me

Laurent LeClaire x Female Reader

Summary: Reader finally has enough money to splurge on getting herself painted for the first time in her life. When she meets her painter, Laurent, she wonders whether she got more than what she bargained for.

A/N: Hello everyone- sorry this ones out a bit late tonight- I had practice and had to finish up a few things on this one after. This is my tenth fic for my 30 fics in 30 days for April- can’t believe we’re 1/3 through 🙈If y’all have ever seen In Secret you know what scene inspired this fic asdjksdj lol 😂 also @propertyofabelmorales fic from Valentine’s Day also inspired me 🥰 I low key probably spent more time on this than necessary considering he isn’t a very popular character but I couldn’t help myself 😅 In secret was actually the first movie (that wasn’t Star Wars) that I saw Oscar Isaac in so Laurent low key has my heart- even with his murderous tendencies 😂 I always love hearing from my followers so feel free to drop an ask or request here. Thanks for reading and hope y’all enjoy.

Warnings: 18+, Smut, Reader is fearful of Laurent, Reader thinks Laurent might kill her, Dubcon, Oral sex (F receiving), Unprotected sex, Creampie- if any other warnings need to be added let me know

Main Masterlist Word Count: 3.2K

Being painted was an important status symbol in this life. To have your image captured for all to see, put down on canvas by paint from a brush was a way of showing off beauty to the people around you, and the people that came after.

You were elated to have your image captured on canvas for the first time, finally able to afford it on your own. A rare sight in the world that you lived in to see a woman able to pay the fee of having her portrait painted.

Such a rare sight it was that when you had chosen a painter and contacted him he had almost seemed confused. When he had asked if you had a husband you had snorted turning up your nose to then tell him no. It was not that you did not want any sort of romantic touch, but being tied down to someone for years that would probably not cherish you the way you deserved sickened you. So, with no one around to pressure you into an arranged marriage you remained unmarried.

The painter you had hired, Laurent, was sweet as honey, almost to a sickly degree. The charm had remained even after he had realized that you were alone, basically a spinster. Whether or not he kept up the act because he thought it would be easier to get underneath your skirts or because he truly did not mind an independent woman did not matter to you. You would only let your gaze linger over while he painted you, that was all. He was here to paint you, nothing more.

He had positioned you in a chair to sit in a simple position. His reasoning for that he told you was that the simpler the position, the easier it was for your beauty to shine. Painters had a way with words though, so you tried not to let your heart swell from the compliment.

You let yourself stare in each session as he began to lay out the foundation of your likeness. Each time you sat in the chair time ticked by slowly, inch by inch. It was not as if you minded as it let you look upon how his inky curls shone in the dim lighting, plus every other part your eyes were allowed access to. It was only fair in your book, considering his job was to stare at you.

This session you were in now seemed different to the others; he seemed more distant. While you both stared at the other not a single word was exchanged, only the brush on canvas got to speak today with each stroke.

It was harder to concentrate this time on staying as still as possible. You ached to move your legs over, just a bit to the side. Daring to test the waters, hoping he would not notice, your legs twitched a little over to the right.

For a while he continued to say nothing, painting with ease like he had completely missed the twitch in your legs. That was until he decided to speak for the first time in hours,

“No-“ His face twisted, morphing into a look tinged with darkness. It was this first sign of displeasure you had heard from your hours of sitting as if you had a rod in your spine. Dipping his brush back into his paints again to find his desired color was a much more rushed action than before. It was an annoyed and quick movement, trying to swiftly correct the mistake you had assumed he had made. When he returned his brush where it belonged on his canvas it scraped along it as he pushed the paint along, molding it into his image.

Another moment goes by silently and with no more words of displeasure; you begin to relax into your position again. It was already hard to relax fully while his eyes flitted from your body to his canvas; your nerves only raised higher after his outward sign of displeasure. He scrutinized every angle and curve as his eye took in every inch of you to create an accurate portrait of you. You wondered if in his fee there was an understanding that he would paint you in the highest light possible. Though, truth be told it was foolish to question that. What type of painter would he be if he displeased his clients by being honest in his paintings?

It was in his job description to lie. Painters depicted the beauty they saw and made it shine, even if that meant trying to find beauty in the darkest of corners to forcefully shed a light on them. All it took was a painter of proper skill, a canvas, and of course a set of paints. Any unwilling features that tried to fight their painters lies would be forcefully bent to their will, almost like a king, and all with a simple stroke to canvas. No, you weren’t ugly, but you accepted that it was his job to bend the truth to his will.

The darkness you had briefly observed reappeared on his face once more. He tried to be quiet in his frustration, but his whisper could not contain the anger brewing beneath. Truthfully his words were a far cry from a whisper, it was more of a shout, “It is not right!”

Naturally you wanted to question what had made the painter suddenly rise with anger, though you wisely kept your mouth shut tight. You did not know this man, nor did you know what he could be capable of underneath the sweet words. The darkness that brewed glinted in his eyes as he took his brush to canvas again, this time with more venom in his strokes.

You were not going to trust the honeyed words he had spoken to you, at least not now while you saw how the honey could possibly be sour. Even though honey never turned acrid in common knowledge, the sight before you disproved that. Each new brush against his canvas turned violent, almost as if he’d push through the canvas with how much force he was using and create a hole.

You could have left the room in a hurry, or even demanded him leave. After all, it was you that employed him. Watching honey that soured so quick intrigued you, so the rod stayed in your spine, though you knew it was naive of you. You couldn’t trust his words, but you could still listen to them.

Brush after brush splattered paint onto the canvas in front of him that you could not view. His once dexterous movements had devolved into a man you did not know, not that you truly knew him beforehand either. You couldn’t imagine he was painting anything close to your likeness; you highly doubted long irritated strokes would be good for each of your contours and curves.

Clattering noises filled the air of the room you were both trapped in, one trapped by his job and one trapped by curiosity. You hoped the curiosity didn’t kill you like the cat. He had kicked the easel that held the painting he was being paid for, which had caused the clattering. Gripping the paintbrush in his hand with fury he then separated it from the canvas and began to pace.

As he paced your mind wandered further; it was all it could do while it was stuck observing the man before you spiral. You wondered if he had forgotten your presence, even if he had been painting you- and you had even been doubting that.

Clearly he hadn’t forgotten about you as he suddenly stopped his pacing, slowly turning to face you again. His gaze no longer flitted between two things calling his attention, now fully focused on you, still with that rod in your spine.

“It is you.” He spoke with a deadly bite and you could not help but have your bottom lip wobble at his accusation. Racking your brain you tried to find why you were the one that was the source of his wrath and why you were the one that was about to receive it. “You are not in the right position.”

You wanted to protest, saying that you had not moved a muscle since he had placed you in this exact position with your spine rigid in a chair. The protest became stuck in your throat, no doubt because of the fear you now held for the darkness that brewed underneath. You remained stoically silent, rigid as ever, waiting for him to mold you into the position that he wanted you in.

He twirled his paintbrush in his hand absentmindedly while he thought. You did not know what he was pondering, though you had to guess it had something to do with fixing how you were positioned. He answered your own curious thoughts by confirming them, “You need to relax.”

Relaxing, that was hard enough earlier when you had not had fear put in you. Still, you tried to let go of the tension held tightly in your shoulders forcefully just as he did whenever he forced your features to look their best in his painting.

He then sighed, obviously displeased with your effort. Instead of letting you try again he simply gave you an order to ‘stay still’ while he began to approach you with his paintbrush in hand.

As the paintbrush approached you instead of the canvas you could not help but tremble as it came closer. It was not any sort of weapon that could do you any harm; it would take a lot to hurt someone with a paintbrush. Still, you quivered as it approached, perhaps more because of the gaze that was transfixed on you.

Laurent’s gaze was wild, a hint of madness was evident in his eyes. They were two dark pools of almost black fixed upon you as if they were set on devouring you in the oblivion in their depths. Eyes were said to be the window to the soul and Laurent did little to make you doubt that claim. He did not give you soothing words as he saw you tremble beneath his daunting gaze and the slowly approaching bristles of the paintbrush, still partially coated in the color he had last been using. Instead of giving you the soothing words you may have desired the paintbrush crept closer, like it was stalking you in the night just as the obsidian pools he called eyes.

Your quivers were not solely because of the glint of madness you could see, hiding in the depths of his eyes. It would be a lie to say that all your quivers and shivers were rooted in the fear as to what he might do to you if you dared move from the position he had placed you in hours beforehand. Something else akin to desire had found itself at home run in through your veins, unburdened by the worries of what the black pools might be hiding in their abyss.

That feeling, the one that was running through your veins in spite of the lingering fear, was soon guiding your body. You were no longer staying rigid in your position out of fear; you wanted him to touch you, even if only with the tips of his brush.

He knelt down when close enough to then reach to lift up your skirts. You were scarcely breathing now, still afraid yet intrigued as to what a man could do with a simple paint brush. Opening your legs up at the approach of his paintbrush would have been indecent to some, but you could not help yourself. Biting your lip hard enough to possibly draw blood was so you did not move into his touch, letting him come to you as you did not want to incite his wrath. You wanted him to touch you with it, despite that fear of those black pools staring fiercely at you.

The soft bristles finally grazed the inner flesh of your thigh, a small tickle running through the nerves connected to the spot it touched. You could’ve been fooled into thinking that it had been the brush of his hand if your own eyes hadn’t been fixated upon him.

You moved your position just a hair, maybe even smaller than the ones on the paintbrush used to move you.

“There.” His whisper breathless, now devoid of the darkness that had stifled any sweetness.

You ached to hear him say it again, it was not a praise for you in the strictest sense. He had been simply readjusting you, hardly any room or need for any praise. The way he had whispered it along with the whisper of the brush upon your skin made it feel like he was praising you. Before you knew what was happening or considered the consequences you chased the brush he had begun to pull back with your thighs.

The darkness quickly came back on his face when he had noticed you had moved to chase his touch. He began to bark out a command to put you back in your place, even though he was the painter, and you, the client. “Sit ba-“

“Brush me again.” Your plea was too beautiful for him to let it go unanswered, even though you had cut him off. There no doubt was still lingering fear inside you, afraid of what he might do in retaliation.

He surprisingly obliged you, you could see his curiosity meld with the darkness in him. He lifted your skirts again, holding the brush just above the spot where he had touched moments before.

When he brushed the inner flesh of your thigh again, the pressure was harder, less unsure.

That simple touch made you moan, even though he wasn’t touching any spot that normally might bring you pleasure. It was as if a dark shadow had cascaded across his face to blur your perception of who he probably was underneath it all. If it wasn’t for your curiosity and your simple desire you would have thought more critically about his next request.

“Take off your dress.” Like someone without a thought you stripped it off of you in haste, as did he with his own clothes.

In no time at all it seemed, his mouth had enveloped your own, keen on devouring all you had to offer. He picked you up with ease by the tops of your now naked thighs so he could lower you to the floor. He then allowed himself to nip and suck on any section of skin he desired to put his mouth on. Not that you could reciprocate as he had your hands held above your head.

When his fingers started to dance along the tops of your thighs just as the brush had done you instinctively pushed your thighs together. The action was quickly reversed by Laurent releasing your hands to push your thighs apart, giving him an unobstructed view of your entrance.

His mouth was soon swiftly on the places that brought you pleasure, sucking your pearl into his mouth like a sweet.

You wanted to writhe underneath him out of sheer pleasure, but he did not need to bind you to make you immobile. That fear still lingering in your mind kept your body still, even as he combined his mouth with his fingers by pushing them into your entrance.

“There?” He whispered as he crooked them upwards, trying to find the spot that would make you see stars. It wasn’t quite right though, so you shook your head side to side. You didn’t dare to speak, not that you could do anything more but making unintelligible moans of pleasure.

“There.” He whispered with finality when he hit that somewhat spongy spot inside you making you cry out louder than before. It was so nice to hear him say those words again, honeyed words that tasted so sweet even though they were tainted by darkness. Your release shot through you quickly, like an arrow sent to kill you.

He removed his fingers from you when you were finished with your first release of the night, wasting no time to push himself inside you. He was larger than any other man you had been with, stretching you blissfully and almost painfully. You were lucky he was not too cruel to not let you adjust to his size, but as soon as you had he unleashed himself upon you. All you could do was wrap your legs around his waist and let him thrust into you at a brutal pace. The sounds of skin slapping on skin were so loud they almost over took the moans you were emitting along with his grunts.

When his hand came to wrap around your neck your own mortality became evident to you. Early before you had succumbed to his touch with a simple brush, you had been afraid he might harm you, even with the desire pumping through your blood. You had not even thought of beyond a simple bruise or cut to your flesh by him. His hand around your throat while he thrusted into you made you wonder how much it would take for him to squeeze until your lips turned blue.

Desire one again took over your fear, his hand around your neck combined with the sweet nothings whispered in your ear made you fall apart again. It was a slow devastating release like honey dripping off a spoon languidly until it dropped down to sweeten the pot. Even though his own honey had turned sour, he still was fully capable of making people feel sweetness while shrouded in darkness.

He filled you soon after you had finished your own release with a grunt. Neither of you had any real care to be able to give to the possible consequences of him filling you. He rolled off of you and you were glad in the moment he didn’t crush you under his weight like most men would have done.

Silence seemed to be a staple item that constantly wormed its way in between the two of you. No one spoke for a while, truthfully it might have been an hour. Laurent was the first to break it again, with much less malice than before,

“Do you want me to continue to paint you?” He whispered into your skin as he continued to pepper his plush lips across your skin. Glancing up towards the easel that still faced the canvas away from you and then over to the bare man next to you helped aid you in your decision. You could let him leave with wasted paints, wasted canvas, and wasted potential.

The wasted potential was what stopped you from letting him paint the rest of the angles of your body. Pondering what could come of the painting, and your relationship with the man who had just made you see stars while simultaneously making you fear or your life at the same time made you frown. The possibilities were endless, but those two black pools hid something too interesting for you to ignore. You wanted to know more, even ached for it.

“Yes.” You simply replied and you then willingly fell into the abyss.

Ask Me Anything

—-

Tag lists (message me if you want to be added):

All works: @shotarosleftpinky @90spumkin @kyra-morningstar @s1utformgg @takeyourleap-of-faith — grr tumblr is still being stupid

People who might be interested 🤷‍♀️: @propertyofabelmorales @sergeantkane @foxilayde

[xjoonchildx]

guilty | knj x reader | chapter one: how odd

summary: as the man at the top, kim namjoon has almost everything he wants. almost. could a familiar face from the past change his future?

pairing: namjoon x reader

genre: mafia AU, pining, eventual smut

rating: 18+

word count: 2.8K

notes: you guys have been so amazing with your feedback on “guarded” and it warms my heart that you loved hoseok and ms. kim -- so it’s time to show mr. kim some love, too.  this series will not be long (probably three parts) but i had to break it into chapters because of the POV shifts. please let me know what you think about this chapter and as usual thank you so much to all the tiger wives and my amazing betas @ladyartemesia​ and @hobi-gif​.

this series is dedicated to the amazing @sahmfanficbts​ who is an incredible writer, an awesome woman, and kim namjoon’s number one fan.

this fic is a continuation of the Guarded Series but can be read as a standalone piece.

Chapter 01 | 02 | 03 | Epilogue

**********************

“You fired me?”

Namjoon turns at the sound of the quiet accusation that comes from over his shoulder.  

There is color in your cheeks as you cross the length of his office.  Your jaw is tight, one lock of hair falling free from the loose knot at the base of your neck. One perfectly-arched brow is raised high.

You look hurt.

Beautiful -- but hurt.

Guilt hits Namjoon like a freight train.

“Of course not,” he deflects, taking a seat.  He picks up one of the papers scattered across his desktop and pretends to read it carefully.  “I reassigned you to a position I believe will be a better fit.”

There’s no way he could miss the irritated breath you suck between your teeth but Namjoon keeps his eyes glued to that paper in his hand.  He realizes, absently, that it’s a takeout menu.

He hopes you haven’t noticed the same thing.

“Well, was there some kind of problem with my performance?”

Namjoon winces at the dejection in your tone.  He finally forces himself to meet your gaze and finds your eyes brimming with frustration.  

He certainly can’t blame you on that account -- you have every right to be frustrated.  You shouldn’t be made to feel somehow lacking when it’s him who is lacking in every way that counts.

“Quite the opposite,” he says carefully.  “I think it’s a waste of your skills to have you keeping my schedule and taking calls.  Seokjin can make better use of your talents on the business side.”

A strained silence settles over the room and Namjoon clears his throat before looking back down to his papers.

“Well, the new girl is terrible at this,” you say flatly.  “I certainly wouldn’t have let me walk in here unannounced.  She’s too busy looking at her phone to look after you.”

Namjoon knows you’re right about that.

In the few short months you’ve worked for him, you’ve proven yourself to be unnaturally attuned to his needs. You knew without asking which calls he was trying to avoid and when, when to clear his schedule the day after a rough night on the streets. You’ve kept his office stocked with every comfort he’d ever wanted and some he hadn’t even realized he wanted.  

You are the single best assistant he’s ever had and he couldn’t stand to keep you around for one minute longer.

You don’t wait for Namjoon to formulate some kind of response to your damning and accurate observation.  By the time he looks back up from his papers, you’ve already turned on your heels to leave.  

He watches you walk away with regret weighing heavy in his gut.

**************************

Namjoon’s keys clang loudly when he drops them on the table in his foyer.

This penthouse is the best apartment in one of the best buildings in Seoul.  It’s filled with lavish furnishings and expensive paintings and boasts a stunning view of the Han River.  It’s one of the finest residences in the city.

And Namjoon hates it.

The vacant rooms and the echoing walls seem to mock him, making him all the more aware of how empty it is.  How completely devoid it is of any life. Most nights he stays at the office until he’s delirious with exhaustion just so he can collapse straight into bed once he gets here. 

Tonight though, for once, this place seemed like a better option. 

Namjoon pulls off his tie and releases the first few buttons of his shirt before pouring a scotch.  

He’s drinking too much these days -- he knows it -- but the drinks help slow the constant movement of his mind.  They help dull the anxiety that seems to take over when he’s too still for too long.

He walks to the window to look out over the night sky.  

This is his favorite way to see the city -- high up enough that everything looks pristine.  Get closer and you’ll be assaulted by the noise and the crowds and the pollution.  Get closer and the flaws are too hard to ignore.

“Was there some kind of problem with my performance?”

Your words echo as clearly in Namjoon’s mind as if you’d spoken them out loud in this cavernous apartment. He takes a seat in his plush chair and sips his drink, savoring the familiar burn of the scotch.

He thinks back to when you both were kids.  

Your father -- one of the few decent men in his own father’s inner circle -- didn’t bring you around much.  He can only recall a few social functions you’d attended before taking off to university.  News of your father’s death came shortly after that and it had been years since Namjoon had even spared a thought for you.

Then you came walking through his office door.

You definitely weren’t a kid anymore, that much was clear.  

What was much less clear was why you -- a college graduate -- turned up one day, desperate for a job.  He hadn’t questioned your need for fast work and fast money and you hadn’t questioned the long hours and strange requests.

You repaid him with a flawless work ethic.

And he repaid you by fantasizing about fucking you blind over his desk basically every chance he got.

So yeah, there was a problem, all right.   

The problem was Kim Namjoon.

*********************

“There you are.”

The voice on the other end of the line practically slithers into Namjoon’s ear when he answers the late call. 

“Mina,” he sighs, infusing the name with a displeasure that comes through loud and clear across the connection.  “This line is for business only, you know that.”

Mina makes an exasperated sound.

“I wouldn’t have to call your cell if you’d return my messages from the office.  I’ve been trying to reach you for more than two weeks now. I’m starting to feel like you’re avoiding me.”

Namjoon pulls the phone away to allow himself a long exhale before putting it back to his ear.

“How did you get this number?”

“You’re hung up on that?” Mina groans. “Honestly, Namjoon.  I reached out to your new assistant who was more than happy to pass it along.”

Fuck. He’s going to have to fire the new girl, isn’t he?

“She’s a nice girl,” Mina muses.  “Far more competent than that last assistant of yours.  Excellent decision on replacing that woman if she fails to complete a task as simple as delivering a message. Three messages, actually.”

Namjoon mulls that information over in silence.

“Where is your mind these days, Mr. Kim?” Mina tries to cover her displeasure with a laugh but he hears it anyway.  “You’ve been so distant lately.  It’s been too long since we had the chance to enjoy one another’s company.”

Namjoon can envision the pout she is wearing on the other end of the line and it aggravates him beyond belief.  Pouting ranks near the very top of his least favorite female manipulation tactics. 

Pouting makes him want to put his fist through a wall.

“Are you still there?”

“Yes,” he mutters.  “I’m here.”

“Are you drunk?”

Namjoon grits his teeth, fingers tightening around his glass.

“No, Mina,” he grinds out. “Not drunk. Just not in the mood.  Not anymore.”

She sputters on the other end of the line as Namjoon ends the call.

Maybe he should feel bad about being so blunt, but he doesn’t.  It’ll be a week before she’s onto the next wealthy, connected man.  Women like Mina make sport of locating and latching on to power. 

She’ll survive.

Namjoon stares out into the night sky and sips his scotch, letting his mind wander back to the one piece of the conversation that did capture his interest.

What are the chances that you -- a woman with seemingly unerring attention to detail -- forgot to deliver three separate messages from the same caller? 

He contemplates that in the dark.

How odd.

***********************

YOU

Kim Namjoon was the most serious boy you’d ever seen. 

Even as a young man, he seemed to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders. You can still close your eyes and remember exactly how he looked back then -- standing solemn at his father’s side, lanky body swimming in a suit he’d not yet grown into.  His hair just a touch too long and falling into his eyes.  

You thought he was the most handsome boy in all of Korea.

Namjoon kept mostly to himself -- no easy task given that his status alone made him the most celebrated catch amongst the children of the Gajog.  

Everyone fought for the attention of the boy who would be king.  

It would have been so easy for him to abuse the power he had over his peers, to treat them with disrespect, but Namjoon never did.  You noticed how kind he was to the children who idolized him.  You noticed how well he managed the volatile moods of his alcoholic father.  You noticed how he hovered protectively over his sister.  

He never noticed you, of course.

Your own father was careful to limit your exposure to the Gajog and as such, you lived on the outskirts of the social circle.  By the time you were a teenager, you’d only spoken to Namjoon directly a handful of times.  The few times you did see him face-to-face, you’d had to suffer through that awkward moment before his eyes lit with recognition.  

It always took a minute for him to remember who you were, but when he finally did -- every time he finally did -- your heart would stop just a bit at his shy smile.  

That was the image you held on to when you held your breath and walked into his office a few months ago.  You’d taken a deep breath and prayed that the quiet, kind kid you’d known so long ago hadn’t changed too much over the years.  And then you stepped into his posh office.

Kim Namjoon definitely wasn’t a kid anymore.

The Namjoon who stood up from behind his desk to bow a greeting was nothing short of devastating.

Standing in place of the slender boy from your childhood was a man with deep, dark eyes and a striking, angular face.  His suit -- cut to fit every line of his body to an exacting standard -- did nothing to conceal his powerful frame.  He had grown into the full lips that once seemed a bit too large for his face. 

Without a doubt, he’d become the most handsome man in all of Korea.

