#let him be jolly for once dam

[supine-ly]

I’m a sucker for characters that get ruthlessly shat on by the fandom

[bonky-n-steeb]

𝐵𝑅𝐸𝐴𝑇𝐻𝐸

𝙿𝙰𝚁𝚃 𝚃𝚆𝙾

𝘿𝘼𝙍𝙆!𝘽𝙐𝘾𝙆𝙔 𝘽𝘼𝙍𝙉𝙀𝙎 𝙭 𝙍𝙀𝘼𝘿𝙀𝙍 | 𝙈𝙊𝘽!𝙎𝙏𝙀𝙑𝙀 𝙍𝙊𝙂𝙀𝙍𝙎 𝙓 𝙍𝙀𝘼𝘿𝙀𝙍

𝗦𝗨𝗠𝗠𝗔𝗥𝗬:  Your life is as good as it gets. The perfect husband, the perfect daughter, the perfect job. But what you are unaware is that your husband is a deadly assassin and your long-lost friend, now a fearsome mob boss is hell bent on getting you back. But what you don’t know can't hurt you, right?

𝗪𝗔𝗥𝗡𝗜𝗡𝗚𝗦:  psychological disorder, PTSD, domestic abuse, yandere, obsession, violence, cursing. If you find any of this triggering please DNI. Also inform me if I left something out.

ᴛʜɪs ɪs ɴᴏᴛ ʙᴇᴛᴀ ʀᴇᴀᴅ, sᴏ ᴀʟʟ ᴍɪsᴛᴀᴋᴇs ᴀʀᴇ ᴍʏ ᴏᴡɴ

My previous account was deleted so I’ll be posting the stories again. I’ll be changing this one, so yeah.

Inform me if y’all wanna be tagged!

You stared at the ticking clock, counting the seconds for his return, while Iris played with her stuffed tiger that her dada had bought for her. Her father was finally coming home after serving for a really long time in the military. Bucky was everything you had wanted and more. 

Though you both had a small and cute wedding when you were way too young, it still was one of the best days of your life. Since the day you had met him, he had been hell bent on joining the army as he somehow felt the need to protect people after what had happened to his father. So, after serving his first term, while you were still a second-year graduate student, he had proposed and you had accepted without wasting a second.  

Soon you had found yourself pregnant, during your pregnancy, he had been there for your every beck and call. You still remembered his face when Iris was born; it was filled with such adoration and love, you knew you wouldn’t have to worry about anything. Iris was literally the female version of her dad, her cute nose, her lips and most importantly her blue eyes; her eyes had played a small role in naming her.

Having a kid and completing your medical residency had been tough, but whenever Bucky was home, he took care of all the housework and kept Iris busy for as long as possible. Just one thing which you didn’t like was all this time he spent away from home and the immense risk that came along with being on active duty. But he wasn’t just your Bucky, was he, he was Sgt. Barnes, too.  

But now as you sat staring at the clock, you feared that when he returned, Bucky wouldn't be the same man he was. While on duty, there had been an explosion and he had lost his arm. Hearing his voice on the phone was enough to tell you that he was broken. You were waiting to take him in your arms and tell him that it would be fine.

Just then the bell rang and you quickly got up and unlocked the door. And there he was, his eyes without their usual luster, filled with unshed tears. As Iris ran towards him, he quickly scooped her up in his right arm. “dada! I missed you s’much” she said kissing his face. You wondered whether she didn’t notice or was simply ignoring his missing arm after you gave her a little ‘talk’ about it. “I missed you too Rissie! I love you my little princess!” he said smothering her with kisses. “I'm a Queen!” she exclaimed. “Alright your majesty. Now may I enter your palace and meet my wife?” Iris pretended to think and then exclaimed a yes.  

“Hey, don’t cry” he said as he dropped Iris down. You hadn't even noticed that you were crying. You quickly wrapped him in your arms and he held you tight, fearing that you might slip away. You both didn’t speak for a long time, you were too busy being buried in each other's neck, but then you felt the moisture collect on your shoulder. As you let go, you realized his dam had broken and he was crying too.  

“I love you Bucky bunny” you said playfully. Somehow long back, you had come up with this nickname while watching Looney Tunes; your magnificent brain had somehow morphed Bugs Bunny into Bucky bunny. He pretended to hate it saying it sounded like some porn stars name, and therefore you teased him even more. “I love you too.” he replied staring deep into your soul.

☮︎︎☮︎︎☮︎︎☮︎︎☮︎︎

As you both retired to your bedroom after ensuring Iris was fast asleep, you simply laid in bed without talking. Your hands were quietly exploring the same planes of his body you had travelled a million times over. You hesitated to touch his arm at first, fearing whether he was comfortable with it or not. But as you slowly began to trace the scars, he let out a long breath.  

You wished he didn’t have to suffer this; you wished all went to the way it was previously; you wished that his eyes shone just as brightly as they did before. But that didn’t mean you loved him any less now. Though throughout the day he pretended to be just fine, you knew he wasn’t even close to being fine.  

“Are you going to leave me?” he finally broke the silence. You couldn’t help but give him a confused expression, why would he ask that? “You don’t have to pretend. Not with me. Just say and I'll go. I don’t want to be a burden to you... ” you shut him up by kissing him. “I am not leaving you Buck. I’m gonna stick with you like an octopus.” you said chuckling. “Buck, we’ll go through everything and anything if we are together. I just want you to be happy. We'll make it work; we will find a way. And trust me when I say I love you more than anything.”

You spent the entire night, tangled in each other, telling him how much you loved and cherished him.

☮︎︎☮︎︎☮︎︎☮︎︎☮︎︎

You were tired and your back was aching after performing a long surgery. As you opened the door, you were greeted with the smell if your favorite dish being cooked in the house. As you walked straight to the kitchen you were stunned to see Bucky somehow managing to cook with Iris sitting on the kitchen counter. Though the kitchen was a mess, you weren't going to complaint, all you could see was the blinding happiness on his face.

“Look who is back! Guess what mama bear?” Bucky said joyously. You wondered what was the reason behind his joy. “Daddy is gonna get his arm back!” Rissie exclaimed happily. This wasn’t news to you though. You had talked to Bucky about getting a prosthetic arm and he hadn't been half this excited. Seeing your confusion Bucky responded “Well, I got a call this morning. They are not only giving me my job back but giving me a cool new arm. I'll be on duty again!”  

You weren't sure whether to be happy or sad. You were euphoric about Bucky’s job and arm but at the same time you were worried for his life. “That’s amazing Buck!” you hugged him tightly as Iris slipped between you two. Your eyes were filled with happy tears. He was happy and that’s all that mattered right now.