The shy smile remained, though -- dimples prominent when Namjoon extended a hand to shake yours and you woodenly accepted, blinking back.  You’d realized, absently, that you were gawking.

You hoped he hadn’t noticed the same thing.

If Namjoon had picked up on your mortifying reaction to seeing him after all these years, he was far too much of a gentleman to let on.  He’d offered you a seat and then listened patiently as you explained that you were in need of a job -- any job -- so long as you could start right away.

You left out the painful details, of course.  

Namjoon nodded quietly as you outlined your education and qualifications and emphasized your willingness to serve the Gajog in any role he saw fit.  His eyes were warm and reassuring as you spoke, but you still braced yourself for the possibility that he’d send you away empty handed.

He didn’t.

At the end of your impassioned speech, Kim Namjoon made you an offer you could not refuse.  

Reporting directly to him and starting right away.

***************************

The serious boy you’d known so many years ago had grown into an even more serious man.

It didn’t take long on the job to notice the bone-deep melancholy that seemed to emanate from Kim Namjoon.  He was good at concealing it in front of others but you saw it clearly.  The way he would stand at his window at night, drink in hand, brooding.  The way the shadows behind his eyes would surface when he thought no one was looking.

But you were always looking.

You wanted so badly to help.  

You wanted to do something to help ease the burden he seemed to carry around at all times.  So you threw yourself into the work, memorizing his routines and taking note of the things he needed.  You organized his files.  You streamlined his schedule.  You ran interference on Yoongi and Hoseok and Seokjin on the nights when his moods turned dark and ominous.

Tiny gestures, in the grand scheme of things -- but there were days when you could convince yourself the gestures made a difference.

Days when Namjoon would look at you with a quiet appreciation that made you feel heat down to your toes.  Days when his eyes would soften as you’d instinctually met some need he hadn’t voiced out loud. Days when the darkness inside of him seemed to recede and one of those heart-stopping shy smiles would emerge.

You convinced yourself over time that this was enough --  that taking care of him like this would be enough for you.

It had to be enough. 

To allow yourself to imagine otherwise was nothing short of delusion.  

**********************

“Eomma?” 

You call out into the quiet as you lock the door behind you.  You can barely make out the sound of your mother’s soft reply from her bedroom.

This is where she spends most of her days now, shuffling between her bed and her chair, too weak to stand for more than a few minutes at a time.  Pill bottles litter the nightstand, obscuring the yellowing photograph of your parents as newlyweds.  

“My sweet Ttal,” she rasps, voice hoarse from disuse, “You’re home.”

“I am,” you sigh, sweeping into the room and pulling off your coat.  You bend down to drop a kiss on her forehead before taking a seat at her side.  Your mother’s once-luminous skin is now spotted with age, eyes cloudy and dull, but she is still one of the most beautiful women you’ve ever seen.   

She flinches when you take one of her hands into your much colder ones.

“Sorry,” you murmur, massaging over the paper-thin skin.  “It’s freezing outside.  I should have warmed them first.”

She gives your fingers a gentle squeeze.

“Home early again,” she croaks.  “Is everything okay at work?”

Her innocent question brings the sadness simmering just under the surface of your thoughts back to a full boil.  You still can’t understand why Namjoon chose to reassign you -- and you still can’t forget the sting of getting the news secondhand from your replacement.

Your face falls at the memory and you hope your mother doesn’t notice.  

The last thing you’d want to do is add worry to her already long list of concerns.

“Yes, Eomma,” you soothe, smoothing back her hair.  She leans into your touch with a tired smile.  “Everything is fine.  My new boss doesn’t keep me as late as the old one did.  But that’s a good thing, right?”

“Right,” she agrees, closing her eyes.  “Mrs. Sim left just a short while ago.  She brought some Japchae for dinner.  Not as good as mine, but not half-bad, either.”  

You laugh at the way the corner of her mouth lifts into a smile at her jest.  

People like Mrs. Sim are in large part why you’ve fought so hard to keep your mother here in your childhood home.  The financial strain has been tough -- particularly when paired with the medical bills -- but you need the help.  With no siblings to share your burden, you’ve had to lean on the goodwill of longtime neighbors.

“Leave Mrs. Sim and her Japchae alone mother,” you tease, standing to stretch.  “I’m going to get a shower before bed.”

Your mother makes a noise that sounds like approval, but you can tell she’s already drifting off again.  

She’s on so many pills these days; a blessing and a curse.  More pills means less pain and better rest -- something she desperately needs.  But more pills also means far fewer moments of lucidity -- much shorter windows of time for you to enjoy your mother’s quick wit and dry humor.

She’s back in a sleep state before you even make to stand.  You stroke your fingertips across her face just as your phone pings in your pocket.  You pull it out and very nearly dismiss the routine banking alert altogether -- but something catches your eye.

You swipe into the app to confirm you’re seeing the numbers correctly -- that your tired eyes and tired mind aren’t playing games with you.  

They aren’t.

The direct deposit of your paycheck is coming on the date it should, at the time it should.  But the number glaring back at you from the screen is higher -- much higher -- than it should be.

A demotion and a raise in the span of one week?

How odd.

******************************

GLOSSARY:

Gajog: Family

Eomma: Mother

Ttal: Daughter

tag list: @barbikatherine​

[middlenamesage]

Black Moon Lilith and Lilith the Character Archetype: My Reflections Coming out of Black Moon Lilith Conjunct the North Node

Following the astrological transits, both the collective and my personal, I have for a while noticed that when Black Moon Lilith is at play, it’s really hard for this to go unnoticed in my life. I always could sense this energy, I knew what it felt like, but used to find it hard to describe, or at least to dissect enough to understand with any valuable meaning.

Physically speaking, the astronomical point known in astrology as Black Moon Lilith is the point along the Moon’s orbit that is farthest from Earth (the lunar apogee), a point that changes position in the zodiac along with the changing orbit of the moon. To me it makes sense this point can be so potentially relevant to us, as all living beings are very much guided by the Moon, who keeps us in connection with each other. Out where the Black Moon is, in this metaphorical place of exile, it’s more of an “every man (or woman!) for himself!” vibe. Lilith is very much about the instinct of self preservation. It’s about resisting control or exploitation by others (and/or internalizing its effects). Often the two occur together as two faces of the same trauma. Black Moon Lilith represents the areas where life has taught us that we absolutely must advocate for ourselves. However, she can also bring shame and denial of wants wherever she is placed, or transiting, because this is something that generally develops where we have been told or shown we can’t have something.

Black Moon Lilith is in fact named for Lilith in the old testament/Jewish folklore, and the way we have come to make sense of its effects (rather, its correlations to our lives) is in considerable measure inspired by this character, and her archetype- who has many interpretations. Lilith was Adam’s first wife, before Eve, who left his ass! She refused to lie beneath him during sex, saying they were created equal. I think we can interpret this metaphorically, of course, as resistance to being controlled in many potential terms… but also literally, as there is a focus of unconstrained sexuality concerning Lilith, which I have observed has some definite relevance to the Black Moon too, but is far from the only or even the most important way to understand it.

Various legends say that after fleeing Eden, Lilith went on to become a she-demon/succubus/baby kidnapper/baby killer/so on….. (those are just the accusations I’m recalling off the top of my head). But over these many years, Lilith has picked up many other story lines, provided inspiration for phenomena such as Black Moon Lilith, and gained many evolving faces and interpretations. Other than being a religious figure, and/or a she-demon, some of her contemporary associations include witchcraft/dark magic, creative renditions in fantasy and horror, gothic culture, and the biggest switch of all, her status as the first feminist.

As a potent force from the most distant shadows of the Moon’s reach, where connection to one another is compromised and we must turn to ourselves to defend our basic natures, I’ve found that Black Moon Lilith can have both positive correlations- such as going one’s own way where it truly benefits one’s life, putting one’s foot down to mistreatment, and stepping into one’s personal power- and negative correlations such as pushing away and/or disregarding other people, general concern with defending one’s own initiatives, to the point where it is premature or anti-productive, and the shame, denial and/or rage that many have developed from being disallowed their power by others.

How we express Black Moon Lilith can be instigating healthy boundaries on one hand, and setting up unnecessary walls of defense on the other. It can be self respect on one hand, and self obsession/failure to consider others, on the other. It can be self protection on one hand, and self sabotage on the other. It can be shame and denial over who we really are/what we really want on one hand, and it can be where we liberate ourselves from shame on the other. Very often, it seems to dole out as a complicated mix of both the “bad” and the “good”.

It used to be that reflecting on my own experiences, despite my fascination with it, there was very little “good” I saw about the Black Moon’s correlations in my life. I came to associate the energy of Black Moon Lilith with a few of my “trauma responses” that have caused me to sabotage relationships. I felt she had helped me stand up for myself/walk away from people a few times when I actually needed to, but for the most part, she seemed to just make me quick to unconsciously wreck budding relationships, reject others, put up lots of walls, or not want to cooperate/compromise with others- even though this was also betraying my own desires deep down to be close with others. My natal Lilith is in Libra in my 7th house, so the relational element of her is especially relevant.

I think that this Black Moon wound of mine in the realm of partnerships has several big origins/perpetuators I can site, but one of the first and biggest that I can consciously analyze, is having internalized the messages I was told by a parent growing up (not necessarily said in as blunt of terms as I received them) that no one would ever want to be with me because I am too difficult to live with. (I was also shown this when my parents sent me elsewhere to live.) Internalizing this message about myself stripped away my personal power when it comes to partnerships. For so long I approached all relationships assuming they were damned to end before they ever got too serious (something I still do struggle with), and I long believed, a belief that at some times was not as much conscious as it was confirmed with my deeply engrained unconscious behaviors of sabotage, that a ‘true’ and committed relationship is simply something I can’t have. This long internalized belief has given rise to many of my independent behaviors in relationships... both in destructive ways that compromise my connection with others and/or alienate them, and in positive senses that protect my individuality and self respect.

Here’s the thing. I was never wrong to see my trauma responses in the force of Black Moon Lilith. Black Moon Lilith and Lilith the archetype are in fact rooted in trauma. We mustn’t trivialize that part. The defense mechanisms, rage, shame, denial, sabotage, the desire to leave people and things behind, and the general mechanisms for self-preservation which can accompany Lilith stem from instances where we have felt held down, lead to believe we don’t have power, mistreated, and in some cases even horribly abused/violated. But the reality of Black Moon Lilith’s painful origins does not make it all a bad thing! It can be a very empowering thing potentially, because where we are hurt is also where we can find the avenues for healing, and for gaining acceptance of our most authentic self and desires. And there is a very good reason we develop many of these less than savory reactions from traumatic experiences and messaging. Lilith teaches us to recognize our boundaries, and to reclaim the personal power that once was lost! - even if at times we may run too far with these prerogatives in stubborn quests for independence and personal autonomy wherever she resides.

Though I have been fascinated by and intent to ponder Black Moon Lilith for probably over a year now, my reflections on it, and later on the character Lilith for which the lunar apogee is named, have really gained a lot of new ground during this last month+ of Black Moon Lilith’s conjunction to the North Node. (Which is currently separating, but still in effect.) The Lunar North Node is another very important point in relation to the Moon’s orbit, which shows the path forward. Black Moon Lilith with the North Node in Gemini has proven too be so ripe with many new experiences for me to learn about Lilith. It’s hard to say if anything has actually changed about my relationship with Lilith, or if I am just starting to see more of the positive in her that was always there, instead of just noticing and perpetuating the glaring negative. Also, I decided it was about time to accept Lilith as a part of who I am. I can’t deny the power the associated energies and the archetype has had on my life, so I might as well embrace it- both the good parts and the parts that are a work in progress. (And that is the story of my new little stud earrings with the Black Moon Lilith symbol!)

One aspect of my relationship with Lilith that I think actually has started to bloom forth in more of a clear-cut positive way with this Lilith-North Node transit, is finding the power to actively and productively embrace a part of myself, via finding/claiming opportunities to keep cultivating this part, even though it’s meant having to disregard my reservations, and even fighting through some shame. I can see now that there is a whole world of great personal empowerment to be tapped into with Lilith, and not just in the ability to leave people behind. (But of course leaving people behind is one means she’ll employ, if it is necessary for stepping into her power!)

I have always seen myself as a writer. It’s not even by choice, and a great deal of the time, for a very long time, I have really resented this natural compulsion of mine. You see, I have a deeply complicated relationship with writing, one that undoubtedly needs some healing. Well, this Black Moon Lilith/North Node conjunction in Gemini, moving through my 3rd house of communications (and as I only found out the other day, also conjunct my natal White Moon Selena, i.e. the lunar perigee/polarity to Black Moon Lilith) ended up bringing me my first opportunities ever getting paid to write… something I guess I just used to assume I couldn’t do, due to my lack of a college degree, as well as the difficult relationship with writing and my paralyzing perfectionism. But with this transit, I placed aside my assumptions of what wasn’t possible for me, and I have some hope now that accepting the opportunity to write for other people, on subjects that generally don’t even mean anything to myself, may just turn out to be the good dose of objectivity needed to help restore some healing to my writing relationship.

Once again, where you’ll find the wounds in your relationship with your personal power, is also where you’ll find how to heal them, and use them to empower yourself and others- and that healing is really what Black Moon Lilith conjunct the North Node has been trying to facilitate for us all. Of course, the process is basically never straightforward and easy, nor all enjoyable. This transit has brought a wide range of Lilith experiences in my life to comment upon.

Some other occurrences have been: abruptly ending an extended off and on relationship with someone where there was always a good deal of power struggle (and would have been power imbalance if I had not stood my ground in a lot of instances), unconsciously driving away or creating distance with a few friends, being consciously and stubbornly persistent in putting more distance between myself and my family than ever before, and facing a couple situations providing awkward trial and error experiments in how I communicate my dissatisfaction to others who wronged me. But I know that all of these experiences are helping me to evolve, and to better understand my responses which stem from wounds that have set into me with the nature of Black Moon Lilith.

And I marvel at the fact that millions of other humans have also been going through experiences which are forcing them to confront and/or evolve their own instincts and behaviors associated with the Black Moon, whether they realize it or not.

Lilith says, “These are my boundaries[or conditions]. You will respect them, or I am outta here.” She says, ‘I know what I am capable of, so I’m gonna fight for it- even if I have to shut out other people.” The placement of our natal Black Moon Lilith shows a prominent area where power has been stolen from us, whether through physical or psychological means (and where the Black Moon is transiting can bring up these issues in other areas, as well). Lilith develops from a wound, and her determination to not feel the powerlessness again can serve as either the healing or the perpetuation of it.

* * * * * * * * * * *

P.S.

For any astro heads reading this with this knowledge of their birth chart, I welcome you to comment or reflect on where 5° Gemini falls in your chart. This is where the (currently separating) conjunction of Black Moon Lilith and the North Node occurred, so the house in your natal chart where it’s transiting, and any natal placements that may be in aspect to this point, especially conjunctions and oppositions, may be able to show where/how you have embodied or encountered Black Moon Lilith energy in recent times.

NOTE :

If anyone is wondering which “Lilith” in astrology I have been referring to, since it is a fairly infamous fact that there are actually 4 things bearing this name in astrology… I have for the most part only followed the mean calculation of Black Moon Lilith (and with Black Moon Lilith’s conjunction to the North Node, mean Lilith is what I’m referring to).

There is also Osculating Black Moon Lilith (aka True Lilith), which is a different calculation of the same concept I have discussed with Black Moon Lilith. A calculation that is actually technically more precise about the moon’s orbit, for the moment that it is taken, as the lunar apogee technically jumps around a little bit a whole lot… yet I have personally found Mean Lilith to be more worth following, especially when following collective transits, if trying to examine the effects of something lingering over an extended period of time, or if conceptualizing Black Moon Lilith’s cycles throughout the entire zodiac. I don’t doubt that the calculation of osculating Black Moon Lilith (which often is not too far from the mean calculation) has a lot of validity to it too though, perhaps especially for natal chart interpretations, and progressions.

As for the other two Liliths, there is the asteroid Lilith- but that is named for a French composer, not the Lilith archetype as we know her. Not saying it isn’t something worth looking into, it just hasn’t been a point of focus for me. And lastly, there is Dark Moon Lilith (aka Waldemath Moon), which is said to be a dark body of unknown origin revolving around the Earth- but there is a lot of debate as to whether it actually exists. I don’t have an opinion one way or another, and I haven’t followed it in transits. However, its placement in my natal chart, with an opposition to Black Moon Lilith for one, does peak my interest.

[aurora-australis-tumbles]

22, 25, 30 for the prompts, please!

WHY YES, I AM A GREEDY BITCH 😈😈

Oh, my darling @arlome, I’m afraid this got rather complicated. As soon as I saw your prompt list I knew exactly what I wanted to write, but, unfortunately, it was a continuation of my AO3 modern AU series and thus not a particularly wise choice for a Tumblr prompt.

But no one has ever accused me of being particularly wise, so… 😂

Anyway, I wrote it.

Below are spoilers for that series, New Found Lands, should that be something you care about. All I suppose you really need to know, though, is that in that series Phryne is a writer.

I used all your prompts for this - wanderlust, string lights, and summer reading - and I very much hope you enjoy it. ❤️

-------

Jack had always loved reading outside in the summer.

There was just something special about it… the extra hours of daylight, the muted sounds of nature, that little extra bit of freedom that was the hallmark of the season. A warm breeze and a cool drink and an ambient sense of possibility to keep him company as he explored the wild west, ancient Rome, the roaring 20’s, the distant future.

It felt as close to true magic as a pragmatic man like Jack was ever likely to get.

Recently, though, he’d also found that this enchanted feeling was actually intensified by reading in Phryne’s backyard garden, where she’d strung up pretty string lights throughout and given the whole place an almost ethereal feel.

Of course, it was only ‘Phryne’s garden’ on the paperwork; in actuality, Jack spent far more time there than he did at his own place, and had for a while now. Lately they’d even begun skating around the topic of him moving in, but neither had landed that particular triple Axel.

Yet.

But Jack felt no hurry, either, especially on a night like tonight - comfortable and happy, with a book and a whisky to savor, like he had all the time in the world.

The sound of a well-maintained car parking out front reminded him of just why he was so happy, and Jack smiled down at his book as he turned another page. A few minutes later he heard a noise at the fence and spotted a familiar silhouette behind the pickets; Phryne was home.

“Hello Jack,” she greeted, coming in through the fence gate. “I thought I might find you out here.”

“Predictable, am I?” he asked, without looking up.

“I prefer ‘dependable’, darling,” she corrected, kissing his cheek and depositing her various bags on the ground before dropping into the chair beside him. She snagged his glass off the table and peered over to see what he was reading. When she spotted the title, she shook her head.

“Why on earth are you reading that?” she asked.

“I like it,” he replied, his eyes still on the words before him.

“But you’ve read it before,” she noted, propping her feet up on the small table in front of them. “Or, so you told me.”

Jack finished his chapter, placed a bookmark inside to hold his spot, then turned to face her. “I did,” he agreed. “And I have. And I liked it then too.”

“But it’s my book,” she reminded him, finally getting to the crux of her confusion. “Why are you rereading my book?” She nodded her head vaguely in the direction of the house, where she’d caught him once or twice doing the same thing with some of her other novels. “Or, I suppose, books plural.”

Jack shrugged. “I like finding you in them,” he said simply and Phryne tilted her head to the side in consideration.

“How so?” she asked, curious as ever.

Jack paused, trying to think of the right words to answer her question. But how could he?

How could he explain that passages he’d read in passing before, evolved and expanded as he learned more about the woman who wrote them? How her descriptions of the long shadows of Paris and the grassy banks of the Yarra held new meaning now. How, when he read her dialogue these days, he could perfectly hear the delivery of a quip or imagine the length of a pause. How being privy to her misadventures on Ben Nevis and her fear of spiders and her love of old movies informed small details or full sentences or entire chapters for him now in ways he found surprising or funny or sad or lovely.

How could he adequately explain that, for him, the incredible characters and stories and worlds she’d created remained entities onto themselves, but, also, how the essence of the writer was so deeply threaded throughout the pages that he couldn’t help but delight in the weave, and how it was not pride, but privilege, he felt in knowing her well enough to see it now.

How on earth could he find the right words for all that when he himself sometimes struggled to understand it?

Then he remembered that right words were her domain, and he went for the simple truth instead.

“When I read these now,” he said, holding up her book, “I still love the story, but now… now there are new facets for me. I see your humour, I feel your wanderlust, I hear your voice. I recognize the heart of you in these, Phryne, and it just makes me love them more.” He shrugged self-consciously at the confession - which had, perhaps, been less skating around and more leaping headfirst than was their usual style - and stole his whisky back just for something to do with his hands.

She looked at him then, a funny sort of smile on her face, before leaning over to kiss him softly.

“You’re a terrible romantic, Jack Robinson,” she said, her usual teasing tone only slightly undercut by the unusual roughness of her voice, and the fact that she sounded so exceptionally fond as she said it.

He chuckled, relieved by her reaction. “Well, you’re the only one who thinks so, love.”

“Good,” she said definitively, then winked as she stood. “Less competition that way.”

He shook his head; as though she ever had to worry.

With one last smile at him, Phryne gathered her bags back up and headed towards the house. She opened the door to enter, but stopped herself short, pausing for a moment in the doorway before turning back around to face him.

“You know, Jack, I’m just about through with my new book. If you’d like to read the first draft.”

“Absolutely,” he said eagerly, knowing how rare it was for her to share a story before it went to print.

“Good. And I think… well you might find yourself in that one.”

“Why?” he asked, with some trepidation, remembering the last time she’d named a character after him; he still got grief about it down at the station. “Are you giving Fern a great romance, or perhaps a long-suffering copper to harangue?

“Oh no, darling, it’s much better than either of those; I’m giving her a partner.”

Then Phryne disappeared into the house, leaving Jack alone once more with his summer reading for company.

And, just like that, he loved her even more.

Beneath the twinkling lights in their backyard garden, Jack smiled to himself and went back to his book, feeling closer than ever to true magic.

-------

August Prompt List

[crimsonwolfie]

Unexpected — Hamish Duke x Reader

Prompt: You (the reader) have been going on dates with Hamish Duke for a little while now, but want something more serious...only he isn’t exactly showing the same...or is there more to him than he shows?

Warnings: tiny bit of angst but mainly sweet, tooth-aching fluff. Idek what this is but i was feeling it lmao — Enjoy my fellow Hamish Duke lovers :)

Word Count: 1,488

Requested?: No.

Masterlist

Lifting the golden rimmed wine glass to your lips, you take a sip of the wine enclosed inside it. As you purse your lips you look over to your date, Hamish, sitting across you on the table for 2. A red rose sits perfectly between you two in a clear vase and a bottle of red is beside it. Hamish picks and prods at his plate, slowly taking a forkful of pasta to his mouth. You’ve been on a few dates with him and are hoping to take things to the next level some time soon. When? You’re not exactly sure, since he hasn’t been very open lately.

“So how’s your food?” You ask, trying to pick up a conversation for the third time that night.

“It’s alright” he replies, still looking down at his plate. You’re determined to get what he’s keeping from you off his chest.

“So what’re you thinking about?” You twirl spaghetti around your fork with one hand as the other is placed on the side of your head, elbow leaning on the table. Hamish looks up at you with his luminous, crystal blue pools and a confused expression drawn onto his perfect complexion.

“What do you mean?” He questions with a honeyed voice, brows furrowing and lips ever so slightly parted.

“You seem...offish? Like you’re either not in the mood or hiding something” you reply faintly, hoping that he’ll finally open up to you after being so distant these few days

“Y/N, it’s not about you. I enjoy your company, please don’t ruminate whether you’re the cause of this; It’s...family...stuff” Hamish retorts as he looks back down to his food, face still sour like a lemon drop. You’re still not convinced, but you will be...soon. Silence falls on the both of you as you sit pondering what you’re going to say, sipping and savouring the last drop of your wine. Around you are countless of couples who are spending a romantic evening together, actually enjoying each other’s company, romance painting their atmosphere like a Picasso masterpiece. You turn back to see Hamish slumped on the chair, deciding to put him straight (also because you’re craving something a little sweeter than ignorance right now). Taking a piece of your loose hair and tucking it behind your ear, you straighten your posture up;

“Okay Hamish, this doesn’t settle right with me. You say i’m not the problem but you’ve hardly spoken a word to me all night...and we’re here in this adorable, romantic restaurant with love and romance practically flooding the place, yet all i feel and see in front of me is sadness and ignorance. If you can’t be real with me then how can this even be real?” You tilt your head slightly “look, Ham...i like you. I mean, i really like you. And that scares me. You know why that scares me? Because ninety-nine percent of the time when i fall...it’s never reciprocated. And when that happens, it’s wallowing time again - a pit of misery, heartbreak and loneliness. And it doesn’t end there...it’s a vicious and draining circle of pain that i can’t escape from. So please, for me...if you don’t want to continue whatever this is, just let me go now...before i fall deeper.” pools of tears threaten to spill down your rosy cheeks, as your chin trembles slightly and that horrible tightening sensation ripped through your throat. Hamish stares at you with glazed eyes and an expression of hurt, lips curled downwards slightly. The silence becomes excruciatingly painful, until Hamish crashes his lips onto yours with pure passion, lust and desire. Fluttering your eyes, it takes you a hot minute to process what’s happening, but when you do, your lips move together just like magic...complimenting one another like fire and ice. Your lips part slightly in the midst of the kiss, allowing access for Hamish to enter his tongue gently as you lean into the kiss deeper.

Breaking apart for air, you stare down in disbelief. Did he really just do that? Man, that man has balls.

“I...i’m sorry if i gave you the wrong impression. Truth is, my friends and i have a lot going on lately and beyond this...stuff...we all have to deal with together...you’re the only part of my life that makes me happy and calm...you’re the only part of my life that feels real - permanent should i say. And i’d really like it to stay that way, if that’s okay with you?” Hamish asks with a wobbly tone. His eyes swell slightly as they shine under the dimly lit candlelight beside the two of you, creating a warm and comforting glow around him. It’s at this moment when you realise how safe, how happy you feel when with him. When you realise...he’s that rare one percent of your love life that breaks the chain of pain. You look up and smile with your crimson red lips, hair flopping from behind your ear into your face.

“That’s perfectly okay with me, love” you smile, as Hamish brings one hand on top of your palm on the table and the other hand towards your face, slowly placing your hair back behind your ear. He smiles at you softly with both his mouth and his eyes, letting out a choked laugh.

“I really do mean it, you’re special to me, Y/N. I like yo- i mean i really like you, too” he whispers, leaning himself forward to peck your lips ever so gently. You linger on his lips for a couple of seconds, smiling into the kiss until he parts, leaving a soft kiss on your forehead.

“You want to get out of here?” You whisper, rubbing your leg on his under the table, to which his eyes widen at and that certified smirk appears. He waves for the waiter to bring the check and before you know it, he’s whipping you out of the restaurant and into the humid, night air. Linking your arms together, he looks up into the night sky and smiles. The warmth radiating from his body comforts you as you snuggle deeper into his touch. You glance up at him, seeing him smiling into the sky with his eyes shut closed and a pink glow radiating from his cheeks. A sight like this, quite literally would make any girl’s heart melt. Smiling into his arm, you happily sigh, feeling your heartbeat increase by the second in pure happiness and contentment

“Where are we going?” You murmur

“It’s a surprise” he replies, tightening his grip onto your arm whilst leaning down to kiss your forehead. Intertwining fingers, you smile up to him in adoration.

“I love you Hamish” you breathe out, eyes widening after realising what just came out of your mouth, your heart stops beating suddenly. Hamish’s face completely lights up upon your declaration, smile bigger than all the planets put together, a light chuckle leaving his throat

“I love you too, Y/N” he replies. You feel your heart jump at his words, suddenly starting to pump blood around your body again. You can feel it pumping blood to your cheeks, as your face heats up in relief and joy.

Approaching a tall, brooding skyscraper, Hamish stops.

“We’re here!” He chirps up, opening the door for you to go through “my beautiful lady first” he smiles, to which you curtsy to and enter the building. He takes you to the elevator and presses the button for the top floor.

“So you live here?” You ask as you turn to face him

“Well yeah, you could say that” he replies

“So you don’t live in that old house in the middle of the woods, or is that just where your friends live?” You take a step closer towards him. He grasps your hand in his, intertwining fingers once again.

“Yeah, they do live there” he confirms as the elevator reaches the top floor. You both step out, him leading the way down the long and dark corridor. He reaches into his pocket upon stopping outside a door on the far end. Opening the door with a loud creaking sound, he prompts for you to go in first. The room was immaculately designed and decorated, with open space and a modern touch. Hamish flickers on the lights, illuminating the room. You glare around in amazement, eyes readjusting to the brightness once again

“You LIVE here?!” You repeat once again, only more exaggeration this time. “Somewhere like this must cost thousands, look at the view!” You drop his hand and run up to the window, mouth dropping as you see the city skyline and lights illuminating the city for miles away “how can a TA afford somewhere so beautiful, so breathtaking? Okay have you got a laundrette somewhere or something?” You joke, hands struck against the sides of your face. Hamish chuckles deeply at your accusations, but simply replies

“I actually...own the building”

“Honey what?”

[bytheangell]

What Died Didn’t Stay Dead

(s02e20 inspired fic) (Read on AO3)

Everything’s fine. Everything’s great. Perfect, even. They won. They’re alive. They’re goddamn heroes.

Jace repeats those phrases over and over and over again. To Alec and Isabelle, to Clary, hell, even to himself. Everything is fine because it has to be fine. He has to be fine.

Except he isn’t.

Because when Jace died, he didn’t just fade away into nothingness: he went to Heaven. He died, and his soul went to Heaven, and he knows it was Heaven the way you know there’s air in your lungs and blood in your veins - it’s simply a part of you, a serenity and calm he’d never come close to imagining, suddenly his reality. Jace found himself existing in a state of pure bliss, as if every weight, every burden was lifted from him at once. He’d never felt so light, so free…

And then it all came crashing down and he woke back up on the dirty ground of Lake Lyn’s shoreline. And Clary… Clary was just so goddamn happy to see him alive, and Alec and Izzy’s relief was practically palpable, so he couldn’t tell them. He still can’t. And he knows he shouldn’t be upset with Clary but he can’t help it, because he knows what he was pulled back from and now everything feels wrong, and he’s afraid that he’ll never feel whole again.

He doesn’t know what’s wrong specifically, just that something is wrong. He can feel it in his soul, in the very blood that runs through his veins. But what is he supposed to tell Clary when she asks? ‘Hey, thanks for saving my life, but I think I came back broken?’ And that isn’t even the worst of it. He tries not to think about it, about the real reason he might be feeling this disconnect, but it isn’t exactly something he can forget. If he’s really being honest, with himself and with Clary, what he should say is ‘Thanks for saving me, but all you did was tear me away from the only peace I’ve ever known.’

Over and over in his nightmares, he feels that peace ripped away from him and he’s forced to relive the loss of it. And when it isn’t that, he sees Clary held in place and about to be executed by Circle members, or he sees the face of his father as he plunged his blade into Jace’s chest, complete with the sharp, burning pain of the fatal wound.

Because it was fatal. He died. For however long it took for Clary to kill Valentine and make her own wish, his heart had stopped and his soul had left his body. Alec felt the pain of it, he saw the proof of what really happened when their rune faded from his side as the connection severed. Alec knows, but Jace avoids talking about it because he can’t tell him the truth, not now, not ever.

“Maybe my heart stopped for a second, or my body went into shock. I dunno, I’m not a doctor,” Jace tries to reason the vanishing rune away with bullshit excuses that Alec doesn’t buy, but his parabatai does drop the topic after a while.

But not Clary. Clary just won’t let it go.

On some level, Jace is aware that it’s not right to force Clary to keep the wish a secret. He tells her that it’s for her own good, and that isn’t a lie because if the Clave ever found out then he didn’t want to think about what they might do to her for using the wish, and what they might do to him as someone unnaturally brought back from the dead. He’s trying to protect her, but he’s trying to protect himself just as much, and that’s the part he doesn’t share with her. Because he can’t talk about it, or else he’ll eventually have to talk about what really happened when he died.

Except all Clary wants to do is talk about it with him, because he’s the only one she can talk to since he forbade her from telling anyone else, even Alec and Izzy. Every time he leaves a room suddenly to hide the physical discomfort and sometimes pain he feels just from existing again, every night he wakes up crying out in his sleep after tossing and turning, Clary tries to get him to open up. When he grows distant and detached Clary only gets more insistent, until one day he snaps.

“WHY WON’T YOU JUST FUCKING DROP IT?”

Clary looks started for a second but recovers quickly. “Because there’s something you’re not telling me! We’re the only people who know what happened, which means if something’s wrong, I’m the only one who can help you! So let me help you, Jace!”

“You can’t help me, Clary! You’re the reason I feel like this!”

The second the words leave his lips Jace wants nothing more than to take them back. Hurt flashes across Clary’s face, mixing with the confusion from before.

“What do you mean? Did I… did I do something wrong?”

The quiet words Jace whispers next stand in stark contrast to his previous shouts.

“You brought me back.” Jace wishes it were that simple and he could just leave it at that. But he’s opened the floodgates now and there’s no stopping this conversation. A part of him doesn’t want to stop, either, eager to finally get everything out from where it’s been festering inside of him, poorly buried under lies and distractions. “I was happy. I felt… complete. Like I’d done everything I was meant to do, and this peace was my reward. I was in Heaven, Clary. And then I was back here.”

Clary doesn’t speak for a very long time.

“I just wanted to save you,” she says quietly.

“I know,” Jace says, but the words come out bitter and far from understanding. “And you used a wish meant to benefit all of humanity to do it - to save me from a place I didn’t want to be saved from.”

Jace can practically see his words sinking in as the expression on Clary’s face morphs from hurt to muted horror. When she doesn’t reply Jace just keeps talking, the words tumbling out with nothing left to stop them.

“We’re Nephilim. We’re meant to die in battle, it’s what we do! Sometimes I forget how far removed you are from everything we stand for… how obvious it is you weren’t raised a Shadowhunter. Because you don’t feel guilty for what you did at all, do you?”

This time Clary only shies away from the accusation for a moment before doubling down and growing defensive. “Of course not! I love you, Jace! I had a chance to bring you back and I took it. Maybe Nephilim are used to dying in battle, but that wasn’t a battle. That wasn’t some greater cause to martyr yourself for, and you didn’t deserve to die like that!” Clary’s voice shakes a little but she remains resolved, and under any other circumstance, it’d be that typical Clary Fray stubbornness that Jace usually finds endearing. Now, it only serves to push him that last step off the ledge of frustration he’s been building up since that night.

“Maybe I did! Maybe that was my cause, my purpose, did you ever think about that? I sure as hell don’t deserve to be alive at the cost of The Angel’s wish, and now I’m the only one living with that guilt because all you care about is yourself and that you got what you wanted!”

“I care about you!” Clary shoots back. “I’m… Jace, I’m so sorry. If I’d known, known where you went… I didn’t think-”

“You never do,” Jace says, shaking his head. “That’s the problem.”

The charged emotions shift to something softer, something decidedly more sad than angry.

“Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to lash out like that. I didn’t tell you because I know your heart was in the right place. I just thought I could hide it better - or longer, until it didn’t feel so…” he trails off, not wanting to put words to that numb sense of longing he feels inside. The wrongness of it all. He knows Clary feels bad enough already without all of that, too, if she hasn’t pieced it together already. 

“How do I fix this?” Clary asks. “Just tell me what to do. Because you’re right - I saved you because I didn’t want to lose you, and I still don’t. I can’t lose you now, not like this. So tell me how to fix this.” Clary pauses, the hands previously on her hips dropping to her side in defeat as tears well up in her eyes before spilling over with every blink to trail down her cheeks. “Tell me how to fix us.”

“I don’t think you can,” he admits, swallowing the lump in his throat that threatens to stop the words entirely. He doesn’t cry, though. “I think I just need some time.”

Clary opens her mouth to immediately protest. Jace watches her slowly force it closed again, hands clenching into fists at her side as she takes a deep breath before speaking. “Alright. Whatever you need.”

He can tell she only half-means it, that it’s the last thing she actually wants to do, but the fact that she’s willing to do it anyway is a good sign that she can see how serious he is.

“You really never planned on telling me, did you?” Clary frowns.

“No,” Jace admits since they’re well past the point of lying to spare feelings now. “Because I knew you’d feel bad and want to try and fix it.”

“Of course I want to fix it!”

“But you can’t. There’s no undoing this, I just have to take some time to figure out how to live with it.”

“Okay. Okay, fine. But promise me,” Clary says, reaching out to take his hands in her own. “Promise me you aren’t going to keep me out forever. Promise me if there’s anything I can do, even if it’s just to be there with you, you’ll tell me.” She gives his hands a squeeze, the tears returning to her eyes. “Promise me you’ll be okay at the end of all this.”

Jace nods. He wants, more than anything, to believe in a future where he adjusts and settles back into the life he’s always known, with no unsettling feeling that something is wrong, with the belief that he was always meant to be here still. He wants to believe in a perfect future with Clary by his side, raising kids they put through the Academy and teach everything they know. He wants to believe that there’s an ‘okay’ at the end of this for him - for both of them - even if he can’t imagine it now.

It feels like an impossible promise to make at the moment, but he makes it anyway because he thinks it’s one they both need to believe in.

“I promise.”

He hopes more than anything that it’s a promise he can keep.

[ravensmind]

Happy RobRae week 2021! Here's my day 1 prompt fic. There will be an extended smuttier version coming soon. Might only do this prompt this year just due to things I have going on, but I'm still writing! Hope you enjoy this 😃.

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13863436/1/Finals-and-a-First

~RavensMind~

RobRae week 2021 

Day 1: Gotham Academy AU

Finals and a First

Finals week. Two simple words that had the power to make anyone quake with anxiety and while he may do a good job of hiding it, Dick Grayson was no exception. Luckily for him, he had a solid group of friends who had each other’s backs. They mostly studied as a group when they were free, unless their class schedule or extracurricular activity demanded they improvise. Gotham Academy was not known for caring about its students' friendships or whether they had free time to study together or not. Dick was on the football team and they did not have practice that day, so he was free, but Victor, Kori, Garfield, and Tara were all at meets or practices or matches or just in class, only Rachel was able to study with him, and that presented a challenge. Dick was enamored with Rachel, infatuated with Rachel, could not stop thinking about Rachel, and she had no idea because he just could. Not. Tell. Her. 

Even though Rachel Roth, the quiet, reserved, sarcastic, smart, violet-haired girl was sitting only inches away from him at the same table in the library, he could not look at her, as he had some paranoid feeling that she knew exactly how he felt when he looked at her. Normally, he would play off of his other friends, but now they were alone. He hid in his textbook, pretending to be very interested in some words located near the spine of the book in some rose colored block of text. Out of frustration with his own inner turmoil, he picked up the noble they’d been assigned to read and chucked it into a nearby bookcase.

“Are you okay?” Rachel asked in a frustrated tone.

“Yeah, I’m fine, why?” Dick returned.

"You’re just not usually this quiet, is all,” she replied.

“Guess I’m just nervous,” he said.

“About our finals?” 

“Yeah,” he said, thanking the universe for that excuse.

“I didn’t think you got nervous over stuff like this, at least I don’t think I’ve seen it. Wait ‘till this gets out, the chill, cool captain of the football team is freaking over his final,” she teased.

“But you wouldn’t tell anyone, right?”

“No. Lucky you, I don’t think anyone would believe me.”

“That the only reason you wouldn’t say anything?”

“No, because I don’t know that I believe you either,” she replied, toying with a strand of her hair with one of her slim, almost pale fingers.

Dick chanced a look at her and was surprised to see a playful smirk on her face and a strange look in her violet eyes that he was not sure he had seen before. He tensed a little when he realized he had slipped up and looked at her. Did she know? Was he screwed? The last thing he wanted was to make her uncomfortable and get on her bad side. She had enough trouble dealing with the gossip and judgmental teachers for her goth vibe and overall lack of shits to give attitude.

At one point, he heard Rachel had been summoned to the dean’s office for violating the dress code by wearing black knee highs over fishnets and foregoing the standard blue skirt for a black one. Her response was that technically she was in compliance, as there was no rule about a specific color skirt, or that she could not wear anything in addition to the socks on her legs, and she was a model student. Aside from snapping at a teacher or two, she was rarely in trouble, and he knew she had good grades. She still kept that style, even though more teachers voiced their disapproval, but they ultimately could not do anything without changing the dress code and it was not worth it. After he heard about what happened, Dick helped her out by changing the color tie and slacks he wore from blue to black, as his popularity would make her style choice far less controversial. He had mostly done it to help her, but he also liked being seen as more of a rebel. He stuck up for her when she was being picked on and she was always quick to shut down anyone who was bad-mouthing him.They had grown a bit closer as a result, though neither really acknowledged it to the other. 

He swallowed and considered what his options would be if she dug deeper. He hoped that he could talk his way out of whatever accusation she was about to make. He shifted in his chair and cleared his throat.

“What makes you say that?” he asked.

“Hmm. Well, you’ve never really stressed about tests before. When Gar complains, you calm him down and put together a plan to study, so I’m pretty sure you’re more level-headed,” she replied.

“Doesn’t mean I’m not nervous.”

“No, but I think it’s less likely that it’s about the exams. Now that I think about it… you kind of acted like this last time we hung out. Maybe it’s about one of us,” she thought aloud.

“Like I said, I’m nervous about finals. It’s, uhh, just been a lot for me this time. It’s our last year and I don’t want Bruce to be harder on me if I don’t measure up,” he said, injecting a little truth, desperately hoping it would help sell his lie.

“I suppose that’s fair, but I still don’t think it’s that.”

“Why’s it matter? It’s not like I’m hiding anything that would hurt people. I’m just stressed!”

“You’re hiding plenty, but that’s not the point. It matters,” she hesitated before continuing, “because I don’t like seeing you stressed. It’s like I can feel it and I want to help you. Something’s clearly eating at you and I hate seeing you try and bury it like it’s not there.”

He sighed and looked  down at his book. He stared down at the page as he felt the swelling of emotions that rose from his heart. He wanted to spill everything, but knew that it would not be fair to her, to dump everything at once and give her a massive choice to make about them. He cared about her and she clearly cared about him, so he thought he might be able to at least give her a hint or two. She was dealing with more than enough, she didn’t need his problems too.

“Okay...don’t laugh. It’s about a girl,” he said.

Rachel perked up and tilted her head. Dick swore her eyes lit up, but that may have just been a trick of the light as someone passed by the window near them, book in hand. 

“I’m not going to laugh! What’s making you so nervous? I seriously doubt you’d ever need to be stressing over a girl, plenty throw themselves at you, though I guess that could be tough too.”

“She’s different. I like her, but she’s never really said if she likes me or not. I hang out with her quite a bit and we have fun, or I think we do. I'm just not sure if I want to take a chance and mess up a good thing.”

“You’re being ridiculous.. Clearly she likes you enough to spend time with you, you should have had some kinda obvious sign by now. Some girls tease you or act a certain way around you, others might be more blunt, but you have to know at this point. Though, it would help if you said who she is,” she teased knowingly.

“Hah, yeah, it is a little silly,” he chuckled, “You wouldn’t tell her though?”

“Yeah, that’s why I’m interested, I need to get ready for the big reveal, lots of pyro and speakers to set up,” she replied sarcastically, rolling her eyes, “No, of course not, idiot. You know you can trust me. Why the secrecy, though? Is it... Kori?”

She leaned forward with interest, almost teetering on the edge of her seat.

“No, uh, but you’re kinda close,” he said, anxiously shifting in his chair.

He watched as she went quiet and crossed her legs in her chair, sitting up a bit straighter as she considered the possible remaining options. He hoped she had thought of herself first.

“I admit, I could see why you’d like Tara, she’s pretty easy to talk to and knows what she likes, which isn’t common,” she said, tracing her bottom lip with her finger, “I think she can be a little insecure though, so you may want to keep that in mind.”

He wondered to himself if she was toying with him.

“It’s uhh, it’s not Tara, either,” he admitted, his cheeks turning red.

Rachel’s cheeks also reddened as her mouth formed a coy smile, and she went quiet. Her fingers played with the edge of a page in her textbook as she looked away from Dick toward the door before snapping back so her eyes met his.

“Oh. So, I think if you like her, you really should say something. I’m not sure if I know *exactly* how she feels, but I’d want to hear you say how much you like me. I’d like to know how I made you feel… if I was her,” she teased.

“Are you sure? I uhh, I’d hate if I came on to her too strongly, she’d shut me down and it would mess with the friendship she and I had,” he asked, undoing his tie and opening his school blazer a little. He was feeling very warm all of a sudden.

“I don’t think she would let that happen, Dick,” she replied, leaning closer to him, “You should probably tell me who she is...so I have a better idea.”

He took a deep breath and smiled at her, letting the moment last, enjoying the hopeful, expectant look on her face.

“Her name is Rachel,” he said, edging closer to her.

Dick felt his heart pounding in his chest and he swore his face was burning as they both got closer to each other, until his lips were inches from Rachel’s. Neither looked around to see who else in the library might be watching, and the idea that anyone else even existed was as distant as another planet. Her eyes closed as she pressed her lips to his and he eagerly kissed her back, hardly believing this was happening. Their heated kiss was interrupted by the sound of the librarian reprimanding a classmate of theirs at another table on the other side of a bookcase. Rachel smiled at him, biting her lip while she studied his face for a moment.

“That. Is what you get when you tell the truth,” she said.

[lovetaled-a]

❛❛    i  appreciate  the  struggle  you  have  been  through,  and  i  am  very  sorry  to  have  caused  you  pain.

... @lanidaes !