☮︎︎☮︎︎☮︎︎☮︎︎☮︎︎

FOUR YEARS LATER

You finally had a holiday from your hectic schedule as a surgeon. Iris was off to school and after some pushing you had persuaded Bucky to go get groceries. You wondered what had happened to Bucky. Something had changed after he got that arm, rather everything had changed. He wasn’t lively anymore, he got irritated at small things, stared off absently into space not responding to anything, he constantly looked behind his back, nor did he laugh at any of your jokes, you missed his laughter and that's what hurt you the most.  

Not to mention the horrid dead blank stare he gave you some days, intently looking at your every move like a predator, that thing scared the shit out of you. In the past two years not once you and Bucky had accepted Thor’s dinner invitations. You didn’t have many friends, you just had one, Thor. He was with you since your residency and you both worked together as trauma surgeons. Bucky and Thor had become quick friends too and the three of you went on many double dates. But that was a thing of the past. Now, whenever Thor invited you, Bucky simply came up with a stupid reason to not go. Bucky had become so closed off; he wasn’t the thoughtful and jolly Bucky you fell in love with.

Now that you finally had the house to yourself, you had decided to go on a cleaning spree. Currently you were in your bathroom; busy cleaning with your mop, when you accidentally slipped on some spilt soap water and ended up falling right beside the bathtub, your mop flew up and hit the ceiling tiles, thus displacing them. Suddenly a small diary fell right on your head. Placing your right hand on the ledge of the bath tub, you waited for everything to settle down and cursed loudly. “Fuck you, you goddamning son of a bitch! Everything had to fall on my head! Pathetic!”.  

You saw that you mop as now dangling on the bath tub and that stupid diary which had apparently fallen from heaven knows where was laying right beside you. As you looked up, you noticed the displaced tiles and realized that’s where this must have fallen from. As you picked up the diary you noticed there wasn't any dust on it, so there wasn't a chance that the previous owners might have left something in the false ceiling above. And it definitely wasn’t you, Iris was too small to keep something there; that only left Bucky. But why did he never mention this diary before. What exactly was he hiding?

As you opened the diary, you realized that you couldn’t understand a single word written. It felt as it was written in some highly complex code language. You were sure it wasn’t any language spoken everyday by sane humans. As you flipped through the pages you realized that every page was written in the same format. At the top was presumably some names written in the code and the rest was probably the information of that person.  

You wondered how did Bucky know this language? And why didn’t he ever tell you about anything, heck, he didn’t even mention it. And whose names had he written like it was the most confidential file? You got up and quickly closed the lid on the toilet and climbed up on it. You stuck your hand inside the hollow ceiling above to check if he was hiding something more.  

Your hand caught something and you pulled it out, only to realize it was a laptop. You wondered why he needed a second laptop when he already had one for work purposes in the home office. You took the laptop and the diary and sat down in the bathroom itself, so that if you when you would hear Bucky come you would simply put everything back up in the ceiling. You opened the laptop and saw it was password protected. You decided you would have two tries at unlocking the laptop and if you didn’t crack it, you would simply confront him.  

You first tried out typing Iris's name and her date of birth. But it was denied access. You thought for a minute more and entered your own name and your birthdate. And access was granted to you. You didn’t know whether to be happy that he had kept your name as his password or angry that he had been lying to you about whatever this was. As the laptop opened, you saw various files in it. You tapped on one and it seemed to open on a person’s resume. No, it wasn’t a resume, it was that person’s entire life history. It was like those files the assassins carried in movies with all the information about their target. You wondered what Jason Bourne shit this was.

As you read his name and saw the photos attached with it, you felt as if you had seen this person before. As you scrolled further, it finally clicked. A year before this person, who held a high position in the United Nations, was all over the news due to his untimely death caused by a heart attack. You had absolutely no interest in worldly matters, you already had a million problems on your head so you hadn't paid much attention and had not given a flying fuck. But now suddenly sweat was covering your forehead. You were worried sick as to why Bucky had all this information stored in a secret computer.

As you scrolled further, you almost reached the end of the file and that’s when you saw the video. With shaky hands you opened it. It seemed to be the security footage of that man’s bedroom and its resolution was pretty shitty. For the first few minutes all you saw was the man sleeping peacefully but as the video continued, you noticed it. The window in his room was slowly lifted as a man entered. He seemed to be dressed in tactical gear, his face was covered by a mask, but he was given away by one tell-tale sign. His arm. The metal arm with a red star on it glinted in the moonlight and you knew it was Bucky.

You watched as Bucky quietly walked towards the sleeping man. As he stood near the bed, he produced something from his pocket and bent down. As you strained your eyes, you saw that it was an injection. Your eyes widened as you clapped your hand around your mouth. That man hadn't died due to a heart attack, at least not natural. He was murdered by Bucky!

You opened another file, then another, they all were the same. In the beginning it was the information about the person, then a report as to how they died and then a video. All of them were well known figures; and all of them had been assassinated by Bucky. In one of the videos, you saw him choking the life out of a man with his metal arm and your mind wandered to the many times you would playfully tell him to choke you with the metal arm while fucking you; your hand unconsciously went to your throat at the thought.  

Then you opened a file titled: The Winter Soldier. That was weird you thought, the other files were given numbers but not names. As you opened the file, you realized it was Bucky’s own. Apparently, his codename was The Winter Soldier. Everything about him was stated in that file systematically. His background, his education, his military career and the worst of all, there were your and Iris’s photos too. As you continued to read, you realized he wasn’t working in the military anymore. Four years before, the people who had called him were from an organization named Hydra. The name and symbol itself sent chills down your spine. God, was Bucky so stupid, the octopus symbol itself screamed that Hydra was up to no good.

In the beginning, you couldn’t believe Bucky had gotten such a fancy and technological advanced arm. Looking at it you wondered how much it cost, the material and the functions would make it no less than a few million dollars. Now why would the government spend so much money on a sergeant, not that Bucky didn’t deserve it but you were curious.  

It felt as if he was hiding something from you. But you didn’t as ask as you knew he’d come around and tell you soon anyway. He needed time and you had plenty to give. But he never did. You had asked so many times whether the star was a tattoo of some sort and he had always deflected your questions. But now after reading this, you knew what all this was for. The arm, the pay raise, the irregular schedule, it was all Hydra. And Bucky was a professional assassin, and that too a deadly one.

Your eyes watered and bile rose to your throat as you saw a list, it was all the people he had killed, and the list was pretty big. You quickly placed the laptop besides you and began to puke your guts out in the toilet. In all the panic you failed to notice that a person was holding back your hair and soothingly rubbing your back.  