❛❛    but  your  mind  is  made  up,      and  you  would  never  consider  me  after  my  past  words  to  you.       that  is  what  you  mean,    ❜❜        will  intones  none  of  the  grief  he  feels  in  his  voice  voluntarily;       if  there  is  a  sharpness  to  it  like  the  edge  of  a  dagger,       or  faltering  like  a  misplayed  and  discordant  key,       he  cannot  pretend  to  have  intended  its  utterance,       nor  to  let  loose  the  bitterness  rising  and  lapsing  with  the  accusation,       ❛❛    what  you  would  say  if  you  were  not  kind  and  cautious  to  offend  by  nature.    ❜❜      it  is  difficult  to  look  in  her  face  now,       knowing  the  lies  which  have  spread  like  a  net  around  them,       trapping  both  and  saving  neither         (  will  could  be  entangled  with  tessa  gray,       acquainted  with  her  for  the  rest  of  his  life  and  it  would  mean  nothing.       he  would  still  be  too  late,       caught  in  the  downfall  of  his  own  misdeeds  and  the  eternal  lure  of  the  streets  outside  for  solace  from  the  plague  of  his  thoughts,       hatred  for  his  own  foolishness.  )     every  day  until  now  he  has  sought  respite,       whether  at  the  bottom  of  a  glass,       deep  in  the  pages  of  a  book,       or  far  from  the  voices  of  those  he  holds  dear:     a  refuge  where  he’d  know  that  at  least  it  had  not  been  himself  to  have  created  his  demise  so  much  as  accorded  to  it  in  the  best  way  he  could  manage.  

but  the  demon’s  words  echo  in  his  mind,       more  of  a  death  sentence  than  he’d  realized  when  hope  had  made  him  giddy  and  ever  more  the  fool.       there  was  never  a  curse  upon  you,       will  herondale,       save  for  the  existence  you’ve  made  cursed  yourself.       for  you,       for  those  that  love  you  or  could  have,       that  have  slipped  through  your  fingers  as  souls  are  not  meant  to.  

will  paces  the  parlor,       his  boots  leaving  stains  against  the  old  carpets  unheeded.       it  dawns  on  him  he  might  muster  some  semblance  of  grace  in  refusal,       but  none  of  it  is  natural  to  him  now,       and  how  little  he  cares  for  pretense.       for  so  long  i  have  lied  to  them  all,       yet  beyond  my  notice,       they  have  found  each  other.       he  ought  to  be  glad.      ecstatic  for  their  joy  and  unheeding  of  his  loss,       when  all  will  can  give  anyone  close  is  a  tattered  thing  in  the  place  of  a  heart,       threadbare  hopes  against  his  own  self  loathing.       ❛❛    you  know  what  it  is  to  hurt,       tessa,       but  i  am  not  sure  you  do  like  this.       i  cannot  bear  it,       or  the  thought  that  —  that  i  only  imagined  —     ❜❜      he  stops,       the  mad  glint  in  his  eye  diminished  to  the  dullest  shade  his  eyes  might  seem  in  the  long  shadows  that  contradict  the  afternoon  light,       the  flickering  in  the  hearth  distant  as  ancient  stars,      witnesses  to  human  folly.       ❛❛    your  time  is  poorly  spent  in  convincing  me  you  feel  even  a  fraction  of  my  disappointment.     it  is  all  mine,       tess.    ❜❜ 

[elliemarchetti]

The Most Macabre of Scenes, The Most Terrible of Nightmares

As I hope the few souls reading this have already guessed, requests are open for anything on LOTR and The Hobbit. However, in this chapter the journey of the Fellowship continues, but various shadows loom over their safety and the hearts of its members.

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Words: 2643

The attack was short and violent, but fortunately no one was injured. It was about midnight on their eighth day of travel when the Orcs stroke, a raid planned down to the last detail, one might say, as they had took advantage of the current, the crescent moon that lit up the sky and the abundance of strangely bright stars, reflecting like torches on the River’s surface. Their black-feathered arrows had fallen like lethal rain upon the Fellowship, but except for a few torn cloaks, there had been no damage. Hidden among the ferns of the western shore, as awake as they could be, everyone thought about what they saw in the sky after their enemies had unexpectedly retreated, trying to give a name to the great winged creature, blacker than the pits of the night, which had emerged from the south. Fierce voices rose up to greet it from across the water, and Elva could still feel the chills running through her and clutching at her heart, deadly cold like the memory of an old wound. She had killed it, with a single shot from the bow she had received as a gift in Lorien, but she was sure there were others, and she wanted nothing more than to get as far away as possible from that irreparably corrupted land. After that vision, Haldir had no longer spoken, but he was frowning and his mind was probably in Lothlorien, lost in calculating how long such a beast would take to reach the ends of the mallorn’s forest. Lying next to him, Elva wished she was able to say out loud that he could return, if he wished, that no one would’ve wanted him any harm for placing his homeland before a mission that didn’t even belonged to him, and that Galadriel herself would’ve probably been grateful for the warning, but selfishly, she couldn’t, so she hugged tighter her knees under the cloak, a reassurance and a way to fight the changing of the weather. When the day came, the mood of the world about them had become soft and sad. Slowly the dawn grew to a pale light, diffused and shadowless. There was mist on the River, and white fog swathed the shore, making the far bank impossible to see.

“I can’t abide fog,” said Sam, “but this seems to be a lucky one: now perhaps we can get away without those cursed goblins seeing us.”

“Perhaps so,” said Aragorn. “But it will be hard to find the path unless the fog lifts a little later on, and we must, if we are to pass Sarn Gebir and come to the Emyn Muil.”

“I don’t see why we should pass the Rapids or follow the River any further,” said Boromir. “If the Emyn Muil lie before us, then we can abandon these cockle-boats and strike westward and southward, until we come to the Entwash and cross into my own land.”

“We can, if we are making for Minas Tirith,” said Aragorn, “but that’s not yet agreed, and such a course may be more perilous than it sounds: the Entwash’s vale is flat and fenny, fog a deadly peril for those on foot and laden. I wouldn’t abandon our boats until we must, for the River is at least a path that cannot be missed.”

“But the Enemy holds the eastern bank,” objected Boromir, “and even if you pass the Gates of Argonath, coming unmolested to the Tindrock, what will you do then? Leap down the Falls and land in the marshes?”

The tones were heating up, and Elva thought it was time to intervene: “It’s not the way of the Men of Minas Tirith to desert their friends at need, and we’ll need your strength, if ever we are to reach the Tindrock.”

The mortal seemed satisfied with those words, and decided he would go as far as the tall isle, but no further.

“There I shall turn to my home,” he announced, “alone if my help hasn’t earned the reward of any companionship.”

Elva prayed that someone had decided to pursue that mission, but in order to keep an army as powerful as that of Boromir's father, if everyone chose to follow Aragorn, she would be the one to separate from the rest of the companions, this decided a long time ago, perhaps at the very moment Gandalf had chosen her for the Quest. That gloomy possibility, which was so far from her ideals, prompted her to wait for the mist to rise in silence, even as she and Haldir went exploring forward along the shore, while the others remained by the boats. She hoped to find some way by which they could carry everything to the smoother water beyond the Rapids, but even if the elven boats wouldn’t sink, that didn’t ensure they could come through Sarn Gebir alive, for none ever done so yet, and no road was made by the Men of Gondor in this region, for even in their great days their realm didn’t reach up Anduin beyond the Emyn Muil.

“There is a portage-way somewhere on the western shore, if I can find it,” revealed Haldir, so softly that for a moment Elva hardly noticed.

"I didn't tell the others," the elf went on, "because I was afraid they wouldn't believe me, after my miscalculations pushed us towards the Orcs attack; besides, I fought those creatures for a good part of my own adult life, and I could’ve imagined their simple but ingenious plan."

"No one was injured, that's the important thing," Elva replied, thinking that if anyone had risked being hit, it would’ve been him, as an arrow had ripped off both the cloak and the skin of the jacket from his shoulders.

"But if that had happened, the fault would’ve been mine alone, and whoever had accused me, even if only in grief, would’ve been right: you have already lost the Istar, and before I should’ve warned Aragorn it wasn’t wise to continue at night as he suggested, but I didn't, and now I don't want to deceive anyone until I’m sure that my memory doesn’t deceive me," he replied, resolute in the bitterness of someone who can't forgive himself.

"Why are you telling me, then?" Elva asked, unable to stop.

"Because I'm sure I can trust you, and I know you’ve faced the guilt, same or not, even if I still don’t know what you’re carrying it for,” he replied, with a naked and vulnerable honesty, which hit right to the point. She didn't like talking about her past, much less what she felt about it, yet he must’ve seen a difficult life in her eyes, a life that perhaps could’ve been more like his, if only she had been born in another realm. Like Lorien, Mirkwood was a wonderful but tricky place, where growing up as a half-breed wasn't easy at all, especially when you needed to do it by yourself. Getting to know Legolas, and later becoming his confidant and friend, had been a blessing, and she kept telling herself that her true life had begun the day a young prince was bewitched by the ability of a simple recruit with a bow and with words. She hadn't treated him well, weary as every orphan is, and perhaps that was precisely what had intrigued him, since at court no one spoke to him as an equal, much less had the courage to say what they really though, too busy trying to win the future king’s favours, since with the one in charge was so hard. Speaking of Thranduil, he had welcomed her as if she were his own daughter, instructing and having her instructed in the best possible way; but the king was a cold and distant father, rigid in his manner and limited in his displays of affection, not exactly what a girl without parents desires most. If loving Legolas as a brother had been simple, as natural as breathing and almost a matter of survival, the same couldn't be said of the oldest of the Greenleafs, but she had learned that too, and with it the art of concealing her heart, although with Haldir it was so difficult.

"And how can I know I should have the same trust in you?" she asked, her heart heavy. She needed to believe that he wouldn’t leave the Fellowship, even if she followed Boromir and everyone else went by water, and she needed to know if he would understand her decision, or if he would end up misinterpreting it.

"You can't, but to convince you otherwise, I'll tell you something that I'm sure should’ve remained a secret: Galadriel's Mirror showed me three visions, three possible futures, I find myself believing. I still don't want to talk about two, because it doesn't seem wise, but the most macabre of scenes, the most terrible of nightmares that I thought I could have, I feel like sharing: I don't know if the Fellowship had failed in its intent, or if it's the fate that awaits my homeland anyway, if events should take that turn, but darkness had fallen over the forest of golden trees when a flock of huge winged creatures, like the one you killed last night, swept over Calas Galadhon. The Lord and the Lady fought side by side with every common citizen, and a shower of arrows capable of obscuring the stars was sent from each talan towards the sky. I don't know how the battle could end, as my vision was limited to that, but I have seen you fight with us, and defend our young and old as if they were your own. I don't pretend to understand what those images meant, and why the Mirror decided to show them to me, but I believe it was the beginning of Lorien's Winter, the first day of a downhill road to inevitable ruin, yet you were there by our side, and I don't think you'd fight for the land of someone you don’t trust,” he concluded, just as enigmatic as his ruler. Did he meant he understood her malfidence towards the Galadhrim, or was it really just his way of assuming that she would always trust him, to the point of risking death for a place that did not belong to her? There was no way of knowing but asking, and it didn't seem appropriate, fearing that he too might ask her what the Mirror had shown her. Death, she might’ve replied, no matter it was the mallorn’s, his people’s or Haldir’s himself, but she didn't want to talk about it anymore, she just wanted to forget his pale skin in the moonlight, the dust, sweat and blood surrounding her like a sea that smelled of the Enemy's wickedness instead of salt, so she fell silent.

“It cannot yet have perished,” muttered Haldir under his breath, after a while. “Light boats used to journey out of Wilderland down to Osgiliath, and still did so until a few years ago, when the Orcs of Mordor began to multiply.”

“Even if we find the path, peril will grow with every mile we go forward, for it lies ahead on every southward road,” replied Elva

They found what they were looking for just before noon, with the head of the Rapids half a mile below them: a track leading to a good landing, a little more than a mile long, was still serviceable, not far beyond the stream clear and smooth again, though running swiftly. The hardest task was to get the boats and baggage to the old portage-way, lying well back from the water-side near which they were camped, and running under the lee of a rock-wall, a furlong or more from the shore. “I fear we must leave the River now, and make for the portage-way as best we can from here,” said Haldir, once back.

“That wouldn’t be easy, even if we were all Men,” said Boromir.

“Yet such as we are we will try it,” Aragorn replied peremptorily.

“We will!” confirmed Gimli, and although the task was difficult, it was nevertheless completed, the goods taken out of the boats and brought to the top of the bank, where there was a level space, and the boats themselves drawn out of the water and carried up, proving to be far less heavy than any had expected; at last, all was removed to be laid on the portage-way and with little further hindrance, save from sprawling briars and many fallen stones, they moved forward all together. Fog still hung in veils upon the crumbling rock-wall, and to their left mist shrouded the River: they could hear it rushing and foaming over the sharp shelves and stony teeth of Sarn Gebir, but they couldn't see it. There the portage-way, turning back to the water-side, ran gently down to the shallow edge of a little pool scooped in the river-side, not by hand, but by the water swirling down from Sarn Gebir against a low pier of rock that jutted out some way into the stream. Beyond it the shore rose sheer into a grey cliff, and there was no further passage for those on foot. Already the short afternoon was past, and a dim cloudy dusk was closing in. Sitting beside the water, they listened to the confused rush and roar of the Rapids hidden in the mist; they were tired and sleepy, and their hearts were as gloomy as the dying day at the thought of spending there another night, even if it seemed inevitable, given the general fatigue. Luckily, nothing worse than a brief drizzle of rain an hour before dawn happened, and as soon as it was fully light and the fog was thinning, they started. Keeping as close as they could to the western side, they saw the dim shapes of the low cliffs rising ever higher, shadowy walls with their feet in the hurrying river. In the mid-morning the clouds drew down lower, and it began to rain heavily, forcing them to drew the skin-covers over their boats to prevent them from being flooded and drifted on; little could be seen before or about them through the grey falling curtains but it didn’t last long, the sky above growing lighter and suddenly opening, dismissing fogs and mists too. Before the travellers lay a wide ravine, with great rocky sides to which clung, upon shelves and in narrow crevices, a few trees; as they sped along with little hope of stopping or turning, whatever might meet ahead, Elva peered forward, seeing in the distance two great rocks approaching. Like pinnacles or pillars of stone they stood, tall, sheer and ominous, creating a narrow gap among which the boats could only pass one by one. They were the Argonath, the Pillars of the Kings, vast grey figures silent but threatening, shaped and fashioned as two great kings of stone with blurred eyes and crannied brows frowning upon the North. The left hand of each was raised palm outwards in gesture of warning, while in each right hand there was an axe and upon each head there was a crumbling helm and crown. Great power and majesty they still wore, the silent wardens of a long-vanished Kingdom, instilling awe and fear in the Fellowship travelling in boats frail and fleeting as little leaves, under the enduring shadow of the sentinels of Numenor. Passing into the dark chasm of the Gates, sheer rose the dreadful cliffs on either side, while the black waters roared and echoed, and a wind screamed over them. What a horrible place it was, but it must’ve been even worse for Aragorn, a king in exile who was finally returning to his land only to see it filled with the noise of wind, rushing water and echoing stone.

[rosethornewrites]

Fic: frost on the frozen ground

Relationships: Lán Zhàn | Lán Wàngjī/Wèi Yīng | Wèi Wúxiàn, Lán Huàn | Lán Xīchén/Mèng Yáo | Jīn Guāngyáo

Characters: Lan Zhan | Lan Wangji, Lan Huan | Lan Xichen, Lan Yuan | Lan Sizhui, Lan Qiren, Wei Ying | Wei Wuxian, Wen Qing, Fourth Uncle, Jin Zixun

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Modern AU, Corporate Espionage, Bad Uncle Lán Qǐrén, Anxiety, Confrontations, Family, References to Depression, Bunnies, Found Family, Podfic Welcome

Summary: Wei Ying and A-Zhan are still dealing with the fallout weeks after the public arrest of Meng Yao and Jin Guangshan cleared Wei Ying's name, when an uninvited visitor shows up. Second in the moonlight falls corporate spy AU series, inspired by @angstymdzsthoughts.

Notes: See end.

AO3 link

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Wei Ying was exhausted. It wasn’t even a physical sort of exhaustion, but one brought on by the absolute circus the last few weeks had been, following the very public arrest of Lan Xichen’s fiancé for the exact corporate espionage Gusu Lan Tech had accused him of and ruined his life over five years ago. 

Trust Nie Huaisang to somehow convince the FBI to arrest Meng Yao during a major family dinner for the grooms that was well-attended by the media as a sort of social gala, and to also ensure they arrested Jin Guangshan at the same time. He was only the head of Jin Enterprises, so it’s not like it didn’t send that company’s stocks tanking immediately while also humiliating Gusu Lan Tech. 

Nie Huaisang did petty well. 

Wei Ying just wished the aftermath hadn’t meant reporters hounding him and A-Zhan almost constantly, though that wasn’t Huaisang’s fault. At least, that he knew of—his old friend hadn’t reached out, and Wei Ying didn’t know whether to expect him to. 

They’d had to start screening their calls and if they did go out, it was wearing disguises and usually separately. 

It had started when Jin Guangshan’s shitty nephew had attempted to ambush interview them while they were shopping for groceries with A-Yuan. 

Everyone knew he was a hack. Jin Zixun had majored in history at a university his uncle was on the board of (the only reason he was even admitted) and barely got his degree. He’d been resoundingly rejected by every reputable employer despite his uncle’s best efforts, and could only get a job at some hack blog site pretending to be news and to have journalistic integrity. He was largely known for ludicrous conspiracy theories, vehement misogyny, and, weirdly, white nationalist talking points, but his articles and livestreams apparently got enough advertising revenue to merit his continued employment. 

He had the nerve to imply Wei Ying had somehow framed Meng Yao and Jin Guangshan. 

On the bright side, the camera had been livestreaming, and A-Zhan had verbally eviscerated him and implied that he probably had a hand in the corporate espionage, that maybe the investigation should look into him. 

“I recall your name and the insulting things you said and wrote about Wei Ying. You claimed, without evidence, there was a connection with Compu-Jiang, and then they took a financial hit. Trying to take out your uncle’s competition?”

Jin Zixun’s face had turned interesting colors and he cut the camera, but the damage was done. They learned the next day he was canned from the pseudo-journalist farce and the FBI had declared him a “person of interest” and seized his electronics. 

The interest in that led to more media coverage looking at the Weis, rekindling interest in the false accusation and Wei Ying’s blacklisting from the industry. Uncle Four had banned reporters from the premises, and since he owned the building that meant they at least weren’t buzzing the apartment from the lobby or, worse, somehow getting in and knocking on their door, for the most part at least. Now they were simply waiting across the street and accosting them if they spotted them, something that most often happened if they were together, and less if they were separate. 

Wei Ying didn’t want to revisit the year or so following the blacklisting. Even with A-Zhan beside him, it had been like a montage of humiliation and pain. He hated that these reporters wanted to put all that on display again.

The Wens had been amazing, often bringing them groceries and cooked meals, but they couldn’t stay cooped up—they had a son, and he was fond of parks and libraries. Sometimes his aunts or uncles or Granny would take him out for them if there was a congregation of reporters, and that had at least ensured the parasites hadn’t caught on to A-Yuan’s existence connected to them yet. 

As a bright spot, A-Li had contacted him. With her father-in-law in prison for the corporate espionage Wei Ying had been framed for, her husband had consented to let him meet his nephew. She was excited to meet A-Yuan. They were just waiting for some of the furor to die down. 

Even though it was Saturday, Wei Ying was finishing a coding project while A-Zhan was taking A-Yuan to the library and then a different park than usual. He wished he could go with them, but it was better not to tempt fate. 

He was nearly finished sorting out a coding error when the bell for the apartment building buzzer rang. Sighing in irritation, he stalked to the door and pressed the button to respond, careful not to press the one that unlocked the door.

“No comment. Please leave the premises.”

“I am not the press,” a gravelly male voice responded.

Wei Ying blinked. He knew that voice, but he couldn’t place it.

“Name?”

“You know perfectly well who I am.”

It was the haughtiness of the tone that pinged his memory. How could he forget, being lectured by Lan Qiren on his ungrateful nature and ruining of his nephew when he was being fired?

Just the memory made him nauseous. As far as he knew, Lan Qiren hadn’t reached out to A-Zhan, though Lan Xichen had, apologizing that they would be dragged into this again.

Quickly, he pulled his phone from his pocket and fired a text message off to A-Zhan. 

Your uncle is here

“You’ll need to make an appointment,” he said blithely. “Have Lan Xichen set it up with A-Zhan. He has his number.”

His phone dinged as the uninvited visitor made outraged sounds that he very carefully refused to allow to register as words. Then the buzzer started up again, and he ignored it.

Not invited. Do not let him in.

In spite of the seriousness of the situation, Wei Ying had to smile over his husband’s use of proper punctuation and capitalization, ever proper even via text.

on it, he replied. will let you know when clear

The noise from the intercom/buzzer ceased, thankfully, and Wei Ying moved back toward the office, stepping over the barrier that kept Turmeric from getting to all the cords. As he did, he texted Wen Qing to let her know what had happened.

a-zhans uncle buzzed from lobby

told him to make appt

idk what he wants

He sat down with a sigh and stretched before trying to immerse himself back in the code. He’d just found his line of coding error when a knock on the door reverberated through the apartment. Before he could even contemplate getting up, his phone chimed, a text from Wen Qing.

Auntie 6 came to me

He followed her in

Uncle 4 and I are on it

Which meant, of course, that Lan Qiren had breached the building, likely not even registering that he was trespassing, or so privileged that he felt trespassing laws didn’t apply to him.

Fuck.

He could feel his anxiety rising, something he didn’t need. Now was not the time for a Xanax, no matter how much his heart was fluttering at the idea of having to deal with A-Zhan’s uncle.

lmk when i can escape, he sent back.

Then he texted A-Zhan.

breached perimeter

qing-jie & unc 4 to rescue

will come to u

where r u?

Wei Ying crept to the living room, trying to stay quiet as the intruder knocked again, more forcefully. He debated for a moment, fiddling with his phone nervously before slipping it in his pocket, then grabbed Turmeric’s carrier, leash, and harness. The bunny needed some outdoors time, and Wei Ying would probably be able to meet A-Zhan and A-Yuan at the park.

The knocking continued, and he was certain before long Lan Qiren would lose all sense of decorum and start yelling through the door. 

plz hurry, he texted Wen Qing.

He donned a hat A-Yuan had gifted him for Father’s Day, an adorable white bucket hat with bunnies and carrots on it, and a pair of big sunglasses. He was wearing torn jeans and a black t-shirt with a binary code motif Wen Ning had given him for Christmas—it read “fuck off,” but wasn’t too inappropriate given that only coders could read it. He was as decent as he was going to get.

Wei Ying opened Turmeric’s hutch and scooped him gently into the carrier, hushing him even though he was completely quiet and cooperative. He felt like an intruder in his own home, and it left a sour taste in his mouth.

Finally, he could hear voices outside the door—Uncle Four’s boisterous voice asking what he could do for “the gentleman,” Wen Qing mentioning trespassing, Lan Qiren’s haughtiness slowly sputtering out, growing distant as they led him away.

His phone dinged twice, A-Zhan texting the location of the park, and Wen Qing giving the all-clear. Wei Ying grabbed his shoes, keys, and wallet, Turmeric’s crate and his sundries, and slipped out of the apartment in socked feet, easing the door shut and locking it as quietly as he could.

He practically tiptoed down the side staircase, the one that didn’t lead to the lobby but straight outside, and slipped his shoes on in the vestibule before slipping outside into the sunshine, making sure the door shut behind him without anyone getting in.

The park, thankfully, was not too far away, and he didn’t see any reporters on this side of the building. Likely they had seen Lan Qiren enter and were all crowded on the side near the lobby hoping to see something good.

Fat chance.

Wei Ying booked it the first few blocks before he felt like he’d escaped and started to calm, but he didn’t really relax until he could see A-Zhan in the distance, looking in his direction, A-Yuan beside him sipping on a boxed apple juice. His husband folded him into a hug, and he could feel the tension ease from his body with a soft sigh.

“I brought Turmeric. He could use some outside time.”

The tiny smile he got from A-Zhan finished the job of easing the worst of his anxiety, and they sat with A-Yuan on the grass to bring Turmeric out of the carrier and belt him into his little harness.

His fingers fumbled on the buckles and he sighed in frustration. 

“Sit, A-Ying,” A-Zhan said. “Relax.”

There was a bit of worry in his eyes, and that told Wei Ying he must look frazzled. A-Zhan knew his anxieties, knew what Lan Qiren had said to him, something he’d opened up about long ago, when they’d learned to communicate and work as a team, and when Wei Ying was learning not to push him away. 

And so Wei Ying settled back and let him finish with Turmeric, focused on the sunshine and the breeze and the soft grass beneath him. His fingers itched to pull out his phone, though he’d received no notifications, and he resisted it, instead rubbing his hand along the surface of the grass, letting the individual strands tickle his palms.

Before long, their absolutely adorable second son was contentedly exploring the grass, and curious children were starting to gather. A-Zhan explained bunnies didn’t like loud noises and sudden movements, and told them if they had permission from their parents, they could approach one at a time to pet him. 

A-Yuan tumbled into Wei Ying’s lap, content to watch Turmeric from there, and he had no doubt his son had picked up on his anxiety. He was a bright boy. 

Eventually, the children wandered away, a calm bunny only so interesting, and A-Yuan was half-asleep on his lap. A-Zhan’s phone dinged, and he handed the leash to Wei Ying before fishing it out. A bit of texting and a few alerts later, his mouth was downturned. 

“A-Zhan?” he asked.

“I sent Xichen to retrieve Qiren, but he insists he must speak to me.”

Wei Ying fantasized briefly about Lan Qiren being led from the premises in handcuffs, yelling, but he knew that wouldn’t solve anything. It could well make things worse, so he wasn’t even able to enjoy the fantasy. 

“The board voted to remove xiongzhang,” he added. “Likely he wishes to insist I take over the company.”

He felt his chest clench at that. Pity toward Xichen, who had done what he could to keep Wei Ying out of prison even if only for A-Zhan’s sake, and the grief he was facing as his life fell apart around him. But more, there was fear that A-Zhan would take it, would leave him behind—not a rational fear given everything they had weathered together, but anxiety was cruel. 

“You can take it if you want it, A-Zhan,” he said after a minute. 

A-Zhan made a noncommittal noise. 

“I am texting Wen Qing to prepare a conference room so we need not open our home to him,” he replied after a moment. “I should hear him out.”

Wei Ying looked away, swallowing hard at the taste of bile. His vision was blurred, but he kept a handle on it, refused to cry again over this.

“I… I’ll stay with A-Yuan while you meet him.”

He startled when A-Zhan knelt in front of him and took his hands.

“We are together in this and all things. Granny will meet us and watch A-Yuan during the meeting. I need you there, A-Ying. I will say no.”

Wei Ying glanced up at him.

“He will hound us until I meet with him, but I will not go back to Gusu Lan Tech,” A-Zhan said, his voice insistent, worried. “My place is with you, at Dafan.”

“You’re sure you don’t want it?” he couldn’t help asking.

This was, after all, a chance for A-Zhan to reconcile with his family and further his career. But his husband’s expression turned stormy at the question.

“They will never admit to having wronged you, A-Ying. I cannot abide that.”

Wei Ying manages a weak smile. 

“They’ll never admit they wronged you, either.”

A-Zhan nodded, the corners of his lips taut with stress. 

“Wen Qing will sit in with us since this is now a Dafan Applications matter. Uncle Four, too.”

Wei Ying blinked at him blankly for a moment before he understood. Technically Gusu Lan Tech was trying to poach A-Zhan from Dafan Applications, which made it company business. Lan Qiren was trespassing on Uncle Four’s property, which made it his business. And it meant they’d have witnesses. His husband was clever, and so was Wen Qing. 

“A-Die, baba, okay?”

A-Yuan looked up at them solemnly. The poor child had been with them at the grocery store when Jin Zixun had ambushed them, had seen so much these past weeks that he didn’t understand. He deserved some explanation. 

“We are, baobei,” Wei Ying said firmly. “Bad things happened a few years ago. Someone made it look like a-die did something bad, and they just got caught.”

He could see the moment their son understood. 

“That’s why the mean man said it was your fault?”

Wei Ying nodded, and A-Yuan squirmed out of his lap to give him a giant hug. 

“Thank you. Now baba’s uncle wants to talk to us, so we need to go home. You’ll visit with popo while we find out what he wants, okay?”

A-Yuan bit his lip, looking more anxious than a child his age should.

“Baba’s uncle won’t be mean to you, will he?”

His heart broke at his son’s concern. It was clear he’d picked up on undertones they thought they’d kept away. A-Zhan wrapped A-Yuan in a hug. 

“Baba won’t let shufu be mean to a-die,” A-Zhan said seriously.

“And your gugu will be with us, so she won’t let him be mean to either of us,” Wei Ying added. 

A-Yuan brightened—Wen Qing had a reputation, one even her five-year-old nephew was aware of. He trusted her to protect his dads. 

“Okay,” A-Yuan said. “If you bring Turmeric with you, he’ll comfort you if he’s mean!”

Wei Ying smiled at that.

“That’s why we’re leaving Turmeric with you, so he can comfort you. I know you’re worried, but baba and I will be okay. We’ll come right home when we’re done and snuggle with you and Turmeric.”

Their son seemed to accept that, and A-Zhan deftly removed Turmeric’s harness and placed him in the carrier. He pulled their disguises from a bag. Wei Ying was delighted when A-Yuan put on his brown bunny bucket hat, and he reached out to arrange the ears once the boy had it on. A-Zhan was wearing his own bucket hat, green with frog eyes, also a Father’s Day gift from A-Yuan. 

Honesty, he hadn’t expected that fatherhood would make A-Zhan even sexier, but he wasn’t complaining. 

The walk home was quiet. Wei Ying dreaded reaching home and hated that he felt that way. The home he had made with A-Zhan and A-Yuan was precious to him, and it felt like a sacred space had been violated. 

As they drew nearer, they planned to separate, A-Zhan taking A-Yuan to one side staircase, and Wei Ying taking Turmeric to the other, the plan to meet at the apartment. 

Wei Ying was actually surprised when it went off without a hitch, and he opened the stairwell door to see A-Zhan unlocking the door, Granny already hugging A-Yuan. Just a few years ago she’d have picked him up, but he was a bit big for that now. 

She smiled at his approach, reaching up to pat him on the cheek. 

“Aiya, you look so stressed. Popo will make dinner,” she said. “Auntie Three is making baozi for the building, too.”

Several of the aunties loved cooking different things in excess, so every few weeks they would make a huge batch of something delicious for the whole building, since everyone in the building was family. Auntie Three’s baozi were a favorite of his; she remembered his love for spicy food and always accommodated that in his. 

“Extra spicy for A-Ying,” he chirped, though popo clucked softly in a way that let him know she saw through his attempt at cheer. 

She headed straight for the kitchen, where she would likely catalogue the fridge to decide what to cook. Whatever she made, it would be delicious; his mouth was almost watering just thinking about it. 

He focused on getting Turmeric settled in his hutch, and A-Zhan got A-Yuan situated with a coloring book and crayons. 

“I should change,” Wei Ying said, remembering his torn jeans and the shirt Lan Qiren might be able to decode. 

He’d probably think Wei Ying wore the shirt on purpose to send a message. Frankly, Wei Ying wouldn’t mind that interpretation, but he didn’t want to antagonize. 

“What you are wearing is fine,” A-Zhan said, catching his wrist. “He interrupted our day, and he can get us as we are.”

A-Zhan was still wearing the frog bucket hat, with apparently no intent on removing it. His light blue shirt, Wei Ying noticed for the first time, was the one with a print of a rabbit wearing glasses and a bow tie, with ‘daddy’ in script underneath. Wei Ying snagged his hat with the bunnies and carrots motif from where he’d placed it atop the bunny hutch and put it back on. They’d match, to a certain extent, present a united front. 

“Be good for popo,” A-Zhan directed A-Yuan, as though their son would ever be anything but good. 

The boy simply nodded and discarded his crayon to run over and hug them both. 

The first two floors of the building were Dafan Applications office space. Though the first floor also held a lovely coffee shop and several other stores open to the public, the core of the building was the headquarters. An elevator and staircase serviced the offices, accessible with employee IDs. Each office was accessible only by swiping employee IDs, and record was kept of who entered and when. 

Since the apartments were held entirely by family, it might have seemed paranoid, but Wei Ying was glad for the security the building had—after all, the lack of it at Gusu Lan Tech had led to him being framed for corporate espionage. Poorly, but it ultimately hadn’t mattered. 

He hadn’t understood why he’d been framed, only that he’d had to correct Su She’s subpar coding many times when he’d worked there, so it wasn’t very surprising that he’d fuck up installing the code to the point where it would be caught before it could do damage. Since he’d never been anything but pleasant to Su She, that he’d been targeted had surprised him. 

When he had mentioned his confusion to A-Zhan, about a week after the news broke, he learned that Su She had tried to tell A-Zhan that Wei Ying was a poor choice as a romantic partner, implying he would be better. 

“I told him he was not qualified to speak with me,” A-Zhan had recollected. 

It made a sick sort of sense—if Wei Ying was out of the way, fired or imprisoned, Su She might think he had a shot. And given that Lan Qiren had hated him even before he and A-Zhan started dating, the frame up job was sufficient.

A-Zhan took his hand and led him into the elevator, and he realized he must have blanked out because he hadn’t even heard it arrive. His husband was watching him in concern, and he hated how much this invasion by Lan Qiren was messing with him, but he absolutely wasn’t going to abandon A-Zhan to face him alone. 

“I’m okay,” Wei Ying said. “I just want to get it over with.”

Uncle Four was waiting for them by the elevators. He offered a smile.

“I’ll bring by a few bottles of my newest brew later,” he said in greeting.

“That bad, huh?” Wei Ying asked ruefully. 

“I don’t wish to speak ill of A-Zhan’s family,” Uncle Four said deferentially. 

‘But that man…’ was heavily implied. 

A-Zhan inclined his head. 

“He decided Wei Ying’s guilt on flimsy evidence,” his husband said, his tone dismissive. 

Wei Ying squeezed his hand—it was as close to disparaging as A-Zhan had ever come toward his uncle. More often, they simply pretended he didn’t exist, which prior to this had been fairly easy. When they had spoken of it, when he had finally told A-Zhan in one of his darker moments what Lan Qiren had said to him when running him out of Gusu Lan Tech with security, his husband had simply folded him in his arms and told him he was wrong, over and over again, and reiterated that he had chosen Wei Ying. 

A-Zhan was angry, he realized. Perhaps over Lan Qiren returning to their life with all of his customary arrogance, or perhaps in defense of his brother, who was being excised from the company. He remembered, early in their relationship, learning that both brothers had been told what to major in, prepped for what Lan Qiren thought their careers should look like at Gusu Lan, which was why A-Zhan hadn’t been able to pursue music as he had wished. It was why he had expected him to break up with him, as ordered. 

He wondered what Lan Xichen had given up, what dreams he had let go to serve his family. 

“Tomorrow,” he told Uncle Four. “I think we’ll need tonight for us.”

The older man offered a sympathetic smile and escorted them to the conference room. 

It was the ostentatious one they used for particularly obnoxious or status-obsessed clients, with handsomely-carved panels with the Dafan Applications logo and an imposing table that looked expensive but were actually the work of a family member with a woodworking hobby. It had two doors, one on either side of the long table, which was ideal—they wouldn’t have to walk past Lan Qiren to get in or out. 

When they entered, Wei Ying’s gaze was drawn to Lan Xichen first, seated at the side of the table. He looked… defeated was the first word to come to mind. He glanced at his husband, could see he too was looking at his brother, concerned lines at the corners of his eyes betraying his emotions. 

“Finally,” Lan Qiren commented, drawing their attention. “I don’t have all day.”

His gaze was, as usual, disapproving, and he completely disregarded the fact that he had been the one to crash their day, not the other way around.

“My husband told you to schedule an appointment,” A-Zhan said in lieu of greeting.

He tugged Wei Ying to the head of the table, where someone had thoughtfully placed two chairs. Qing-jie was his guess, letting them present as the team they were. She was on one side of the table beside the seats, and Uncle Four sat on the other, probably as owner of the building. Wen Ning was too faint-hearted to handle this, he knew, even though he was technically the head of Dafan Applications.

“An appointment, to see my own nephew?” Lan Qiren grated, glaring at Wei Ying like it was his fault.

“You told me five years ago that I was no nephew of yours,” A-Zhan said, his voice dispassionate.

Wei Ying knew how much that had hurt A-Zhan. Part of him wanted to tell Lan Qiren that, rail at him over every emotional scar he had inflicted on the both of them, but he also knew there was no point in it—he wouldn’t listen, and he knew well enough that it wouldn’t be cathartic. It was better to let A-Zhan get this over with and be here to support him.

“You were making a mistake!”

His continued glaring at Wei Ying made it obvious what “mistake” he was referring to, and he barely managed not to flinch. It was clear this conversation was not going to be pleasant. A-Zhan took his hand, lacing their fingers together and squeezing gently. 

“As I recall, the evidence that he was not making a mistake has been all over the news,” Wen Qing drawled.

“What business is it of yours?” Lan Qiren demanded. “Why are you here?”

“As witnesses,” she replied. “And A-Zhan and A-Ying are family. We’re here for them.”

Warmth spread through Wei Ying’s chest at her pronouncement—he often referred to her as Qing-jie, but hadn’t known the sentiment was returned. 

“And I own the building in which you are currently trespassing,” Uncle Four added.

Where he was normally a jovial and friendly man, his expression was serious and bordering on unwelcoming. Apparently Lan Qiren had made quite the impression on him. 

Lan Qiren sniffed disdainfully, but finally focused on A-Zhan. 

“The board has decided Xichen’s… indiscretions make him unfit to head the company. You have been appointed in his place. You will, of course, be expected to take the Lan name again, as will the child you’ve adopted. I’ve taken the liberty of securing housing for you, and I suppose we can find a place in the company for your husband, on a provisionary basis, of course.”

Dead silence followed his pronouncement, and Wei Ying felt dizzy with the presumption of all of this—A-Zhan was being ordered back to Gusu Lan Tech as though this wasn’t the first they’d seen or heard from Lan Qiren in over five years, clearly expected to obey without question. 

“Provisionary?” A-Zhan murmured, his voice icy with what Wei Ying recognized as fury. 

He squeezed A-Zhan’s hand, silently asking that he not be angry on his behalf. After all, he expected nothing but this treatment from Lan Qiren, so he wasn’t surprised to receive it. 

“He’ll be expected to prove himself, of course.”

“He already has,” Wen Qing cut in. “He’s been an asset to Dafan Applications since the day we hired him, paramount to our success.”

Lan Qiren sniffed dismissively. 

“Yes, well, his previous stint of employment at Gusu Lan Tech left much to be desired.”

A-Zhan’s jaw clenched. Wei Ying’s stomach roiled, remembering the constant criticism he’d faced there, how ultimately he wondered why they’d even agreed to hire him.

“I will not subject my husband to further abuse at the hands of the company that attempted to ruin his career.”

To his surprise, Lan Qiren looked satisfied by that statement. 

“Then we’ll arrange for your move. You’ll be expected to dress more professionally in the future, as the representative of the company.”

He eyed A-Zhan’s hat and clothing with distaste.

Wei Ying stole a glance at Xichen, who looked haggard and drained and was barely listening to the conversation, and felt empathy for his situation. Xichen had always treated him kindly, until he went no-contact after A-Zhan’s resignation, something he was likely ordered to do. Even so, he also sought to warn them of what had happened, and had informed A-Zhan of Lan Qiren’s intentions. And he had stood fast against the board’s desire to have him prosecuted. 

And now the man he had been set to marry is in prison, having brought Nie Innovations to its knees and attempted the same with Gusu Lan Tech, and what happiness he’d been looking forward to was just so much smoke. 

“You misunderstand,” A-Zhan said. “I do not intend to relocate, or take on the Lan name, or chair Gusu Lan Tech. I will continue to work at Dafan and live in my apartment with my husband and our son. I will remain Wei Zhan.”

Lan Qiren looked shocked, almost as though he had been physically slapped, and then the anger returned. 

“You leave me no choice. It will be a simple matter to buy out Dafan,” he said. 

Wen Qing laughed at the threat. 

“Dafan Applications is a worker cooperative. You have no power.”

For the first time he’d known him, Lan Qiren seemed incapable of words. After all, it meant that he and A-Zhan were part owners of Dafan, as all employees were, something he would never offer at Gusu Lan. Wei Ying privately hoped he was having an internal fit over the socialism of worker cooperatives. 

A-Zhan, however, had plenty to say. 

“You disrupted our Saturday after five years of silence to demand I change my life to suit your whims,” A-Zhan said coldly. “You didn’t even have the grace to apologize to Wei Ying, whose life and career you tried to destroy.”

Lan Qiren’s expression turned stormy. 

“You chose this ill-bred miscreant over your family, and you expect me to apologize to him?”

“No,” A-Zhan said. “I chose the truth. I chose love. A-Ying is my family.”

“You,” Lan Qiren snarled, turning his attention to Wei Ying. “This rebellion is all your influence! A-Zhan was filial until you came along!”

Wei Ying stayed silent. His anxiety spiked but was soothed by A-Zhan’s hand in his, in the feeling of his fingers entwined. Lan Qiren could do nothing to them—he’d already tried, and they’d ultimately come out stronger. They’d built a life and found new family. 

There was so much he could say, but he knew better than to think Lan Qiren would listen; he was a convenient scapegoat, and nothing would convince him otherwise. 

“Have you nothing to say, you ingrate?” Lan Qiren demanded.

A-Zhan tensed, but Wei Ying squeezed his hand.

“I see no point in speaking to you,” he said honestly.

“You dare!”

Lan Qiren stood, quivering with rage.

“You broke our family as completely as you broke the Jiangs, and you have the gall to sit there smirking, enjoying the mess you’ve made!”

Mention of the Jiangs hurt—it had been weeks and only A-Li had reached out, but she had never broken contact to begin with. 

Wen Qing slapped the table and stood, startling them. 

“I’ve heard quite enough. You can’t bully your estranged nephew into uprooting the life he built after you alienated him, so you go after A-Ying again. You act the victim, but you drove A-Zhan away with your unmerited vitriol toward A-Ying.”

Uncle Four stood as well. He was a calm man, but Wei Ying could see him tremble—in anger or nervousness, he didn’t know.

“You are not welcome here, Lan Qiren. Leave or you will be removed.”

“And given that you attempted to poach two of our best employees and threatened our company, you can tell your board that Dafan Applications will never do business with Gusu Lan Tech,” Wen Qing added. 

Wei Ying knew her level of petty and wondered if their new apps would unexpectedly glitch on Gusu Lan products in the future. Probably not, since she was focused on user experience. 

Maybe he was the one feeling petty, but he doubted anyone who mattered would judge him for it. 

“Clearly attempting to reason with any of you is an exercise in futility,” Lan Qiren said.

It took far too much energy to suppress a nearly-hysterical giggle building in Wei Ying’s chest at his complete lack of self awareness. 

“Come, Xichen. We’re done here.”

A-Zhan bristled further, glancing at Wei Ying with a question in his eyes, and he nodded. Xichen deserved to know he still had family. 

“Xiongzhang may stay for dinner, if he wishes,” A-Zhan said. “Our son would love to meet his bobo.”

A tiny smile lit up Xichen’s features, and Wei Ying got the impression it was the first time he’d smiled since his fiancé’s arrest.

“I would be honored to,” he said softly. 

His voice was hoarse, as though he was no longer used to speaking, or was overcome with emotion. It could easily be both. 

“Thank you, didi.”

Lan Qiren scoffed, and Wen Qing pointed at the door, raising an eyebrow. When he stomped out, she and Uncle Four followed him to escort him from the premises, leaving the three of them alone.

“Were you offered another position in the company?” A-Zhan asked after a moment of uncomfortable silence. 

Xichen shook his head, the fleeting smile gone. 

“No. Uncle believes I need time to reflect on my mistakes.”

Wei Ying didn’t hold back a scoff, given that Lan Qiren had referred to him as A-Zhan’s mistake. 

“You didn’t make any mistakes. You had no way of knowing.”

The smile Xichen offers is wrong, bitter. 

“I should have done more. Instead of letting them scapegoat you, I should have insisted on a full investigation. Maybe we would have uncovered the truth and protected you. Maybe we could have prevented the damage to Nie Innovations and Mingjue’s health, too.”

He had forgotten that Xichen and Mingjue were friends somehow. Wei Ying wanted to tell him the guilt he carried was a burden that shouldn’t be his, but he also knew from struggling with his own that it was something Xichen would need to come to terms with himself. 

“You should reach out to him,” A-Zhan said, looking at Wei Ying like he knew what he was thinking. “I doubt he blames you, and perhaps he could use the help.”

Xichen looked torn on the idea. Wei Ying could almost see the thoughts running through his head—that he would be unwelcome, a burden on his friend, but that it was a way to do penance for the sins he believed he’d committed. 

“I’ll think about it,” he finally said.

Wei Ying walked around the table and patted his shoulder, gesturing to the other door, the one that led to the interior of the building. A-Zhan had offered an olive branch with the invitation, and this was his. 

“Come on. Popo is cooking, and Auntie Three made baozi for the whole building. And A-Yuan is waiting.”

The smile returned, a little stronger this time, and Wei Ying smiled back as Xichen levered out of his seat to follow them home. 

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

Jin Zixun’s background is maybe based on a very well-known “journalist” who just constantly looks confused and outraged. To narrow it down, John Oliver did a segment on him recently. Uh, and maybe slightly on two other conspiracy theorists who pretend at journalism, one of whom keeps getting sued.

Also, I am old enough to text in full sentences most of the time. I had some friends check over Wei Ying’s panic texts so hopefully they’re believable.

This was difficult to write because of the anxiety Wei Ying was feeling and the uncomfortable conversations.

Also, I forgot the Nie company name and had to check—I couldn’t remember if it was Nie Innovations or Nie Industries. Turns out I accidentally used both in the first fic in the series. Fixed it now.

I maybe spent too much time researching worker cooperatives and employee-owned companies. It’s not a major part of this fic, but I thought it was a cool detail to bring in.

The title is, again, from the Li Bai poem.

[baby-witch-eli]

Quantifying my Craft

I found this lovely post by @breelandwalker, who I totally recommend checking out, and it inspired me. My cards and horoscopes have been pushing me to reflect on my goals lately so this is exactly what I needed right now! I decided I'd give it a go.

Broad Concepts

I like to follow western traditions; Celtic traditions in particular are near and dear to my heart. This is why I chose to focus my worship in the Celtic Pantheon, and I'm currently working on building a relationship with Brigid. I would consider myself an eclectic, although divination and nature magic are my two main areas of focus. While I like to ask others for advice while I learn, magic is something I prefer to practice on my own. I've only been practicing since late January, interestingly enough I started around Imbolc. So far I've found intentions are the most important aspect of witchcraft and it has helped me greatly to practice intention in all aspects of my life.