[jeongvision]

bandaids

synopsis. in the midst of finals season, where routine takes over your lifestyle, you find solace in the voice of your most important person that always seem to know when you’re at your breaking point.

pairing. boyfriend! kim doyoung ✗ student! fem! reader

genre. fluff, angst, slice of life, hurt/comfort, college au, non idol au, established relationship au

word count. 1.8k words

warnings. cursing, mentions of anxiety, depictions of a mental breakdown

song. bandaids by keshi

author’s note. after looking at my calendar, it has come to my attention that it’s that time of the year: finals season. i just want to let all of you know that you are doing a great job. you made it this far and i’m proud of you. i promise you, you will get through this. hopefully this could give comfort in the midst of your studies. love you all.

friends of flowers fragile silence stand beside you stop your crying

If there is one thing that all college students could agree on, it’s that finals seasons are the absolute worst thing to ever go through in college. You’re constantly spending every night at the library with your eyes glued onto your textbooks, your brain rushing to keep up in retaining all the pertinent information needed for your exams. You’re devoting hours onto your laptop with your fingers typing away on your keyboard, internet tabs and pages cluttering your screen as you rush to reach the minimum page count required for your courses.

So many times you have declined all your friends’ requests for study dates or a simple get-together because you just don’t have the luxury to. As much as you’d love to take a break from your studies, you feel like you’re running out of time. It has gotten to the point where your boyfriend has to remind you every now and then to take breaks as he gets concerned for your well-being. And just when you thought you were done with one exam or assignment, you look back on your planner only to find out that there’s more to complete. It’s like your pile just doesn’t seem to lessen with each passing day, your mentality on the brink of collapse.

Just where is the end to all of this?

You are currently perched over your desk, packets of case studies splayed out on top of your corrections textbook. Your laptop screen shines bright at the corner, documents filled with infinitesimal texts and numbers. To your right lies your essential oil diffuser, planted right on your nightstand with fumes of aroma wafting through the air. You took your best friend’s suggestion in purchasing an aromatherapy diffuser to help relieve some stress you’ve accumulated from your studies. Lavender should help out, she said. But to your dismay, you don’t feel a single ounce of it lifting from your shoulders. Forcing your brain to believe its effective properties only puts your head more into a strain.

That’s when you felt a sharp pain rip through your skull. ‘Great,’ you groaned to yourself, ‘another fucking headache.’ You dropped your pen on your notebook and rubbed your fatigued eyes, the pressure from your fingertips massaging away. “God, I can’t wait for this semester to be over with already.”

Crossing your arms, you found your phone lying in the middle of your bed. You forgot that you left it on ‘do not disturb’, finally realizing why you didn’t hear your phone ring in the past few hours. You grabbed your phone off your bed. 2:58 am, it reads. Unlocking your phone, you skimmed through your notifications, your fingers swiftly responding to certain messages cluttered up in your phone until you reached to this one particular conversation:

hey babe (sent by doie <3, 11:01pm)

hope you’re eating your meals and drinking water (sent by doie <3, 11:01pm)

just want to let you know that i’m proud of you (sent by doie <3, 11:02pm)

always am and always will (sent by doie <3, 11:02pm)

love you (sent by doie <3, 11:02pm)

You could feel a smile blooming on your lips. It has been a while since you’ve seen Doyoung, let alone hear his voice. Is it too late to call him? ‘He might be sleeping,’ you thought to yourself. ‘Should I?’ Biting your lip, you mustered up the courage and decided to call him. Placing your phone against your ear, you awaited his call. The sound reverberates through your eardrums, the anticipation of having your call picked up diminishing with each passing ring. And just when you were about to give up, the tune stops short on its last ring.

“Hello?” a deep voice croaks.

You softly smile at the sound of his voice. “Hey,” you whispered. “Did I… wake you up?”

“No, no.” You hear him shuffling on his end, to what you could assume to be from his movements in his bed sheets. “Not at all, baby.” You couldn’t help but let out a giggle, touched over the fact he’s easing your guilt of awakening him from his much-needed slumber. “What’s wrong? You need something?”

You shrugged your shoulders, a habit you’ve developed when talking on the phone with someone. “No, not really.” You run your fingers through your hair before rubbing the nape of your neck. “I just missed you, that’s all.”

He lets out a tired chuckle. “I missed you, too.”

You hum a little, “How are your finals?”

He scoffs. “Shit.”

“Not surprised,” you giggled. “You only have one more left, right?”

“Yeah. Chem 4. After that, I’m ready to sleep for a whole week straight.”

“Can I join you in your sleeping session?”

“You most certainly can.”

You both shared a laugh, your mind finally distracted from the strenuous documents that resided on top of your desk. “I call dibs on being the small spoon.”

He chortles. “You’re funny.”

“Hey! It��s only fair.”

“That’s what you said when you ate my share of fries the other week.”

His voice was much livelier than before, fully awakened from his rest now. You missed the jolly feeling you’d get when you talked to him. All those days and nights spent by his side where nothing else mattered in the world except for your boyfriend, whispering loving affirmations to you just like always. You really did miss him, and you can’t wait for this semester to be over to spend quality time with him again.

“Hey, y/n?” he called out.

“Hm?”

“You know that all I ever ask of you is to be honest with me?”

Your smile drops. You know where this is going, and frankly, you’re not sure if you’re ready to have this conversation again. Time after time, he would start a conversation with that question followed by his ongoing concerns wrapped in his mind. Sometimes he would ask for your second opinion, but most of the time they were diverted to you, his forever lover. And you knew this time, this is going to be about you.

Your free hand fiddled with the ends of your finger as you chew on your lip again, your eyes peering down to your lap.

“... yes,” you murmured.

You could hear your heart beating through your ears, the silence deafening the space that encompassed you around. Neither one of you uttered a sound to the other, too afraid to whisper through the thick tension planted in the air. Outside your dorm, there are muffled footsteps fading in and out by your door, most likely from your dorm neighbors coming back from another one of their library sessions. He lets out a soft sigh on his end, not one filled with annoyance, but filled with worry, his attention all focused onto you.

“... are you okay?”

And just like that, you felt the dam inside you crumble to ashes. The mask that you’ve held from the past few weeks is finally dissolving, the facade released from its shackles. Weeks of putting up a front, telling yourself that everything is okay, is now coming to end. ‘I’m fine,’ you would say to yourself. ‘This is nothing, I can handle this myself.’

Oh but darling, there’s only so much you could take in. Not everyone is perfect, and not everyone is indestructible. May we all be human, for we laugh, cry, smile, frown, scream, shout, cheer.