Working Space

I began constructing an altar to Brigid yesterday. Frustratingly enough, my mother is going to have me put away all my small little items and decorations tomorrow as we're trying to sell our house. We won't be moving for a few more months though. I'm hoping I'll be able to keep the altar up but I'll look into online altar options if needed. I already keep an online altar to myself on an app called #SelfCare that I would highly recommended.

Right now my altar to Brigid has a white candle in a green holder; a sailor's knot I wore around my wrist until it started to come undone; a silver bell for music and creativity; the first piece of pottery I ever painted; a picture book of the traveling I did around Michigan a few years ago; an empty journal I hope to fill with art and poems dedicated to her; and a beaker (cauldron stand-in) I dedicated by burning a sigil in that holds nineteen white rose petals and a whisker my cat lost. I'm charging a carnelian and working on a piece of fox, the spirit guide she sent me, embroidery to add to the altar. It's positioned on top of an organizer I have on my desk, which is pushed up against a window.

There's a spot under my porch I wanted to use for meditation but I discovered I'm too jumpy and distractible to meditate outdoors. I don't like having my eyes closed when out of the open and I have an exaggerated startle response. Instead, I find it better for me to meditate in the bath. Sitting in water at least ankle deep with the lights off, after everybody else has gone to sleep and when the moon can shine through the window, is the ideal place for me to sit and follow a guided meditation. I find meditations that take me on a journey through my astral space are the most effective.

Ideally, I'd like to be able to have my own space where I can freely spread my altars and workspaces throughout the house. I want to be able to fill it with plants and books and cards and candles. While I'm at home trying to avoid suspicion from my Christian family, I just have to make the most of what I have.

Tools

My first deck is on the #SelfCare app. I call it my "Familiar Deck" as that's the one I'm most connected with. It's brutally honest, which I love. My second favorite deck is the "blue-eyed" deck I use for my Daily Draw. Another brutally honest deck and one I find to be very accurate. When asking Brigid questions, I prefer to use the Yes/No deck. It gives you your answer and is also good at accurately conveying "secondary," not yes/no, messages. You'll notice all of them are online and that's because, once again, I live with my Christian family and must be covert.

I have a quite a few crystals as I, thankfully, was interested in collecting them when I was younger. The tumbled crystals I have are small and few; most of my crystals are raw. I keep forgetting to charge them when there's a full moon out. I'll have to set a reminder or something to that effect. At the very least, I'm happy that I don't have to bother with trying to obtain any without my parents becoming suspicious. One of these days, I'd love to start collecting rings and wear several. It's also silly little dream of mine to get an onyx pendulum someday.

As far as books go, I bought a beautiful journal I've dedicated as my grimoire. It's dark blue with shiny, gold space decals. I would love to collect witchy books but I don't have money and I couldn't get away with it while living at home. I hear there's an excellent discord that stores witchy books and I think it's something I'll look into. For now, my information comes from my internet research. Thankfully, I did debate for several years, so I know how to find sources from accurate cites, but it certainly takes a lot of work to find good information that way.

The Year

I’m interested in learning more about the Wheel of the Year and incorporating it into my practice. Imbolc is especially important to me, as I worship the goddess Brighid. I missed it this year but I hope to celebrate it in the future. I have yet to study the important of dates outside of astrology so I’ll have to make sure I study it more.

History of My Magic

Honestly, I’ve always felt a very strong pull towards magic. I was raised in a very religious family though so I was always afraid that answering the call would condemn me. I grew up reading as many fantasy stories as I could, connecting with any animal I was able to, and spending as much time in the woods or by water as I could. The woods and the water have always felt full of magic to me and inspired me to want to practice witchcraft. Ever since I was little, I’ve had a great fondness and affection for the moon and stars. I’ve also always felt very drawn to Celtic folklore, magic, and Irish culture. I have distant family ties to Ireland and even though it’s a relatively minor aspect of my heritage, it’s always felt the most important to me. Movies like Song of the Sea and Brendan and the Secret of Kells helped tighten my bond with it. I even started learning as much as I could about the Fae after some books I read piqued my interest. I’ve always been the kid who kept a firm belief in magic even after all my friends “outgrew” it.

It took me a long time to finally answer the call to magic. Like I said, I was raised in a religious household. My grandparents even accused me of being a witch when I went through my Harry Potter phase! It actually made me rather pleased. There were a few times I came very close to beginning practicing witchcraft but I shied away for fear of Hell. It wasn’t until I finally was able to distance myself from the church earlier this year that I decided to start practicing magic behind my parents’ back. I’m very glad I did.

Progress

I’ve only been practicing for a few months. I’ve been very busy with college so it’s been pretty lax so far. I’m trying to build some sort of consistency. The end of the semester is a bad time for that, for sure. I’ve really connected with astrology and tarot-reading. Learning about the symbolism of different bugs and animals has also been something I’ve honestly also done, so it’s nice to be able to incorporate that into my practice. Dragonflies have always been signs of good luck for me (or bad omens, as the one time I saw one dead was one my Grammy found in her garage; she showed it to me a month or so before she passed away from cancer).

Recently, I began meditation. I met my spirit animal, a brown-eyed fox, who I ended up learning was sent by the goddess Brighid to guide me. I contacted Brighid about twice and set up an altar for her. The first time I heard her speak to me was when she was telling me I don’t drink enough water (I haven’t met with her since I pulled an all-nighter for college and I’m sure she’s not particularly pleased with that). I’m hoping to get back into my meditative practice soon. I’ve also needed to meditate to ask about a crow or raven that my sister and I kept crossing paths with while going out to lunch together. I’m not sure if it’s a sign of something or if the Morrigan wants to contact me. I’ve also heard the name Cernunnos repeated in my head lately so I’ve wanted to look into him too. I didn’t think I’d have anything to do with deities after my experiences with Christianity but Brighid quickly changed my mind.

Final Notes

I actually started writing this post a week or so ago but life got crazy. I’m in the last few weeks of my Freshman year of college, so it’s hectic. Right now I’m staying at a cabin in the mountains over the weekend, so I’m hoping this will give me the chance I need to wind down and reconnect with Brighid and my higher self. I’m hoping to get a daily routine going for my practice over the next few weeks.

[just-call-me-the-intrusive-thot]

An Unlikely Suspect

A Sanders Sides Among Us AU (Semi Janus Centric)

Pairings: Hinted Romantic Prinxiety, Romantic Logicality (might get clarified if I write a follow up), Platonic Virmile, Platonic Moceit, Familial Creativitwins, Platonic Moxiety Trigger Warnings: Character Death (Some semi descriptive), Gore, Light Body Horror descriptions , Remus being Remus, swearing Word Count: ~ 3600 

When an Imposter is found aboard the Skeld, life for the crew is turned upside down. Accusations, betrayals, and too many lies to count, can the crew survive the parasite’s attempt to take over?

[All characters belong to @thatsthat24 , I hope I did them justice ]

--

Life aboard the Skeld had never been easy. 

Even Janus couldn’t lie about that. The work days were long and never ending aboard the flying crapshack (seriously, was health and safety a joke to their superiors back on Earth?!) but no one was prepared for the Imposters.

The crew had treated them as a distant worry when the warning came through communications. The kind of warning that they regarded with a snort, perhaps a retort of “that sort of thing would never happen to us, it only happens to other people”. The same kind of blissful dismissiveness you’d expect when talking about the chances of dying on a rollercoaster, or being caught in the middle of a mass car pile up. 

Complacency, unearned comfort. No one spared more than a passing thought for the Imposters for months..

Then Dr. Emile Picani was found dead at his desk and suddenly the threat was all too real, all too quick. 

With a check of the medical records, once the crew found out one of the scans had come back as an Imposter, accusations had flown all too hastily in the beginning.

“Patton, you were in charge of manning the airlock! Didn’t you check the cargo properly?!”, Roman had accused him, alongside a couple of other crewmates. 

“B-But I did!! I swear!!”, the cyan-clad crewmate had protested, “I checked every single crate-!”

“Sounds sus, I say we make sure he never forgets to check the airlock ever again!”, Remus had all too cheerfully suggested. Thankfully their first in command, Logan, had stepped in to diffuse the argument, “Nonsense. We have very little evidence of any wrongdoing on Patton’s part. There’s only seven of us now, all crewmates will be crucial to our survival. Thus, no one will be taking action against him, or any other crewmate, without my strict approval. Is that clear?”

Aside from disgruntled remarks and some small accusations of favouritism, Logan was in charge, and the only crewmate able to prove his humanity since his medical scan was the only one left with the name undisturbed in haste, and thus was able to keep the crew in order, saving Patton from a horrific execution. 

For three days.

The implementation of a buddy system of sorts had been a flawless plan, allowing Logan to remain the only solo crewmate, checking in on each duo; Patton and Remy manning storage and the medbay, the twins handling waste disposal and electrical matters, and Virgil and Janus managing weapons and navigation systems. A smooth journey, only to be shattered by a blackout. 

Pandemonium had ensued almost immediately; halves of duos unwisely tried to head towards electrical, armed only with their tiny standard issue flashlights, leaving their other halves to try and find them or remain calm in the pitch blackness. Ten minutes felt like an eternity as Remus, with the aid of Janus, finally got the electrical wires properly repaired. The rest of the crew were quick to head towards electrical, hoping to account for everyone. However, a headcount carried the awful realisation that they were one short.

Logan.

Patton was the first to head for security, followed right after by the crew, only to find a gruesome scene. Logan Croft - what was left of him - lay motionless on the floor at the end of a blood trail that led towards the vent across the room. A distraught Patton stayed behind to guard the body alongside Virgil and Remy, while Janus and the twins tried to figure out where the imposter had come in from. Knowing that the vent system capped off certain sections, they only needed to check two other locations; electrical and medbay.

The former came up empty, so Janus led the group to the latter, kneeling down to check the vent and noticing a blood stain at the edge of the vent. A closer inspection revealed the print to be a hand, but the blood was too thick to leave identifiable fingerprints.

“So, the Imposter used the vent to travel here. And the only people who wouldn’t be out of place...”, Roman uttered under his breath. Janus could already hear him and his twin jumping to conclusions.

“Ah yes, jumping to conclusions is always the right answer, without exception.”

Janus hoped his sarcasm got through to them how bad of an idea it was.

“But Jan, look at this shit!”, Remus gestured between the vent and the area next door where Logan’s body was still lying, “There’s blood in the vent and the two fuckers who were in here are stuck with Virgil and the body!! For all we know, we could go back and two of ‘em could be dead-!”

“Alright, alright!”, Janus massaged his temples, thinking it over. 

“... Fine, Remus, call the emergency meeting.”

Without hesitation, Remus made a beeline for the cafeteria’s emergency button. As Janus waited for the teleporter to pick them up, he noticed Roman anxiously running a hand through his hair. “Nervous?”, Janus questioned with a sincerity reserved for tense situations like these.

The red-clad crewmate hummed worriedly, “Just… the thought of Virgil being left with them...”

Janus gave a fond but tired huff, about to reassure Roman when the teleporters built into their suits shifted them to the cafeteria. Thankfully, there didn’t seem to be anyone missing bar Logan, and the previously deceased Dr. Picani. Letting his mismatched eyes roam over towards the trio from security, Dee noticed that each was in a state of shock. Remy seemed to be keeping a stoic mask up but Janus knew those tremors in his palms that came from his reliance on caffeine, one he had been unable to indulge in as desired due to the rationing of supplies. Virgil gnawed his thumbnail while his arm jittered anxiously, probably aching for his anxiety medication more than ever. And Patton….

Patton looked devastated, emotionally and physically so. It was clear he’d been yanking on his hair in distress, and while it wasn’t immediately noticeable, his olivine cheeks bore tear tracks still. 

Janus found himself hoping, praying almost, that Patton could save his skin somehow.

“We found blood in the medbay vent,”, Roman began, snapping Janus out of his thoughts and back to reality. “Which means the Imposter must be Remy or Patton.”

Once kind green eyes tainted with distrust and distress fell on the poor cyan crewmate, “And considering everything up til now…. Patton, I hate to say it…. But you’re-”

“You’re looking pretty fucking sus, Padre!”, Remus finished for his twin. 

Janus could see Patton jolt, the hurt in his features at a once friendly nickname being used so callously felt far too cruel. The yellow crewmate prided himself on being able to see through a rouse, and Patton didn’t show any such signs of deceit, but…

“I-!! I’d never-!!”, Pat gasped, the pain clear, “I could never hurt Logan!! Or Emile, or ANY of you!! Please, I-!”

“Give it up, Pat, you alien bitch.”

Remy’s voice laden with venom and a notable shakiness cut through the words trying to scramble out of Patton’s mouth. “Like, it has to be you. You were in charge of the airlock. You were close enough to them to get at L and Emile. Worst of all, you were the only other person in medbay with me.”, Remy wrung his hands into his black jumpsuit frustratedly, “And when the lights came back on…. You weren’t in the room anymore!”

Patton shook his head, “No, Remy, I-!! I was in the hallway, I couldn’t see you-!”

“Popstar, come on...”, Virgil’s shaky voice came from across the table, “I… I don’t wanna believe it, but we… we have to face the facts here. Logan’s body didn’t show signs of a struggle, so he was probably comfortable with whoever did this. You fit that bill…. You even ran straight to Logan’s body, Pat!! Do you have any idea how suspicious that looks?!”

It all made sense, so much sense, but Janus’ brain still told him it was wrong. That something wasn’t right. 

“But!! But Logan liked being in security!! We all knew that-!!”

“But that still doesn’t explain any of the other evidence!!”, Remus chipped in, looking ready to condemn the poor man. Frantically, Patton looked to Janus. God, he’d never forget that look, the primal fear of death lingering behind terrified light blue. “Janus, please, you know I’m not lying, right?!”

What could Janus do but nod? He believed Patton. It wouldn’t do anything in the long run, but at least the poor man would know someone was on his side.

“I do believe you, Patton. This feels far too ludicrous to-” 

“Jan, you’re a fucking idiot if you believe that bullshit!”, Remus interrupted, “He’s just trying to manipulate you!!”

The conversation abruptly halted as Remus rounded the table, grabbing Patton’s arm, beginning to haul him towards the airlock. The cyan crewmate tried to protest, wriggling to free himself, but Roman and Remy both secured him, sealing his fate,

“PLEASE, PLEASE DON’T DO THIS-!!”

“Just stop, Pat, don’t make this-!”

“NO, LET ME GO, PLEASE, IT’S NOT ME, I SWEAR-!!”

“Shut up, you parasite bastard!!”

Patton struggled for his life against the twins’ strong hold while Remy readied the airlock’s inner door. Janus couldn’t bear to watch, “This is a mistake, you’re going to kill an innocent man, Roman-!”

“Stop, Janus!”, Roman snapped, “We… We can’t afford to turn a blind eye or more of us will die! It’s-! It’s the right thing to do-!”

“You know that’s a lie, do I even need to spell that one out for you-”

“Babes, with all do respect?”, Remy spoke up, opening the inner door and letting the twins toss Patton inside before shutting the door, “Shut the fuck up. Like, this is our chance to stop all this!”

The countdown as Remus set the airlock to open was harrowing, even for the demented twin. The group watched through the reinforced glass window as Patton slammed his fists into the door, his voice silenced by the sound proofing, but his desperation was so palpable no words were needed. For God’s sakes, a man was begging for his life! How could they let this happen? Janus felt Virgil turn away next to him, clearly unable to watch one of their closest friends die.

A surge of righteous justice threw Janus into action. Despite the alarmed voices of the others, he tried desperately to somehow undo the countdown. To somehow get the stupid control panel to cease the damned timer ticking away til Patton would meet his end in the vast nothingness of space. His efforts were for naught. Between the safety programming and the others prying him away, Janus was hauled back just in time to see the outer door open. The force tore Patton into the terrifying cosmic wasteland. 

Just like that, the crew lost Patton Hart. 

Janus felt his ears ring in the sudden silence, feeling like his head had been submerged in ice water. He could hear Virgil sobbing, muffled by what he assumed would be Roman’s shoulder or chest. In his peripheral view, he noted Remus’ green gloved hand clench and release in an effort to calm his nerves, surely. Remy sunk to his knees, not uttering a word edgeways. Human nature would kick in eventually, tell them in the end that they did what they could. That they’d eliminated a threat that took the form of their dear crewmate. But Janus knew. He knew this wasn’t the end, he’d just failed to save Patton’s life. 

Days passed; just two but to Janus and the others, it felt more like two centuries. They’d given Logan’s remains a decent cremation, using the ashes to mix with the plant food in O2. Logan had always wanted to help the planet, and now at least, in a way, he would do just that.

The schedules he’d set the others slowly crumbled. Remy avoided the med bay, “too many awful memories”, he’d said. The twins stuck together more so out of a shared lingering guilt, Janus theorised, still going about their manual tasks, though neither could bring themselves to sing a cheery tune or R-rated space sea shanty about banging an Eldritch Deity. Life aboard the Skeld felt as dead as their former crewmates these days.

Virgil caught up with Janus leaving Navigation; the anxious man had felt far more at ease sticking with his assigned duo partner than being alone. Janus couldn’t fault him. 

“... It’s fucked.”, the lankier man in purple had mumbled, “This whole situation is so, so fucked...”

Janus sighed exhaustedly, “That’s one way to put it, yes.”

The silence was uncomfortable. Neither man usually minded such a thing, but it felt unbearable now. So much so, Janus was thankful as Virgil spoke, “Why’d Dr. Picani have to die?...”.

Both of them were aware of why, but Janus assumed it was rhetorical, a theory confirmed as Virgil continued to mumble, “He was so nice, man. Never pressured me with my medical anxiety or anything, never made me sit through tests that’d freak me out. Helped make me feel secure but... Now nothing feels safe anymore...”

“Indeed, we lost a good man. Several good men.”, Janus felt Virgil cringe beside him, looking away.

“...... I didn’t….”, Virgil huffed, his eyes trained anywhere else but Janus’ face, “I never wanted to… to see Pat like that. He was my friend, Jan! Shit, he was like a father to me! He made me feel welcome when I transferred here but-!!”

A reassuring yellow gloved hand rested on Virgil’s shoulder, “I’m sure he knew, Virgil.”, Janus reassured him, “What’s done is, regrettably, done. Irreversible. We cannot get back those we’ve lost, but we can survive in their name. Let’s just hope that you were all right to stop me-”

Crunch.

The wet crisp crunch of something organic tore Janus from his thoughts. 

“... Did you hear that, Virgil?”

Frozen rigid, Virgil gave a shaky inhale, “I… I don’t think so-”

CRUNCH.

Janus didn’t bother to ask if Virgil heard it that time. He took off down the hallway, headed for the nearest room; Electrical. Virgil’s footsteps began to gain on his own, giving him the reassurance of backup when they reached the doorway. Damn. It was locked. The disgusting wet tearing sounds from inside made his stomach churn, “Virgil… on three.”

Virgil looked mortified at the idea, but he nodded, readying himself as he and Janus got ready to break in the doors. Thankfully for their shoulder joints, the doors opened. Not so thankfully, both men were treated to a horrendous sight. 

The twins had always playfully argued over which of them would come out on top.

It seemed now they had their answer.

Hunched over the remains of his brother was Roman Prince, his red suit absorbing the bloody remains splattered across it, leaving almost no trace. In his hands, Roman held various chunks of flesh torn from his own kin whose lifeless eyes were open wide in a twisted expression of surprise and betrayal. Roman himself had gone rigid, caught like a deer in the headlights, pitch black eyes darting between Janus and Virgil as they sunk back to their familiar emerald green.

“I-! This isn’t-!”

With Virgil unmoving beside him, Janus sprung to action, using their reporting device to activate the teleporter again. He cursed every extra second it took compared to the emergency button, watching as Roman managed to morph and clean himself up before they found themselves once again around the table. Remy’s eyes darted to the empty space Remus had once occupied, 

“.... No. Don’t you fucking tell me...” 

Virgil went to speak but Janus got there first, pointing a deadly determined finger towards Roman, “Roman’s the Imposter!”

Roman stiffened, “Wha-!?”

Janus wasn’t about to let him go free; he had a witness now, and a good chunk of evidence to condemn him with; “Virgil and I walked in on you eating your own goddamn twin! Everything else begins to make sense if it’s you too; the blackout especially, since you were working in electrical. You were also rather vocal with your accusations too, which would make sense considering it took the attention off of you!”

The defeated look in Roman’s dull eyes was the most delicious dessert in existence, seeing the monster look ready to confess, Janus gestured to Virgil, 

“Virgil can back me up, right?!”

Silence.

“.....Virgil? Back me up here-”

“Janus,”, Virgil’s voice was ghostly fearful, his eyes hidden behind the long purple dyed bangs he sported, “Stop lying.”

“.... What?..”, the shiver of fear, bone chilling fear, that rattled through Janus’ marrow and constricted his lungs was a harsh turn from his formerly confident demeanor.

“Roman and I saw you eat Remus, Jan...”

This wasn’t happening.

“We walked in on you tear… tearing him to shreds in electrical…!”

This wasn’t happening…

“Just like you did with poor Logan! And Emile!”

This couldn’t be happening…

“Playing like you were the one who wanted to save Patton when…!! When you were the one who-!!”

Janus’ head swam with nausea. His mismatched eyes finally locked on to Virgil’s, barely visible to Remy, but all too familiar to Janus…

“Disgusting, lying Imposters like you-!!”

Those pitch black eyes that betrayed his glee even as his broken tone relayed the false narrative. 

“Should rot in space!!”

Remy cast his gaze between Roman and Janus, landing on Roman, “Ro, babes, is that true?!”

Roman nodded, dumbfounded, “I-It’s true, he-”

“He tried to get us too,”, Virgil continued, faux shaky voice ringing in Janus’ ears.

Everything made terrifying sense now. 

Virgil, a new transfer from a sister ship, who had his own (likely fabricated) medbay scan on hand and who was too anxious to have Dr. Picani perform a second, making the crew think there was just one Imposter.

Virgil, who would think to tell Roman remove the names on the medical files, even if the red crewmate didn’t do a perfect job.

Virgil, who was close with Patton, and had begun to befriend Logan, earning his trust, leaving him one of the few people who Logan wouldn’t suspect approaching him in the dark.

Virgil, who was smart enough to drag Logan’s top half into the vents and leave a handprint in medbay to frame Patton further. All too willing to throw the poor man under the bus.

Virgil, who stuck close to the only person left smart enough to suspect their scheme, waiting for the right moment to strike when Janus sealed his own fate.

“..... You son of a bitch.”, Janus breathed in disbelief. His anger bubbled to the surface before he could stop it, “YOU SON OF A BITCH-!!!”

Roman and Remy’s arms wrapped themselves around Janus’ arms and body, holding him still while all he could do was writhe, “What do we do now, babes?”

Virgil answered Remy’s question with a firm, faux anxious reply, “The airlock..”

Janus’ heart stopped in his chest.

“We… We had to lose Patton that way so…. So it’s only fair the REAL Imposter goes that way too!!”