Tears burned through your eyelids, blurring your line of vision as you tried to hold yourself together. You shakily let out a sigh. “.... no,” your voice cracks. Another deep sigh, and you felt a tear drip down your cheek. “I’m… I’m tired, Doyoung.” More tears cascade down your cheeks, bringing your sleeves up to wipe them away with each drop. “I’m exhausted, Doyoung. I’m tired.. of all of this. I’m—”

With the phone still pressed against your ear, you sobbed into the night, finally pouring all your boxed-in emotions out to your lover. You cried out your frustrations, your anger, your desolace. Long have your soul been used to routine that you forgot what warmth felt like. To be cared for, watched for, and loved for.

Your sleeves soaked up all your tears, your eyelids certainly swollen from the sudden rush. You take even breaths, calming yourself down from your breakdown. Throughout your cries, never once did Doyoung strayed away from you, ears firmly pressed against his ear. He took in all, every last drop to mitigate the cold shell you’ve developed over time. He said nothing, only offering his presence as a sort of comfort to you for the time being. Once silence took over, all your tears spent, that’s when he spoke up.

“You did well, y/n.”

You breathing hitches for a moment, heart skipping a beat from his words.

“I’m so, so proud of you, y/n. You made it this far into the semester and for that, I’m proud of you.”

And alas, your smile returns. Minuscule it may be, but it’s more than what you could ask for. The feeling of having your shoulders lifted from your burdens made you feel like you could fly again, soar up in the clouds. Your best friend certainly knows how to cheer you up the most.

“Sorry about all of that,” you chuckled.

“Don’t be sorry.”

You shook your head. “No, I am. You literally just heard me have a breakdown and cry with snots all over the place—”

“I don’t give a damn about all of that, y/n.” There’s a slight shuffle on his end. “I love you for you, and that’s never going to change. I will love you at your lowest, and I will love you at your highest. Even when you feel like there’s no hope left in this world, I will bring you back to earth and hold you and remind you that you are hope.”

Just when you thought you had no more tears left in your system, you could feel the waterworks starting again. You bite down on your lower lip, desperately holding it in as love overcomes you.

“You did well, y/n. Only two more finals to go and you’re finally free.”

You wipe away the stray tear that befallen on your cheek. “Thank you, Doyoung. Really.”

“Now go out there and kick some ass for me, alright? Show those professors who’s the boss around here.”

You giggled. With your two fingers on your temple, you did an informal salute. “Yes, sir.”

“That’s my girl.”

Let this be a reminder to you, to all, that there will always be one person that will love you at your lowest, and will always be there to help pick you back up.

i’m afraid that bandaids are no good for heartache not okay, so tell me when your world is falling down

[mochikeiji]

Just Say Yes

↠ Pairing: Bokuto Koutarou x Akaashi Keiji

↠ Warning: Royal AU! Slight nsfw mentioned, angst to fluff, mention of death, Songfic! Love Story by: Taylor Swift

↬ Word Count: 2,235

Summary: In between saving your own kingdom and throwing away your freedom, wouldn't you rather run away and be free like all the birds you see fly from your window up in a palace? Would you dare take another's hand as they lead you to another chapter of your life? Or would you stay forever held against your will as young prince Akaashi Keiji?

⇢ Day 9: Royal AU @bokuakaweek2020

✎﹏

Being the only son meant a lot of responsibilities. Whether you grew up from the villages or up in the palace, it was always like that for the eldest and only child.

"You are to be married next week, Akaashi. Your bride is a true gem and will serve as our palace and cities security."

What more can be shouldered in the stoic males shoulder than being his own father's pawn to his own game.

Nothing truly mattered to the king other than his own entitlement and grounds. Having to force his own son take on more and more duties and him to sit down and watch as things unfolf according to his desire.

"I refuse, father. I do not want to single handedly marry someone whom I have never encountered nor have developed such feelings with. It is unfair."

If only his mother were here, she would've said the same thing to her husband. But upon the death of the kingdom's queen casted a dark void to their king. Leaving the poor prince to be his only way of letting all emotions out on such reckless demands.

"You will do as you are told. This is for the good of our people and our kingdom standing. Do you want to see all this fall out of your own selfish desire?"

Had his father have the nerve to talk about such topic.

A true hypocrite.

"No father."

"Then you are dismissed."

Despite the sadness now slowly forming into a dam that is yet to crack, Akaashi held his head high as he passes by the royal guards, bowing before him as he made his way up to his room, walking a bit faster as to know he was a ticking bomb.

When he shuts the wooden door behind him, he slouches down against it, unable to bottle up all the pent emotions years had held.

How he truly wishes he could trade anything to have his mother here holding him in her arms again. But he knows that not even the amount of golds and diamonds are enough to bring the dead back.

He lets his tear fall from the silver object that was wrapped around his finger. A cheap knock off ring that was on sale from the village not too long ago.

Recalling the time he had snuck out that night of an event held inside the palace. He couldn't help but feel overwhelmed from the surrounding of those who wished to have their boots kissed and princesses swarming around him just for his hand in marriage, he went out in full cloack and straight to the festival that was held in the village.

He could never understand why his father didn't want to invite these people inside their humongous ball room. They seemed more fun and outgoing than the ones in full boast of their attire. The chuldren held some kind of stick that was lit with fire sparkling from the tip, people dancing in some kind of folklore but jolly tune, and there were so many stalls of food he wasn't allowed to try!

But what really made that night more surreal was when he had stumbled upon a small bar. Deciding to take a break from all of his wonderings, he was lost in the sight of so many unfamiliar dish being told to him.

"You're not from here, are you?"

He can remember his face getting pale. It was risky to have the prince spotted outside the palace. His father's rules including, "If thy prince is to be found wondering out of the palace, return thee at once and you shall be given an award for escorting him safely."

That person grabbed his wrist and ran out of that bar. He thought he was done for but quickly surged into panic when they both ran into another direction that led underneath the bridge. Was he going to eat the dust now?

"Here, you should be safe here, your highness."

The man had sat down on the grass, placing the sack he had been carrying when they ran out beside him, opening it gingerly to reveal the amount of food he had brought.

"I don't mind sharing but," Akaashi flinches when his golden eyes were more prompt from the moonlight, giving him that kind of dangerous look in them, "I know for one thing the palace doesn't allow you to eat this. It might be rubbish for you, but dig in to whatever suits your likings!" grinning, Akaashi was baffled by his kindess. His father would tell him stories about the villagers and them being nothing but cruel and savages to one another. But he was different. Come to think of it, everyone he had his eyes on the village seemed too different from the stories.

"Um." he watches as he scarfs down a loaf of bread, dipping it into some kind of white substance thag had green litterings on them.

"Hm? Oh, you wanna try the bread? Its good when you dip it in sour cream." ripping half of his bread, he hands one gently on Akaashi's palm, sliding in the dipping he was talking about. He knelts on the ground in wary, before he gives his bread a little dip in the cream and nibbles on it.

Eyes sparkling a bit at the foreign taste, he dips it once more and this time takes a bigger bite. At this moment, he didn't realized he was already starving so much.

"Good right? You should try it with the potato, it's amazing."

He gulps on his meal, giving the kind man a smile, "Thank you, for being so kind to me, um.." he trails off bashfully when he was given another one of his captivating grin.

"Bokuto, Bokuto Koutarou at your service."

And from that day he had his first meal outside the palace. His first time to ever talk to someone outside the palace and spent the entire evening with.

The day he found love.

Since then, they both made a tradition. Once a week Bokuto would help him sneak out of the palace and out to the outskirts of town where they can enjoy some time alone and explore places Akaashi wishes he could see. And most of the time, Bokuto would make his way up from the tallest tree to meet up with him from the castles balcony below his room.

It was terrifying to get caught, but what made it worthwhile was Akaashi's happiness and both of their romance blooming to one another.

He smiles sadly as he raises his finger to his eye level. The ring he was given by Bokuto, the symbol of his undying love for him, next week to be replaced by some golden band and to be owned by someone whom he will never let in his already taken heart.

"Hey, Akaashi. Gimme your hand for a second."

Both males sat on their usual spot underneath the bridge outside of town. It had been their go to since no one comes out of night.

"Are you going to place your chin again, Bokuto?"

The last time he asked for this was when he wanted to tease the prince by placing his chin on his palm and whisper an I love you to him just to see his face bloom into a pretty shade of red.

"Nooo, this is something else, trust me. You'll like it!"

Sighing but smiles at him, he obliged to his request and places his hand onto his callused palm, awaiting for his next move.

"Atleast, I hope you'll like it."

He looks up to his golden eyes, taken back a little when he sees how flustered Bokuto has gotten before feeling a cold metalic like band slid on his finger.

"Is this?"

"It's plastic, I know." he scratches the back of his head as Akaashi stares in awe at the ring, "It's not really something that should be given to someone who's from the royal palace, but I promise you this will change into a gold one soon one day."

Akaashi's cheeks flushed. Was this a pre proposal?

"Here," Bokuto shows him his hand, "I have the same one as you. This'll be our promise ring together."

The amount of love Akaashi can feel in his chest was starting to swell it made his eyes a bit teary. Yet for some reason he couldn't help but smile widely at the thought of getting away from his palace and start a new life with someone who he truly loves.

"I'll be the one who'll marry you. That's a promise."

(Romeo, save me, I've been feeling so alone)

He sobs at the last line he has stuck to his head, "I'm so sorry, Bokuto." afraid of what his father might have done if he was to find out he already has someone. Let alone the opposite gender, he knows behind bars wasn't going to be Bokuto's consequence.

He fears that if he were to tell his father he loves a man. A man outside the palace he would meet with the same faith as those who defiled the king. Losing another person he has loved and clung on will be the last thing to snap Akaashi from his own sanity.

And for one moment, he actually thought of marrying the woman he was told to if it meant Bokuto would stay alive until the very end.

(I keep waiting for you, but you never come)

"Akaashi?"

His body jolts from the sound coming from his balcony windows he has forgotten to close a while back. Eyes focused on the silhouette that was squated down outside, looking warily for any guards that were on patrol for the night.

Just as all hope was lost, he had forgotten that it was that time of the night Bokuto would sneak in his room like he always does to check on him and spend a little time before he leaves at dawn.

(Is this in my head? I don't know what to think)

Bokuto sprints inside his room quietly, quickly kneeling beside the sobbing prince and places his hands on his cheeks.

"Y-you,"

"I know," softly stroking his cheeks, he swipes away the sad tears, "I heard. That's why I came."

The dam finally broken, Akaashi breaks into another wave of sobs, wrecking his body as Bokuto shields him away from everything the world can offer, whispering sweet nothings into his ear as he weaves his fingers in his tossled hair.

Knowing his story, his past, Bokuto vowed he would take him away from all of this misery that has chained him up from his freedom from the world. That he will be the one to take care of him and tend to him unlike now where he was being left in the shadows as a worn out doll.

"Let's run away."

(He knelt to the ground and pulled out a ring and said, )

Akaashi's eyes widened at his words. The fear striking back at him stronger.

"R-run? Run where?" his voice strained, looking like a frightful deer to Bokuto, who held a stern expression and his grip on his shoulders tighten.

"Run far away from here, anywhere. I'm not letting you marry someone you don't love and have your freedom taken away."

Bokuto's breathing was calm compared to Akaashi's ragged ones. He was quivering in so much fear he almost let's a yell out, instead it was a cracked voice that held a small plea into them.

"But you'll get killed! Bokuto...I can't have that.."

Burying his face on this broaded chest, his cries muffled as he clutches on his cloak, afraid to let go and meet with his faith.

"I don't want this.."

Bokuto forces his face up gently to look into his eyes, nothing but love and determination in them. He wonders, why isn't he afraid to lose his own life? Did he want to die so easily?

His lips suddenly captured by his, letting him melt into his hold and peck even for a second as he feels the swarm of emotion rising from within Bokuto to him before he pulls away and spoke,

"Marry me, Akaashi.

You'll never have to be alone

I love you and that's all I really know."

He listens to him, taking in every word and body language he could see from Bokuto.

"That's all I care about and should matter. Everything will follow if we take a step away from all of this."

"But my father—

"Let go of your dad, and go pack up your stuff."

For a second, he thought he saw his mother right before his eyes. Telling him exactly to follow Bokuto with a small smile, wanting her son to be freed from the greed and power she has known from her husband ever since she too, was forced to marry him out of demand.

There were too many things happening in one night. Yesterday they were happy, spent an entire evening exploring ones body and littering kisses all over, spilling out each other's love speeches and now,

Now marks the day Akaashi leaves his hell hole alone and live the life his mother would've wanted for him and her.

"It's a love our story, please, just say, "Yes"

And he did, for he knows he wants to keep this story going until their last breath.

[imaginethathaikyuu]

countdown to christmas - day 6

kuroo tetsurou - fireplace

hi friends. a bit of a warning: today’s scenario is quite sad, mainly because sad is something i’ve been feeling a lot here recently. my point with this is to show that while christmas time is happy and cheery and fun, sometimes it’s really shitty, too. and if your christmas season isn’t going well, you’re not alone. 

i promise tomorrow’s scenario will be brighter. but just in case sad isn’t your thing and you need something to read, here are some links to happier scenarios:

yesterday’s christmas prompt  some kuroo fallin in love with reader  akaashi getting a sweet birthday surprise 

potential trigger warning: mentions of (the whole thing is about) a pet passing away gender neutral reader 

- 

The festive music playing on the radio cut through the dead silence that seemed to be suffocating you. And while it would typically lift your mood and force you into a familiar jolly state of mind, right now you were sure nothing could do that. 