He didn’t go without a fight. Janus made damn sure of that. The alien bastards wouldn’t get the satisfaction of him going quietly. He clawed at Roman’s face, ignoring the parasite’s tightening grip on his arm to the point he thought perhaps it would break. He spat hellfire and vitriol at Virgil who watched from a distance, content to let the smirk he’d been hiding show now that Remy couldn’t see. 

Oh god, Remy. Janus tried desperately to appeal to the last true human left, 

“Remy, you HAVE to listen to me, they’re not human, both of them are-!”

But Remy didn’t listen, following Roman’s lead of tossing Janus once more into the airlock. Fortunately, Janus had been able to hold onto his helmet as the door closed, sealing his - and by extension, Remy’s - fates. Trapped and waiting for death, he locked eyes with Remy who looked as sincere and guilt ridden as expected. Is this how Patton felt? So helpless and scared to die? Janus felt almost guilty knowing his suit still had a full canister of oxygen left to last him…. Hours? Maybe a day? Then he’d be at the mercy of space the way Patton was without his helmet to protect him. 

As the countdown reached 15 seconds, Janus watched helplessly as Virgil gestured to give Remy a hug. The way Remy accepted the arms of death only for Virgil’s stomach to split and devour the poor man tore the last of Janus’ resolve to shreds. 

With the countdown reaching zero, Janus Dolion faced the two Imposters watching him with a smug sense of glee, flipping them both the double bird as the outer door opened... 

--

The Imposter couple watched Janus be sucked into the vacuum of space with a sick sense of victory. They’d done it; the Skeld was theirs and theirs alone. Of course, that was until a rescue ship could come for them and the cycle would start over again. The thought alone was intoxicating.

“... I’m sorry.”, Roman murmured from beside Virgil who’d already taken to fabricating injuries they could use to trick the rescue party. The purple suited alien snorted, wiping the last of Remy’s blood from his mouth, “What for, Prince Parasite?”

The crimson clad Imposter scoffed affectionately. 

“I nearly got us caught.”, Roman’s suit growled, “I was just… so hungry…!”

Virgil softly wrapped his arm around Roman, gently caressing his beautiful jawline with a softness no hostile alien parasite should be able to use. 

“It’s fine, you drama queen. We still did it,”, he grinned, shark toothed and infectious going by Roman’s own razor smile, “Now you just have to put those impressive acting skills to use once I call in a rescue ship.”

“Aww, you think my acting is impressive?”, Roman’s chest puffed up in pride.

Were they not standing right next to a pile of gore that has once been a fellow crewmate, Virgil figured the starry look in Roman’s blackened eyes would have been endearing. Adorable even. Instead, the Imposter rolled his eyes, they still had work to do after all. There’d be plenty of time to properly celebrate later..

“Shut up, Roman... ” --

Man that got dark fast...

I hope you guys still enjoyed it and that the reveal was nice and shocking~!

If you like this, I’ll write some supplimentary stuff, perhaps some fluff prequel snippets, and perhaps a little sequel? 

Idk yet, but I hope this was a good read.

Taglist: @somehow-i-got-an-account   @cateye-glasses   @fandomsofrandom @patton-cake @does-this-look-logicality-to-you @justalittlecorrupted @irritating-lady-knight @katlikethesword @ali_is_lazy 

[welllpthisishappening]

But Once a Year (2/5)

This is a trick.

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

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

————

Rating: T Word Count: 9.1K which is also more than I remember writing. Which should probably be the subheadline of my life.  AN: Guys! All of you! Collectively! Separately! Thank you so much for your genuinely incredible response to this story that took on a life of its own. It’s very nice! You’re all very nice! More exclamation points! This time around we’ve got; a very discombobulated timeline, bedtime stories, peak!dad David, peak!dad Killian and f e e l i n g s. 

Also on Ao3 if that’s your jam || Or you can start from the start

————

“How did you figure it out?” He lifts his eyebrow. Only one, and exactly the same way he does in whatever part of time the real Killian Jones is lingering in, but the thought of this Killian Jones not being entirely real makes Emma’s stomach knot. Several times over. She can’t stop staring at his eyebrow. It’s off-putting. And the complete opposite of that. “Out?” Killian echoes. “Not when?” “No, no I figured you knew pretty much from the get, but—” Emma shrugs. Tries very hard not to fall off the kitchen counter. Which might actually be made of granite. 

God, maybe they’re legitimately rich. 

She can’t imagine what the mortgage on a house like this is. 

She can’t imagine there are actually mortgages in Storybrooke. 

“Were you thinking about going to get your sword? Because it seems shitty to challenge an unarmed person to a fight.” The eyebrow gets higher. Arch'ier. Pointier, even. “As you’ve already pointed out today, I am a pirate. And that’s not really an answer to my question.” “Or mine,” Emma challenges. “Are you not a pirate anymore, then?” “You know you’d make a rather atrocious spy, darling.” Sneering is decidedly juvenile and the only thing Emma is capable of doing in the moment. “You are dancing around any answer and—” “—Well, if you’re a time traveling, abysmal spy then it seems wrong to provide you with any more information than what you’ve already gleaned from your day here, doesn’t it?”

She deflates. 

Shoulders sag and exhaustion creeps up the wholly unnatural and very uncomfortable curve of Emma’s spine, fear tickling the back of her mind because Killian hasn’t actually made a single move towards the basement, but she’s only passably sure of where the basement is and the specific sort of glint in his eyes makes her even more confident that he wouldn’t mind brandishing his sword at her. 

Literally in this instance. 

“I’m not sure it’s time travel,” she mumbles, staring at a floor that is questionably clean if it does in fact belong to her. Maybe Killian cleans. “Fascinating.” “I’m not the bad guy here.” “Because I am?”

Her shoulders can’t sink any lower. They try all the same, shamed by the hitch in his breath and the tilt of his head, angled to make his hair drift across his brows and eyes that are as distracting as ever and far too easy to get swept up in and—

Emma swallows. 

Exhales. She doesn’t remember when she decided to hold her breath. 

“I don’t know,” she admits softly, barely able to move her lips and no one remembered to turn the Christmas tree off. Lights reflect off the ridiculous number of windows in the wall, painting streaks of color on paint that isn’t blue and shouldn’t remind anyone of a ball gown Emma knows she hasn’t worn yet, but it’s pretty all the same and she wonders why she wound up here. At this point. This moment. 

Killian might not be breathing either. 

“What do you know, then?” 

Emma bites her lip. Hard. “That one second I was somewhere else, and then I was—” Shaking her head does not help what is undoubtedly a migraine blooming behind her left eye, but she hasn’t fallen off the counter yet and she imagines victories are going to be few and far between, so it seems fair to cling to them as they pass by. Six of her knuckles crack when she grips the kitchen counter. “Waking up, and you were telling me we had to go get paint, and people were bowing to me.” “They don’t do that where you’re from.” “Not a question.” “No,” Killian agrees, which is a very strange way of doing that, “more like a documented point. You haven’t tried to attack anyone yet, though. So I suppose that’s at least one marker on the positive column.” “I’m not going to attack anyone!” Eyes flashing at the crack in Emma’s voice, Killian’s neck all but snaps as he glances over his shoulder. Towards a staircase, and she hasn’t spent too much time upstairs yet, but those same stairs are as empty as they were sixteen seconds earlier and the force of Killian’s exhale ruffles the ends of his hair. 

“If you wouldn’t mind being just a touch quieter,” he all but growls at her, spinning back around with far more grace than Emma thinks is entirely fair, “I’d really appreciate it. Takes her forever to fall asleep.” “Hope, you mean? Don’t I, well—don’t we or…” “I’d suggest you stop talking.”

“And you’re still avoiding my questions,” Emma accuses through clenched teeth. That only hurts her jaw. And the rest of her, really. She’s so tired, she can’t believe she’s still forming coherent sentences. Counting that as another marker in the positive column is probably a dick move. 

And the standoff that ensues over the next twenty-seven and two-thirds seconds is something in the realm of ridiculous. Clenching her jaw tight enough to crush a variety of diamonds, Emma resolutely refuses to blink, and Killian’s an ass, apparently, so he simply stares right back, while his shoulders heave on every inhale. 

She doesn’t know what to say. Has no idea what string of words will convince this relative stranger, who still feels like someone who could potentially be hers in an overwhelming sort of way, that she’s not a threat and wouldn’t do anything to hurt that kid upstairs. Not when that kid did her own bit of staring at Emma all evening, like she was the sun and the moon, and a variety of constellations and—

Killian drags a hand over his face. Leaves red streaks in his wake, twisting the skin on his cheeks and the stubble there doesn’t move because it can’t, but Emma’s admittedly starting to teeter again. In more ways than one, really. 

The crinkles around his eyes are deeper. As if he’s used to laughing and smiling, and Hope had clung to him on their walk home. 

There’s that word again. 

Doing something silly to Emma’s heart. 

“I know you’re not going to attack anyone,” he sighs, “although I don’t really know if you’re in a position to demand I tell you anything, either.”

“What if we call it a request?” His lips twitch, fighting off the smile Emma can see tugging at his mouth and it’s definitely wrong to find any confidence in that. Charming a guy who’s already married and procreating with a different version of her shouldn’t be regarded as another victory. 

She’s going to do it anyway. 

“Tell me who you are, then.” “I’m—” Grunting hurts Emma’s throat, both of her elbows threatening to damage her ribs when she flails her hands. “I’m me. Just—” “—Not mine?” “Oh, that’s decidedly possessive.” Humming, Killian’s nod is barely that. More like a quick jerk of his chin and swipe of his tongue across the front of his teeth. She’s got to stop staring at his mouth. “Aye, it might be. I am having some difficulty wrapping my head around this, though. So you’ll have to forgive me.” Emma scoffs. Nearly laughs, really — which is as surprising as it is nice, and nothing about this can be nice. On principle. Her body doesn’t seem to care, and her heart certainly cares even less, and it’s still a struggle to rationalize this version of Killian with the one she left, but there are far more similarities than her brain is able to process quite yet and that same dark and distant part is very quick to point out she’d like to. 

No matter where she might be sitting.

If she’d let herself. 

“You can feel my magic?”

Killian nods. “Usually.” “What does that mean? It doesn’t always work?” “I—” Gritting his teeth only shows off how frustratingly straight there are, and at some point she’s going to ask about that. Pirates don’t get braces, after all. “I’d rather not disrupt all of time by telling you things you don’t already know.” “I don’t know anything,” Emma argues, trying very hard not to scream the words. And only sort of succeeding. 

“Did you fall into a portal?” “Are you fucking with me?” Killian glares at her again. “I’d advise very strongly that you answer the question, Swan.”

“Or what? You’ll legitimately go get your basement sword? Why do you keep your sword in the basement, anyway? Aren’t there—I mean, a monster a week in Storybrooke, right?” His goddamn fucking tongue is going to be the death of her. Sooner or later, Emma is positive. Shifting and poking at the side of his cheek, and she can hear the gears again, trying to place the few clues she’s given him with a life he’s already lived and it is absurd that she even thought the word clues. 

“Not in quite some time,” he admits, and Emma’s mind leaps. Back to conversations and knights and realm-borders. She needs a map. Or Regina, God help her. “That’s not the point, though. It’s—” Another head shake and hair movement, and pinching the bridge of his nose only makes it ten-thousand times easier to see the ring on his finger.

There are a lot of Christmas lights in this house. 

“You’re not someone else,” Killian finishes softly. 

“Disappointing, I know.” His head moves so quickly it’s hardly more than a semi-dark blur of hair and slightly pained eyes. Both of which make Emma very glad for her spot on the counter. If she had been standing, she would have fallen over. In a rather undignified heap. 

“No,” Killian exhales as the magnets make a glorious return. He crowds into her space before she’s entirely ready for it. Although that also suggests Emma would ever be ready for the way his face has twisted and how ridiculously warm he continues to be, the hand that’s already resting on her knee threatening to burn straight through her jeans. “Strange,” he adds, clenching his fingers when Emma flinches, “and possibly a little terrifying, since—” “—Your Emma has disappeared entirely.” He grins. It’s disarming, and inching closer to the kind of flirting they’d been dancing around before and Emma’s got to get off this dancing metaphor kick. She’s not a good dancer, anyway.  “No portal, right?” “No portal,” she confirms. “And I’m not entirely convinced this isn’t a very lucid dream, so.”

It’s the wrong thing to say. 

She realizes that about halfway through the sentence. Any hint of camaraderie or déjà vu-based flirting disappears from Killian’s face and immediately shifts into the same brand of pain that came when she called him Hook. 

Biting her lip is really Emma’s only option.

“You don’t think this is real,” he whispers, another statement she doesn’t feel the need to point out. Shrugging, Emma’s vocal chords fail her again, and the step Killian takes away from her resembles a rather large chasm. 

Grand Canyon-esque. 

“We’re back to things I don’t know,” Emma says, “but um—do we have other kids? Aside from Hope, I mean? I—” Heat rises in her cheeks, the weight of the compliment threatening to burst out of her both foreign and necessary and Killian doesn’t do anything. Well, he lifts his eyebrows again, but that’s something like second nature to him and Emma refuses to count it and his fingers find the back of his hair. 

Huh. 

“Henry,” he replies.

“And you’re counting Henry? As—” Her tongue is really going to become a problem, if it’s going to remain this size in her mouth. “As your kid too?”

Strictly speaking, Emma’s not sure she actually wants an answer. Can only imagine what her emotions will do if she hears the confirmation that’s quite obviously pressing behind the seams of Killian’s mouth, but that confirmation might also prove several thousand things that have been at war in her for far longer than she’d ever be willing to admit, and he nods once. 

“In all the ways that matter,” Killian says. “And Neal is…” Shaking his head, all Emma gets is another smirk as soon as she huffs out her frustration, but the frustration is also kind of lacking when it feels like her whole body is running on overdrive and there’s no way he could fake the emotion behind those words. Even in a dream-like state. She’s not creative enough to come up with that particular voice inflection. 

“How’d you know?” she presses. “Honestly?” “Aside from your rather startling inability to act like yourself?” “Yeah. Aside from that.”

Stairs creak behind them, a not-quite ominous warning that this conversation has lasted longer than it should and there’s a kid of indeterminate age demanding to be put back to bed just out of sight. Emma should figure out how old her kid is. 

Hopefully that won’t ruin the space-time continuum, either. 

“You’ve got this lovely habit of calling me babe,” Killian drawls, leaning close enough that Emma swears she can smell him. Wishful thinking, maybe. “And I can’t remember the last time you called me Hook.”

He flashes her another grin — reminiscent of a man who is not this one, and then he’s gone, scooping up the kid and muttering promises against her hair, and Emma never knows how long she spends sitting on the kitchen counter. 

She does creep, eventually. 

Curiosity gets the better of Emma the longer she sits there, waiting without much hope for Killian to return. He’s not going to. She knows that. There’s only so many times he can come back, and this is a totally different thing than it was before, but it's also a perfect segue to the other reason she hopes off the counter. Her overall discomfort. Literally, and metaphorically. Marble, it seems, is a very fancy stone and good for the kitchen counters some alt-version of her eventually owns, but it also starts to dig into the back of her knees and those knees are bent kind of weird and in the grand scheme of where she wants to look again, inching up the stairs to peer through the barely closed door of Hope’s room is a much more appealing prospect than a basement that apparently houses weapons. 

So, Emma doesn’t spend too long thinking of the pros and cons, or how she should really be creeping towards the room of someone who might understand magic and why she’s here. Instead, she winces slightly on the creaky step halfway up the staircase and does her best to stay in the shadows, but these shadows aren’t quite as terrifying as they were in the realm she’s only just recently teleported from and that probably doesn’t mean a whole lot. 

He’s reading her a story. 

Captain Hook, terror of several storybook seas and probably a few Emma isn’t aware of, just to drive home the confusion point, sits propped up against a mess of pillows with his sock-covered feet stretched out in front of him, and curls pushed up against his side, a book balanced precariously on one thigh and she really would make the world’s worst spy. She hadn’t noticed the empty brace at the end of his arm. 

That’s never happened before. 

Honestly, she wasn’t even entirely sure it was possible, which is total asshole territory and maybe she’ll just collapse. Right here in the hallway. The carpet looks almost plush, so it might not be the worst move. 

And trying to memorize the look of it only feels like a half-dick'ish move, if only because the lack of a hook does sort of confirm the overall safety of this place, and Emma figures that outweighs whatever scene she’s interrupting. Or trying not to, as it were. 

Knotted scars line his skin, some of them looking older than others and that makes a few more of Emma’s internal organs flip. Something that feels a bit like anger rises in the back of her throat, an unexpected emotion that isn’t really directed at anyone except the people who caused those scars and that pain and he looks comfortable. 

Now, at least. 

Even slouched as he is against pillow cases that are far too frilly and remind Emma far too much of her mother. She keeps documenting. Lets her eyes trace over every inch of Killian — the way his fingers fluttering mindlessly against Hope’s back, brushing away strands of hair with the kind of ease that makes it clear this is a regular occurrence. His shoulders aren’t as taut as they were in the kitchen, but his head lolls towards the side more than once as fatigue starts to color his gaze. 

The story has princesses in it. Well, one princess. On a rather expansive adventure, if Emma’s actually keeping up with the plot. Dropped into a place she’s unfamiliar with, the princess in question naturally has a dashing love interest — although his name is Charles, so...maybe not all that dashing — and they get into several more adventures. Which include, but apparently are not limited to; taverns, a ridiculous amount of flirting, interactions with pirates, kissing as a distraction, the last of which endlessly entertains Hope, and the overall force of the little girl’s laugh makes Emma’s breath hitch, but then there’s more to the story and of course there’s a ball. More royalty, too. Obstacles are faced, only to be immediately overcome and Emma’s smile happens without any thought to the overall inappropriate nature of it. 

“And,” Killian says, shaking his head until his nose grazes Hope’s hair, “the exceptionally dashing prince took on the guards single-handedly, telling the princess to go and get the treasure they’d been looking for. While—” “—’Feating all of them, right?” Hope exclaims. As much as it’s possible to exclaim while also sounding half asleep. 

“In dramatic fashion. There was quite a lot of spinning involved. Made his jacket look all the more impressive. Fluttering tails and whatnot.”

Eyes flicker towards Emma’s garbage hiding spot, and she’s still not breathing correctly, so the odds aren’t very good he heard her, but she’s wondered more than once if he doesn’t just have a sixth sense when it comes to her and possibly them, and she pulls her lips behind her teeth. 

“What happened after that?” 

Most of Hope’s question comes out as a singular word, Killian’s soft laugh both indulgent and decidedly parental and he kisses her once before muttering, “Nuh uh, you’ve already gotten more story than you should, and you’ve got to get some rest.” “But I—”

Shaking his head once is all it takes for silence to descend on the room, although it does come with a slight pout and that’s—weird, it’s weird. Watching her own facial expressions reflect back to her from a kid she didn’t know existed a few hours earlier is more than enough to send Emma reeling. Wobbly knees shake underneath her, retreating in just enough time to not look totally suspicious as Killian mumbles something else and closes the door behind him, and she might have been right about the eye thing. 

They practically fly towards her. 

And the wall that was far closer than Emma anticipated. Hitting her head on it hurts more than it usually would, she imagines. 

“Truly,” he says, “an absolutely Gods awful spy.” “Was that supposed to be plural? On the Gods, I mean?” Tilting his head is the only response Emma gets, and she can’t blame him for that. For anything, really. “Does that happen a lot? The, uh—the stories.”

Silence. 

Relatively speaking. There’s the distinct sound of disgruntled kid on the other side of the other side of the door, what Emma figures are four flailing limbs as it appears Hope is determined to beat her half a dozen pillows into submission. 

Little sea monster makes a bit more sense now. 

“I do that too.”

Fatigue disappears. To make room for the invisible two-by-four that settles between Killian’s shoulder blades, shifting them until his spine is ramrod straight and he’s staring at Emma like that was the most obvious statement in the history of the world. 

“I’m well aware,” he says, but his voice drops, gruffer than it’s been all day. She’s going to bite both her lips in half. 

“Yeah, yeah, that’s—makes sense, I guess. I, um—” No one actually told her to take her boots off, but Emma might have assumed, and the carpet does feel soft. Through her socks, at least. While she tries to dig a hole into the ground with her toe. So she can fall into it. “Seemed like a popular story.” “Aye, it is. Big fan of sword fights.”

“Ah, well, when they’re full of dashing princes who wouldn’t be?”

It’s another thoughtless sentence. One that makes Killian’s tongue shift and then his mouth shift and Emma only stares at that for a few seconds before her eyes drop to his arm and his wrist and—

He twists his arm. Behind his back. 

Her inability to dig a hole with her foot is genuinely disappointing. 

“A question for the ages,” he says. “What are the other ones, then?” “Excuse me?” “I cannot keep telling you how badly you mask your expressions. It seems redundant. So while I also can’t imagine getting too much information will be good, you’ve obviously got questions. As do I, if we’re being honest.” “Are we being honest?”

The lack of sword belt — or actual pants — makes it all the more absurd when he leans forward, thumb hooking into the top of the sleepwear he’s got on, and Emma’s fairly proud of her ability to not linger on that particular thing. Less so in her ability to temper the butterflies in her stomach as soon as Killian leans forward. 

Directly into her space. 

He must radiate heat. 

“I’ve never been anything except entirely honest with you, love,” Killian says, and there’s no way to doubt those words or that voice and Emma hasn’t. Ever, actually. 

“Yeah, that’s true.”

“Eventually you really do believe it.” Blood hits her tongue — sharp and absolutely disgusting, threatening to make her retch in the middle of the hallway. Only marginally better than her hole idea. By some miracle, sent from an apparently merciful God, Emma manages to take a deep breath, jutting her chin out and meeting Killian’s almost cautious gaze with a determination of her own. 

The kind that sends magic shooting down her arms, and directly into the tips of her fingers. His eyes widen. 

“That’s never been the problem. It’s—” They’ve got to stop cutting themselves off. Sentences that hang without end will torment Emma for the foreseeable future, but the muscles in her neck are going to seize up if she doesn’t twist them, and Killian’s fingers tense at his side when her hair moves. Like he wants to brush it away from her face. “Where’d the tree come from?” “Anton.”

“No.” “Swan, we just proclaimed honesty and now you’re—” “—Don’t know if it was a proclamation,” Emma grumbles, but Doc did call her your highness before so maybe she wields that kind of power now. Killian’s lips tilt up. 

Finding something else to stare at should be number one on the list of things Emma needs to be doing. Desperately. 

“Aye, that usually requires your mother’s seal anyway.”

“My mom? Why would...isn’t Regina mayor of this town?”

Exhaling through his teeth is oddly attractive. “Not as such, no.” “Huh.” “That’s about the right reaction. But to get back to your original question—” Emma sticks her tongue out, Killian’s laugh soaring out of him. Directly into her. It feels that way, at least. Warmth blooms between her ribs, another pulse of magic she resolutely ignores in favor of watching his shoulders shake and his eyes crinkle and it would be very easy. All of it. Is, currently. If she’s being honest with herself.  

That’s a problem.  

“You’re a picture of maturity,” Killian murmurs. 

“Well, depending on who you ask, I either got tugged through time, or I’m being tormented in my dreams and—what?” His eyes have gone very thin. “Tormented, is it?” “That was a shitty choice of words.” Humming, Killian’s eyes move anywhere but Emma’s face, and the regret in her gut is like a black hole and dying star and several other space-based puns she does not understand at all. All she knows is what a mess this is becoming, and she’s been a mess for as long as she can remember so that’s all the excuse she needs, hands moving on a mix of want and instinct that she’ll let herself over analyze later. 