You couldn’t help but realize how ironic it was that such a happy song was playing, though. 

Life goes on. There were people struggling everywhere every day. Bad things will always happen. But life as you know it always continues; the world doesn’t change just because your life does. Happy songs play on the radio even when you’re miserable. The sun still comes up every morning, no matter how desperately you wish to be left in the dark. 

And nothing you said would make Tetsurou, or yourself, feel better. 

You had to drive home from the animal hospital. He tried getting in the driver’s seat like usual, but you wouldn’t let him. And you couldn’t stop glancing over at him, as if you were checking to make sure he was still there. 

He was good at holding himself together, that’s for sure. But you knew once the dam broke, it’d be broken for a long time. 

The drive was hell. It only took ten minutes but it felt like an eternity. The entire time, you just wanted to get out of that damned car - Kuroo was feeling the same. But when you pulled into the driveway, neither of you made a move to get out. 

Tetsurou was the first to speak, though. “I don’t want to go in,” he said, and his voice was breathy. He was struggling to speak. You could see the wall he’d built up starting to crack. 

You reached out and ran your hand along his slumped shoulder; he looked so small sitting in that passenger seat, and your eyes were tearing up looking at him. 

He laughed as he said, “it’s gonna be so quiet.” 

He was clutching the collar that sat in his lap; he hadn’t let it go since the vet handed it to him. 

“I know,” you whispered. 

“I knew it was going to happen,” he said, shaking his head as if that would make his all of his bad feelings go away. He was really trying to be strong, you could tell. “But… I just hoped that - that maybe…” 

“Tetsu,” you said sadly. You didn’t really know what you were supposed to say. “They did everything they could…” 

And then it was quiet again. That’s probably what he needed right now. 

But it was getting cold, and you two couldn’t sit in the car forever. You’d have to go inside some time - sooner was probably better than later. 

“We should go in, babe,” you said. “I’ll make you some tea, alright?” 

“Okay,” he sighed, and you had to reach over and give him a kiss on his cheek just to make yourself feel a little better. 

You led him inside, which was much harder to do than either of you would like to admit. 

Tetsurou hadn’t come home to a quiet house in years. He doesn’t remember the last time he didn’t have a big brown furry monster - also known as Rex - welcoming him home. A part of him still expected to see the dog running down the hallway, tail wagging and ready to jump up to give him a few welcome home licks. 

He wanted to pinch himself until he woke up from this awful dream. 

He walked into the living room alone, for some reason still nervous to look under the Christmas tree to see if there was another broken ornament, even though Rex hadn’t been home since this morning. He sat on the couch and looked over at the fireplace, which so desperately needed to be lit, but he couldn’t look past the three stockings hung there. One for him, one for you, and one for Rex. 

“Fuck.” 

Of course something as awful as this had to happen days before Christmas. This was meant to be the happiest time of the year. But money he should be spending on dog food and new toys was now being put towards a vet bill. The new treats he had bought yesterday would now just be left in the cupboard. The cute Santa costume he had always made Rex wear on Christmas was just going to keep collecting dust. 

And the collar he held was now useless. So was the name tag hooked to it. 

When you came into the room and called his name, he nearly fell off the couch; he was so lost in thought that he couldn’t even hear you coming in the room. 

You sat his tea down in front of him and went to the fireplace to start it up; it was way too cold to go without it. You turned on the Christmas tree lights, knowing Tetsurou liked when they were on, and then you flicked on the TV and let the random Christmas movie playing fill the silent room. 

“Tetsu, baby,” you started as you sat down on the floor in front of the heat of the fireplace. “Will you come sit with me?” 

He felt like a zombie as he forced himself to slide off the couch and onto the floor so he could scoot over to you slowly. He was sure his eyes were hollow looking and his cheeks were tear stained - he didn’t know how you weren’t laughing at his appearance, and honestly he wouldn’t blame you for it. 

When he was in your reach you didn’t hesitate to kiss his cheek again - twice, actually, just for good measure. And he let his head fall onto your shoulder as he felt his eyes filling up with more tears. 

“I love you,” you told him, because you didn’t want to say anything else. 

“I know,” he whispered. 

“So did he,” you said. “He loved you so much, Tetsu… you were the best he could’ve had.” 

He didn’t know how to feel. He didn’t know whether to be sad or pissed or a weird combination of both; he didn’t know if he should be proud of himself or just feel sorry. But his confusing feelings did nothing to stop his cries; in fact, he’s sure that’s partly what he’s crying about. 

Rex was old. Kuroo had gotten him at age 12 - he was 25 now and he knew he was lucky Rex had lived for as long as he did. And he saw it coming, he really did. But that didn’t make it hurt any less. 

He still managed to laugh at himself, though. He must’ve looked like a kid, sitting there crying in your arms; it was almost pathetic, but he couldn’t care. 

“I just hope,” he started, crying and hiccuping his way through the words, “I just hope I made him as happy as he made me, you know?” 

“You did,” you replied, laughing at the memories your words brought up. “You did, Tetsu. Couldn’t you tell? He was so attached to you.” 

He laughed with you. “I know,” he replied. 

He was going to have more room in his bed now. But he was really regretting all the times he complained about Rex taking up so much space. He never thought he’d miss being forced out of his own bed by that near bear sized dog. 

He’d give anything for one more night like that. One more chewed up shoe. One more broken Christmas ornament. Hell, even one more puddle of piss to mop up. 

But as he sat there in your arms, listening to the crackling fireplace, he forced himself to come to terms with it. This was his life now - he wasn’t a dog owner anymore. And he should be grateful that Rex was in a better place - god, he hoped he was in a better place. At the very least, he wasn’t hurting anymore. Tetsurou would choose this pain over what Rex had been feeling recently any day. 

“Tetsu…” 

You had been wanting to say something since the car ride home, but you didn’t know when the right time was. You weren’t sure there would ever be a right time, but right now seemed good enough. 

“I know we got him a lot of treats and toys for Christmas…” 

Kuroo nodded, unsure what you would say next. 

“What if we took all that and donated it to the shelter?” 

Even though the thought only made him cry more, Tetsurou really liked the idea of that. If he couldn’t give it all to Rex, he wanted to give it all to the dozens of dogs who deserved it. 

“I’ll pick up some food, too,” he mumbled. “Maybe tomorrow.” 

“There’s no rush,” you said, but Kuroo disagreed. 

“We have to take it before Christmas,” he insisted. “I usually give Rex his treats early, anyway…” 

You couldn’t help but smile at that. This was the saddest you had ever seen Tetsurou, and the worst thing you had witnessed him go through. But somehow, he was still thinking of others. He was still so giving and generous, even though you knew he was running on empty. 

You knew donating the supplies would make him feel better. That’s why you had brought it up, after all. You admired him for that. 

“I love you,” you told him again. “So much.” 

He nodded and mumbled, “I love you, too,” before wiping his eyes and pulling his head away from you. He glanced at the fireplace, then over at the TV, and then at the Christmas tree. Just last night, Rex was laying underneath it. Now, the floor was empty. 

But at least he had those years with him. And at least he had you here now, holding him up when all he could think about doing was falling down. 

He didn’t know why, but more than anything, he felt grateful. He was probably going to cry more, he’d be upset for awhile, and he’d miss Rex forever. But Tetsurou was grateful. For time spent, for years of happiness, for you. Maybe this Christmas wasn’t going to be very happy, but that’s okay. There’s always next year.

[shardminds]

The Swan that fell for the Sea (2/3)

Thank you to @itsfabianadocarmo for being so patient with me! This story, at this chapter, clocks in at 10k which is the longest thing I’ve ever written and there’s still one chapter to go! Your gift, my sweet, will continue on into 2020 as work and Christmas and other commitments have kept me from it :( I’m sorry for keeping you waiting but hope you continue to enjoy where this is going ♥ It’s been a pleasure to write for you! 

Another big thanks to @cssecretsanta2k19 for running this fantastic event! You ROCK! 

And, last but not least, we ALL owe a round of applause to @thisonesatellite for 1) putting up with me, 2) calling me out when things don’t make sense and 3) being an unwavering pillar of support through this whole process. THANKS LOVE!

Emma Swan falls for a man of the sea. She doesn’t mean to but she does all the same. The scent of salt and leather and rum lingers on her skin long after he’s gone and, as the warm summer breeze makes way for winter’s icy chill, she wonders if he’ll ever return.

He does, and things will never be the same again.

Part 1 ¦ Also available on AO3 ♠

Emma waits for him.

She waits and waits, dismissing any rational thought that tells her to stop. Four months is a long time but, despite the fallen leaves turning to mulch on beaten passageways in the town, she waits. Sweet ale in her tankard. The memory of a kiss on her lips.

She sneaks out of the palace nearly every night, dressed in plain skirts. The ones that now had her fading into the background, not to be noticed other than by those that looked too closely.

Ruby tries her best to bring the smile back to Emma’s eyes. Sometimes it works; dragging her up to dance and sing, around the people she’d come so close to, unlikely friends among the dirt, slamming tankards together in cheers and living in the moment. Those moments helped, patching up the longing in her heart, however temporarily.

The docks die down in the cold, the revelries of summer no longer calling forth traders and night markets, performers and tourists, or pirates. Emma still visits, hoping to see The Jolly Roger moored up, the crewmen she’d grown familiar with greeting her with fond smiles and the Captain she loves wrapping her in his warm arms, fighting off the ache in her chest that had settled when he left.

It hurts to see it empty.

After such time apart, their summer together seems like a dream. If it weren’t for the chain at her neck, she’d wonder if it happened at all.

She’ll know soon enough. Solstice is tomorrow.

The preparations spread throughout the palace with the first frost; wreaths and garlands adorning the entire place in swaths of green, red and gold, fireplaces eternally lit in an attempt to warm the cold stone floors to no avail. On the rare nights Emma didn’t venture down to the tavern by the shore, burrowed into soft blankets and furs smelling of woodsmoke and frost, she wishes that she wasn’t alone.

A giant spruce, felled recently, lays in the courtyard, a smattering of snow covering its evergreen foliage.

Emma uses it as cover, walking behind it’s thickest part to obscure herself from the prying eyes of servants whose whispers would inevitably make their way back to the ears of her mother. She hasn’t been caught yet, in her months of running away to the docks at the fall of night and crawling back home in the early mornings, but she dreads what would happen if she did.

She dips past the thick shrub along the palace wall that hides a long forgotten passage up, up and up until it reaches just shy of her chambers. In the past, they’d probably been used for more important things – escaping assassinations, fleeing coups but those days were long gone. Misthaven was at peace; her father made sure of that.

She climbs the staircase in the dark. It takes minutes to get to the tapestry-covered exit but, in the pitch black, it stretches seemingly into hours. The sensory deprivation is all-consuming, but she continues on. Exhaustion tugs at Emma’s limbs, causing her to almost lose her footing a couple of times, grabbing the cool stone walls for balance. How long has it been since she slept? Two days? Three? Between fulfilling royal duties and drowning the dull ache in her chest, there isn’t a lot of time for sleep.

When he returns. That’s when she’ll sleep.

Before she can reach to pull the tapestry aside, it’s already gone.

In its place, the Queen.

She’s cast entirely in shadow, light from the corridor outlining her in an ethereal glow but Emma would know that silhouette anywhere.

Fuck.

“If you don’t want your Father to chain you up, I would suggest using the south entrance to sneak in, far less prying eyes this time of year. People are getting wise to your ways.”

Her mother, cinched into an opulent gown that makes Emma’s threadbare and frayed skirts look like rags, fixes her with a questioning look. Despite her age, Queen Snow has always been beautiful, once holding the title of fairest in all the realm for both her rule and her appearance. As her daughter, Emma held a biased opinion, of course, but now, with one groomed eyebrow hiked up, she cultivates the seed of anxiety in Emma’s stomach until its vines wind around her limbs, rooting her in place.

“Mother, I–”

Snow’s expression softens, a cheeky knowing smile replacing any animosity Emma could’ve sworn had been there not seconds earlier. It knocks her back like an unexpected wave.

“Hush, Emma.” She steps to the side, allowing space for Emma to emerge into the empty corridor. Hesitantly, she takes it. The light, albeit dim, is still enough to be blinding after the total void in the passageway. “I too was young once. Come along now.”

“I think the circumstances were slightly different then,” They fall into step together, heading in the direction of Emma’s chambers. Nerves still tingle in the pit of her stomach, sharper and heavier than the crown her mother wears. She hadn’t expected such a… non-issue. If her father found her, she’d be having an entirely different conversation right now. “You were running from a power-hungry sorceress who tried to turn the kingdom against you. I, on the other hand, am under no such duress.”

“My stepmother was– yes. I suppose you’re right.” She muses, looking off into the middle distance as Emma pushes against the dark wood of her bedroom door.

The whole room is immaculately kept, further evidence that it had not been slept in for some time, but the hearth is lit, embers glowing, warmth only spreading as far as the dressing table and doing nothing to bite off the bone-deep chill that settled in Emma’s bones from the walk. On the bed, atop furs and throws and soft pillows, is a dress.

“I assume Father expects me to wear that.” She sighs, picking up the offending article between two fingers. It’s softer to the touch than she expected, pleated silk and silver beads, with elaborate lace sleeves that flare at the wrists.