He doesn’t flinch. 

For another moment, it feels like he’s going to do something drastic. Parting his lips, Emma hears his exhale, the quick flick of his tongue making her toes curl and her fingers tighten, and she wants to run. That’s her schtick. She can’t. She’s rooted to the spot and this carpet, and there’s nowhere to go really. 

Getting back to Neverland already seems impossible. 

“He’s very happy here,” Killian says, and it takes her a second to realize they’re talking about a giant again. “Has been for years. Grows all sorts of stuff, and you didn’t see the Christmas tree your parents have, but it’s ridiculously massive. Apparently there’s some sort of giant-type gene that helps with that.”

“Well, yeah of course.”

Whatever sound he makes isn’t the laugh Emma selfishly wants it to be, but the air that finds her cheek is warm and his left arm isn’t behind his back anymore. “You can take the bed.”

“What?” “We do have a bed, love.” “Yeah, but—” “—Very gallant of me, I know,” Killian quips, stepping away from Emma and the moment and she can’t believe the moment included talk of a giant growing Christmas trees. Somehow that’s almost comforting. “But it’ll be fine, and well if you’re going to talk to Regina tomorrow—” “—You think I should talk to Regina?” “Don’t you?” Nodding hurts. Standing hurts. The whole thing’s ridiculously melodramatic. “Probably,” Emma admits. “Um, but...maybe on my own?”

She’ll never admit to wanting an objection — this isn’t her life, or her Killian, but it also feels wrong to claim any Killian, and this constant flipping between emotions is going to snap her skull in half. “Whatever you think is best,” he says. “Two doors down on the left.”

“Ok, thanks.”

Nodding again, Killian gives her a barely-there smile before moving back towards the stairs he only sort of rushes down. That one step creaks again. 

Sleeping doesn’t happen. 

Emma didn’t think it would, but it’s disappointing and frustrating all the same. Her muscles ache, practically begging her for unconsciousness, but every time she closes her eyes all she can see is Killian’s face and the space between them and she’s got to get back to Neverland. 

Soon. 

Emma’s got to fix this. 

No one’s at Regina’s house. 

Waiting until everyone left her own house is something of a massive copout, and using that particular possessive makes Emma feel like a liar, but she couldn't bring herself to get off the bed until the front door slammed shut and she wasted quite a lot of time sitting on the mattress. 

Also very comfortable, despite the distinct lack of sleep it witnessed. 

So, it shouldn’t come as much of a surprise when no one answers Emma’s rather pointed knocks. Or the few kicks she levels at Regina’s front door, just to be sure. All that does is make the wreath hanging out front wobble precariously. “God, fucking—” Snowflakes land on Emma’s face when she tilts her head up, as if the gods she’s challenging are responding. She’s still a little caught on the polytheistic. “Alright, alright, where would she go?”

“Emma?” Spinning, she doesn’t wobble at all — a testament to Regina’s salting regiment for her front steps, and the blonde twenty-something with impressively thick glasses who called her name far too easily grins far too quickly. “What are you doing out here?”

There’s no hint of confusion to her question. At least not in regards to who Emma is. She’s obviously surprised to find her standing there, though, and nothing about her is familiar. 

“I’m looking for Regina. Do you know where she might be?”

“Yeah, of course. She went into the office early this morning, said she had to deal with the knights situation and magic acting up and—” “—Magic is acting up?”

“Didn’t Uncle David tell you?”

“No,” Emma shakes her head, already moving because there are only so many offices in this town and it’s got to be the same one. It isn’t until she makes it back to Main Street that her mind catches up with titles, but then the woman is jogging up the stairs of town hall and swinging open doors and Emma’s jaw drops. 

At the “Regina Mills, Queen of the Combined Realms” etched in glass in front of her. 

“You coming?” this nameless person asks, jerking her head towards the office and at least the wallpaper is the same. Emma gives a jerky nod, willing herself to step forward, but it’s shaky going at best and Regina is on the phone. 

The buzzing in her ears makes it difficult to hear the conversation, but Emma picks up the gist. Magic, and knights and the sound of her dad’s vaguely frantic tone, while Regina sighs at regular intervals, rolling her eyes occasionally as well. 

“Aunt Gina,” the woman hisses, slumping into the closest chair. Sliding a small handful of bills across her desk, Regina widens her eyes meaningfully, not bothering to cover the receiver before she mutters—

“Only what was on the list, ok? Henry’s stuff is already taken care of, don’t let Doc try and swindle you.”

She gives a crisp salute, Emma’s mind practically tripping over itself because that’s like a slap to her entire being and the sanity she’s only just clinging to at this point. “I’ll sic Killian on him, if he even tries,” she promises, leaning across the desk to kiss Regina’s cheek before breezing out of the office with a quick “see you later, Emma.”

Emma doesn’t move. 

And Regina hangs up on David. 

“Well,” she says, somehow dragging the word out until it sounds like those royal decrees Killian was talking about, “here you are, then.” “Should practice your surprised face.”

Gasping as dramatically as possible, Regina widens her eyes and jerks back, making her chair squeak on its wheels. Her hand flies to her chest, and the necklace that hangs over her shirt. It looks a bit like an arrow. “How was that?” “My dad called you.” “Probably two seconds after you left the farm. So,” she props her chin on her palm, “time travel, is it? You fall in another portal?”

Blinking as quickly as she is makes it difficult for Emma to stumble into the chair only recently vacated by that girl, but she manages somehow. And doesn’t twist anything in the process. Victories, she’s claiming all of them. “How many time-altering portals are there?” “Only one that I’m aware of, but you also didn’t answer my question and I don’t think you can alter something that hasn’t happened for you yet.” “Because this is the future.”

“Frankly?” “You’re going to do it either way,” Emma grumbles, Regina’s sneer not quite as challenging as she expects it to be. 

“Nothing is ever set in stone, not really. Which is why you can appear here. We're...a possibility for you at this point. So, no—I’m not sure you can destroy yourself with knowing. With staying, for sure, but—” “—Wait, what?”

Regina’s fingers flutter against her cheek. “When did you come from?

“Not here.” “Obviously.”

Slumping further into the chair, Emma’s knees nearly slam into her chest. It’s definitely an arrow around Regina’s neck. “Neverland,” she says, “we’d just left the Echo Caves and you’d gone off with Gold somewhere.” “Rumor has it you met Ariel.” “Is that seriously who that was?” Regina nods. Emma exhales. Loudly. “Ok, ok, well—” Recounting the rest isn’t as hard as she expects it to be, details flowing out of Emma like some other water joke she’s not willing to make and Regina doesn’t interrupt. Occasionally her hand drifts back towards the necklace, but Emma chooses to ignore that as well and her mouth is only sort of dry by the time she’s done. 

And then Regina purses her lips. 

Which speaks volumes, without actually saying words. She says words too. “A giant plant. That crawled out of the ground and—” “—Ok, I never once said it was giant, just that it exploded out of the ground.” “It’s not much better.” “Killian can feel my magic here.” “Yuh huh.”

Lifting both her hands in what Emma can only hope is obvious frustration and soon-to-be-resolved confusion, Regina doesn’t look all that impressed. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Emma demands. “Is that a normal thing? I—as far as I know he can’t in Neverland.” “Well, normal is in the eye of the beholder, really, but have you ever actually asked the captain if he can feel your magic?” “Why would I—did you just call him captain? Are you and Killian friends now?” Clicking her tongue, Regina makes a noise that’s neither confirmation nor objection. “I’m not supposed to be here. This isn’t—none of this is real.” “Ah, that’s actually a little rude.” “How did this happen, then?” Another noise. More guttural that time, and Emma hopes it hurts the inside of Regina’s throat. She’s feeling a little vindictive. No one’s explained the Unified Realms concept to her yet, that’s why. “I’ve got several working theories, some people who would know far more about Neverland’s vegetation and what its capable of than I would, and the deep-burning desire to know whether or not you told Killian about the plant.”

The gods are clearly feeling particularly charitable to Emma right now. All things considered, she feels like she deserves that. 

And she doesn’t fall out of the chair. 

“Do you think he remembers this? If I disappeared in Neverland, but he still married me here...God, that’s weird to say.” “Is it, though?’ Regina challenges, scrunching her nose like this is a conversation they can have.

“Why are you also being so goddamn weird?” “Time travels a funny thing. Lots of twists and turns, and potential pitfalls. And I’m not being weird, this is who I am now.” “Huh.” “Make it sound less like an insult next time,” Regina advises. “But I do think you’re right, you need to leave this part of the timeline. It’ll fall apart otherwise.” “You say so calmly.” “I’m almost very confident in your abilities.” “Almost,” Emma echoes, fully prepared for the snark-filled grin that gets her. Flames flicker between Regina’s fluttering fingers, not the first time that’s happened, but it usually only happens in times of particularly high stress and for as even-keeled as the so-called queen is acting, Emma knows at least part of it is a facade. “What happened with the knights? Also, shouldn’t knights from Camelot be under Arthur’s rule?” “That’s a whole other story. One your husband could recount much better than me.” “He’s not my husband.” “Not yet, I suppose.” Grimacing makes it harder to pull a breath in, but Emma’s butterflies make a triumphant return and the coffee maker was still on when she got downstairs. That might not be the coincidence she wants it to be. “The knights,” Emma demands, “what’s their deal?” “Nefarious, it seems. Which isn’t usually how they operate, and is wholly against the law.” “Of your kingdom?” Maybe Regina and Killian are friends. She’s much better at arching her eyebrow now. “Something like that. Anyway, the knights are here, without the proper paperwork, because they claim magic has been acting strangely in Camelot. And they’ve tracked it to our forest. What that magic is doing that’s so strange appears to be some sort of state secret, but Snow’s got a bird on it, so maybe we’ll find out eventually.” “That keeps happening.” “The fleeting nature of a bird’s attention span?”

Emma rolls her eyes. “Is she not Mary Margaret, anymore?”

The flames disappear, Regina sitting up a little straighter like they’ve finally delved into the serious part of this conversation, and whatever’s churning in Emma’s gut is a bit like regret. “Not in the way you’re thinking.” “How am I thinking about it, then?” “As someone who still hasn’t found Henry in Neverland yet.” “Sounds like we do.” “Not something you ever should have doubted.” “I don’t,” Emma says, only kind of a lie because she still can’t really shake her worry and her fear has always been such a strong part of her; the concept of letting that go is as terrifying as anything else. The coffee had been good that morning. “Why this spot? I mean—if I was going to get tugged to any point in my timeline, Christmas in Storybrooke seems a little out of left field, don’t you think?”

Regina considers that for a moment, drumming her still-flameless fingers on her vaguely imposing desk. “Honestly? Seems like a test.” “Of what?” “You, obviously.” “Speaking English, Your Highness.” “Majesty,” Regina corrects, sliding away from the desk so she can stand up and rest her palms on it and Emma’s eyes nearly roll into the back of her head. “And you’re being obtuse on purpose. I understand, but it’s—well, it’s only going to get more annoying, for both of us. The point is, games were part of Neverland. Tricks and sleight of hand, making you believe something that wasn’t there because that belief fueled the place. Belief’s even stronger for you, Emma. Because of what you are, and what you’ve done. Or will do, I guess.” “No pressure.” “Some, but—you’re distracting me. That’s still an unconfirmed theory.” “What is the point, then?” “The point,” Regina repeats archly, “is that pulling you out of Neverland, away from a place that made you feel like the Lost Girl you believe you are, turns this into something of a Utopia. Home, and safety. When’s the last time you celebrated Christmas?” “Never?” “See, everything you’ve ever wanted all tied up and—” “—I don’t want to be married to Hook.”

Disbelief colors every inch of Regina’s face, the sound of her laugh far more evil than she’s been all morning. “You’re an awful liar, Emma Swan. No matter what you do, and all you’ve ever been able to do is make eyes at the pirate.” “I don’t make eyes.” “Don’t worry, he does too. Even now, which is romantic if you like that sort of thing.” “The point, Regina.”

She grins. “You’re being offered a choice. Here, or there. Past or possible future. It’s a dangerous option, Emma, and one you can’t give into, no matter how much you might want.”

Finding her dad is far easier than Regina. 

Emma’s feet drift down the path towards the farm, boots squelching in the snow, but none of the moisture gets to her socks and the screen door opens before she can think about knocking. 

“Would have been offended if you had,” David says, pulling her against his chest and answering a question she didn’t have a chance to ask. It’s the hand that does it though. Cupping the back of Emma’s head, there’s something inherently safe about the whole thing, her cheek scrunched and her eyes stinging with more unshed tears and the first whimper she lets out is so goddamn depressing she can’t believe it came from her. 

“It’s ok, it’s ok,” David chants. Over and over, pressing the promise into her hair and her temple, the bridge of her nose once Emma finally lifts her head, and the slight jut of her chin because she’s nothing if not consistently stubborn and falling apart feels like failure. 

“C’mon, we’re going to sit down,” David continues, already directing Emma back into the hallway. And through the hallway. Past more pictures, and this couch looks even more comfortable than the one she’d woken up on, and she’d been right about her mother’s taste in pillows. An excess of frill. 

“Was I that obvious that you had to immediately call Regina yesterday?" David shrugs, lifting his arm in unspoken invitation. Emma slings her legs over his when she moves, the flannel now under her cheek oddly comforting. As is the kiss she feels pressed to the crown of her head. “A little,” he chuckles, “but mostly it was Killian’s blatant freakout.” “He wasn’t freaking out. At least not here.” “He was. Not loudly, maybe. But obviously. And you looked at Hope like you’d never seen her. That also kind of freaked out your mom.” “How old is she?”

Emma doesn’t bother being anymore specific. She knows she doesn’t have to — not when her dad’s arm tightens around her shoulders, and she wishes she’d come here first, if only to help keep her balanced on the precarious edge of lingering sanity, and she’s got absolutely no idea where Killian went. She should ask about that too. “Four.” “Shit. That’s—shit.” Another chuckle and second kiss, and David has to shift slightly to make sure Emma’s elbow doesn’t impale his side. “Reasonable response, really. Anything else?” “About a million and two things,” Emma admits, with enough acid in her voice to do permanent damage to the atmosphere. Making science-jokes is apparently a coping device now. “Regina thinks it’s a test. Of whether or not I really will leave, when given some sort of idyllic future.” “Well you’re not a selfish asshole, so I’m sure you’ll do what you have to.” “Kinda blunt, Dad.”

It’s not the first time she’s used that word — but titles have been thrown around in enough conversations already, and Emma’s really very wobbly on her metaphorical cliff and she wants something. Solid and dependable and she refuses to acknowledge how Killian might be both. Is definitely both. 

In any version of this life. 

“Kinda,” David agrees, “but the knights showed up when you did, and I don’t know if that’s a coincidence. There have been reports coming into the station, too. Stuff feeling out of whack across the realms—” “—How many realms are there, exactly? Is Regina in charge of all of them?”

“There was something of an election.” “For a queen?” “We’re a very progressive united coalition.”

“And you’re what? Prince of that?” David makes a contrary noise, and it takes longer than Emma expects to detail the hierarchy of this realm, but she understands why her mom would need to make royal decrees now and why people keep bowing to her and— “So that makes Killian a prince,” Emma says, pleasantly surprised to realize she does not in fact die when her heart explodes. Or when she realizes that some parts of that bedtime story may actually be based in reality. 

She kind of wants to see him spin in the middle of a sword fight. 

“Tell him that,” David suggests. “I’m sure he’ll enjoy it.” “Makes me think he won’t.” “Sometimes people bow to him, just to see what he’ll do.” “Challenge them to a duel?” “Nah, that’d mean he has to get his sword and that’s a whole thing. Plus, he’s got stuff to do in the station and there’s a fair bit of sailing involved.” “He keeps his ship?” Emma asks, sharper than she intends because something’s fluttering at the back of her brain and it’s big and important and she’s got absolutely no idea why. “And did you just say station?” David hums. “Doesn’t like wearing the badge though. Which I think is an affront to the position of deputy, but—” She nearly hits his chin. Jerking her head up, Emma’s eyes widen quickly enough that they also water and her dad might be the asshole here because he doesn’t do anything except smile knowingly at her. “You’re happy here, Emma,” he says, “after everything. And there’s a lot of everything, but it ends eventually. Gets the happily ever after it deserves, that both of you deserve. Although he’s a merciless cheat in Monopoly, drives me nuts every Christmas.”

It’s not a laugh. Not really. Sagging forward, air flies out of Emma’s lungs and her very dry lips, and that second thing is because she keeps breathing out her mouth, and trying to piece together a puzzle she wasn’t all that interested in finishing before. Now it’s all she wants, desperate to see what the picture is, and it’s probably very pretty. 

A covered bridge, or an oceanscape or something. Thomas Kinkaid, maybe. And part of her hears the warning, knows all too well that she’s already failing the test, but the rest of her absolutely does not care. 

“Are you really here, or is that some kind of trick my mind came up with because you’re actually stuck in Neverland?” David kisses her nose. “Here. And for the time being, so are you. Which means you can sleep.”

“Mind reading isn't one of your talents, as far as I knew.” “I get better at it,” he promises, tugging an exceptionally soft blanket off the back of the couch and Emma doesn’t put up much of a fight before resting her head on his shoulder and promptly falling asleep. 

There are lights on in half a dozen windows when David’s new — at least as far as Emma’s concerned — truck comes to a stop in front of her absolutely massive house, and she’s got to get out. Easier said than done, particularly with trembling fingers and obviously fluttering curtains in that one bay window, and it takes no less than four tries for her to undo her seatbelt,

“It’s going to be fine” David says again, “no matter what happens.” “Even with magic being weird?” “We’re not sure that’s entirely your fault.”

Scoffing, Emma tries very hard to believe that. No one’s updated them on the location of the bird. She kind of hates this bird. Possibly all birds, really. “Sure it’s not. So, what—I’m just supposed to go back into this stupidly large mansion and—” “—Wouldn’t all mansions be large?” David interrupts. “By default?” “Did we rob a bank to pay for this?” “You’d have to ask Killian, but I don’t think so.” “He says I call him babe.”

Wincing, Emma belatedly realizes this is probably not a conversation she should be having with her father, but she hasn’t really seen her mother and she wants to talk about it to Regina even less, and she obviously can’t bring it up to Killian when she’s avoiding him so much and—

A door slams. Footsteps rush towards them, voices on the breeze and the snowflakes that have kept falling all day because it’s New England and as far as Emma knows it’s required to snow in New England on Christmas. Or in the days leading up. 

David nods towards the door she should have opened five minutes ago. 

And it takes her about one sharp inhale, two eyes that very nearly fall out of her head, and that maternal-type adrenaline she’s starting to get used to, for Emma to tumble out of the truck, sprint the few feet between them and practically launch herself into Henry’s waiting arms. Arms that are much more adult than she’s familiar with. 

Although that does also make it easier for him to tighten them around Emma’s middle, and she supposes time-traveling beggars cannot be choosers. “Hey,” Henry breathes, mostly into her hair. Wind whips around them, only kind of unnatural and a little magical and the door opens again. Emma doesn’t look up. Seeing Killian standing there, with his feet crossed at the ankles, she’s sure, will only drive her closer to a line she’s not all that willing to cross. Yet. Or ever. 

No, definitely ever. 

Everyone calling him Killian is nice. Exceptionally, so. 

“Killian said it was bad, but…” Trailing off, Henry pulls back and Emma’s crying again. Like a total, entirely incompetent ass. She’s got so many questions still. Her arms tighten, a fresh round of terror rattling around her soul, or some other ridiculous sentiment, and Henry doesn’t argue. He kisses the top of her hair too. 

He’s much taller than her now. 

“Did Killian talk to you?”

“Mom,” Henry sighs, “c’mon—even when I was a kid, that shouldn’t have surprised you.” It doesn’t, not really. But there’s a grown man in her arms, and snow flying around them, and Henry’s barked “not now, Lu” causes another kid to scamper back up the porch. Towards Killian and his ridiculous grey-streaked hair, and he picks her up without looking away from Emma. 

He’s looking at Emma. 

Still, or always, or whatever. 

“Don’t ask what kind of favors he had to pull in to get us here,” Henry adds, “but he said you’d need it, and it might help and Ella definitely wanted to leave, even if she won’t admit to it, so—”

“Stop telling lies, Henry Mills,” another voice calls from behind Killian, and Emma’s going to pass out. For a variety of reasons, least of all her lack of caloric intake today. 

Henry clicks his tongue. A family trait, apparently. “It’s not a lie, she didn’t even really want to go, but Lu gets a ridiculous present haul, so we had to and—” Several puzzle pieces fly into place. Helped along by Lu’s rather loud screech of “papa” directly into Killian’s ear, and Emma is glad she hasn’t eaten. Throwing up on Henry’s shoes is not the festive reunion it should be. “I’m really here,” Henry adds, reading Emma’s mind. Or her face. “No matter what you think might have happened in Neverland, it didn’t. I’m here, and you’re here and Killian made food, so you should probably eat.” She’d been right about the puzzle, it is a pretty picture. One that doesn’t belong to her, entirely. But pretty all the same. Desirable, maybe. 

That’s a dangerous line of thinking. 

“Hook can cook? Ignore that rhyme, please.” Henry grins, marching them back towards the house as David yells something about getting Snow from school and then there are smells and kids and that goddamn Christmas tree. And it takes Emma a few moments she thinks she deserves to realize—

“How did Henry know I’d come from Neverland?” she asks Killian, standing in the middle of the kitchen. He’s stirring something. She’ll think about that for at least two hours. 

“I told him.” “How did you know?” Leveling her with an incredulous stare, Emma once again fails at the whole no blushing thing, and they own a stand mixer. Only adults own stand mixers. “How many times should I request you give me more credit before that also becomes redundant?” “This is probably good enough.” “Generous of you, and it wasn’t very hard. Although I am still trying to pinpoint when it was, exactly. Quite a lot happened in Neverland.” “Looking awfully smug about that.” He shakes his head, offering her the spoon and there’s sauce there. Delicious sauce. This must happen a lot. “Hard to do that when you can’t look at me straight on, but—” “—Echo Caves,” Emma says, rushing to interrupt him. Killian’s eyebrows jump. 

“Huh.” “Regina doesn’t think telling me things will affect anything.” “Huh.” “Nothing to add to that?” Silence. More relative, at least. The TV is on, and a pillow fort is apparently being engineered in the living room, and everyone was very quick to leave the pair of them alone. With the sauce. “Thank you, though.”

“For?” “Getting Henry here, whatever favors you had to call in. I—well, Dad told me some of the stuff, and it’s...nice.” His lips disappear when he presses them together. Emma’s still staring, it seems. “Part of the deal, I think.” “Of?” “You really want me to answer that?” “Probably not,” Emma exhales, “but—still. It’s nice, and I...well, I appreciate it.”

“That’s not something you have to thank me for, love. Now, c’mon, I know you haven’t eaten and there are some ravenous kids out there who will mutiny if we don’t get them spaghetti soon.”

Emma nods, not able to say anything else because nice is suddenly a vast understatement, and she eats a second bowl of mostly sauce, and she never really knows how she gets back into bed, only that she fell asleep under the pillow fort with Killian’s shoulder close to hers.