“You assume correctly.” Her mother nods, taking a seat by the fire and swiping an apple from the fruit basket on her way. “Johanna prepared you a bath so you can make yourself a little more presentable for later.”

“Later?”

“Yes, your Father has requested our presence in one of his meetings this morning, which is why I was so anxious for you to arrive,” Emma rolls her eyes and starts towards the bath, peeling off her outer shirts and leaving a trail of clothes on the floor, leaving her undergarments until she’s safely behind the screen separating the clawfoot tub from the rest of the room. Snow tuts at the mess. “but enough about all that, I do believe I am owed an explanation.”

The water is just a touch cooler than scalding when she steps in, but her mother’s words send a spike of fear down her spine. The girl that exists there, at the docks and taverns, she has no place in this palace. Emma tries her best to shove her down, letting only the Princess remain.

“In order to rule the people, one must know the people.”

“Oh, how diplomatic! We’ll make a Queen of you yet.” Snow calls back, voice laden with sarcasm. “Now, the truth, if you will.”

Emma pauses, letting the heat from the bath sink deeper into her bones. How does she even begin to explain?

Oh yes, Mother. I spend most of my nights at the docks staring at the horizon, waiting for a Pirate, who I seem to have fallen in love with, to return from a voyage I regret refusing to join him on and when it all gets a bit too much, I find solace in drink and frantically attempt to sober myself up on the walk back to the palace at sunrise because I fear you and Father finding out the truth of my whereabouts.

“That is the truth, partly.” Letting her head sink under the water’s embrace, she sighs. The bubbles rise and pop, words she wishes she could say. She trusts her mother implicitly.

She doesn’t, however, trust her father, who would see Killian’s head on a spike if he ever found out.

Her lungs burn when she comes up for air.

“I’m suffocating here.” Emma can’t stop herself, words spilling forth like a burst dam. “My duties are limited to appearances and dinners, where all anyone wants to talk about is who I’m going to marry. I’m the fucking Princess, adored by all and all that rubbish, but I’ve never felt more alone than when I wear that tiara. I’m nowhere near ready to rule. I don’t know the first thing about defending my country and that scares me, but when I’m down there with the people– our people, I can be someone else, even if it’s just for a night.”

For a second, the only sound in the room is the gentle splash of bathwater and the faint crackle of embers.

“Emma–” There’s a creak of furniture followed by the soft clack of heels on the stone floor. Her mother pauses and Emma can see her shadow against the screen.

“Please, Mother.” She pleads, voice unbroken. “Don’t take this from me.”

Snow emerges from behind the screen, an apologetic look casting her face in a sad smile, and reaches for one of the perfumed soaps that had been laid out for Emma to bathe with. Unperturbed by Emma’s nudity, she comes to kneel behind her daughter’s head.

“I spent so much of my youth fighting to get into a palace that I’ve forgotten what it feels like to be trapped inside one.” Her fingers, small and dexterous as they are, massage the soap into Emma’s scalp, forming a liberal lather. Tension leaks out of Emma’s shoulders with each touch and, before long, she’s completely lax. They don’t speak, but Killian’s name sticks in her throat, a lump she can’t shift. In another life, were she not a Princess, perhaps she would have the courage to speak it.

Her mother and father have so many tales, stretched across years of rebellion and revolt; of the Evil Queen, of the dwarves sworn to fight by her side, of banditry and betrayals and true love– that’s what Emma had been searching for each night, between dirt and flame and ale. A story, an adventure, something for people to talk about in hushed whispers, of the Swan that fell for the sea.

They don’t have to know that the Swan is their Princess.

Not yet.

Her fingers are pruning in the lukewarm water, body lulled half to sleep, by the time her hair is washed and towel-dried. Her mother sighs, knees creaking as she stands – age has been kind to both her parents but it creeps in slowly, in the silver gracing their temples hidden by golden crowns. It comes for everyone eventually.

“I’ll ask Graham to scale back patrols on the south gate and Johanna to fetch you a better cloak than that which you’ve taken to using,” She starts, placing a fresh towel by the bath side. The satin skirt of her gown is darkened with damp spots from the water, but she pays them no mind, pressing a kiss to the centre of Emma’s forehead. “and please remember that I am always here for you, Emma. I mean it.”

There’s sincerity in her eyes, sincerity and love— so much love, more than Emma can even begin to comprehend, but she trusts it. In the list of moments she would pause for an eternity, this is one of them.

“Mother.”

“Yes, dear?”

Her voice catches, a soft hopeful smile making its way to her lips. “I love you.”

“And I you.” Snow nods, making her way behind the screen, leaving Emma to dress alone. “Meet us in the great hall in an hour.”

When the door shuts softly, confirming her mother’s exit, she emerges from the water.

--

Cold stone walls, cast-iron chandeliers with tall flickering candles, fires in every hearth, stained glass effigies of past kings and queens lit with the late morning sun, eaves decorated with garlands of holly and ivy, and, raised on marble steps, three golden thrones. The great hall really is just that. Great.

Emma grew up here, excited to be involved at first, to wear the tiara her father said she was born to wear.

As time moved on, so did she.

“Emma!” A voice rings out, echoing against stone.

Her father, the King.

Seeing him smiling, lines of age forming around his eyes and mouth, has her own smile falling into place as he walks across the great hall to embrace her, posture never slipping.

As much as she may not enjoy the formalities of her role within the court or the isolation that it’s afforded her, she holds nothing but love and respect for her father. Love and respect and a sliver of fear.

“I was wondering where you managed to run off to.” Emma leans into his embrace, letting herself be wrapped up in his arms. One hand cradles the base of her skull, the way it always does when her father holds her. He pulls back to adjust the silver circlet woven into her curls. “I take it you like the dress, then?”

He takes a step back, admiring the fabric with its delicate drapery and flowing skirts, letting Emma twirl for him to better view the garment. Killian’s ring, tucked between what cleavage her bodice creates, threatens to come free, the weight of it tugging as she turns at her Father’s request. It longs to be free. “I do, Father. Thank you.”

“Excellent.” He nods, holding his arm out for her to take, and she does. “There’s only one audience today so this should be short but I wanted you here as a witness.”

Arm in arm, they walk the carpet running the centre of the room, ascending the marble steps to where their thrones, forged by the finest smiths in Agrabah, stand tall and proud. Emma slides into hers, the metal cold against her legs. It’s the first time in weeks she’s had to be present for an audience, usually boring affairs, with very little involvement on her own part and more just an excuse for David to assure the people of their strong and unified family. It’s true, for the most part.

“I must apologise, Emma,” Kneeling by her feet, David starts. Like this, she can see just how much age has crept into his features, how it lingers in his eyes and in the recede of his hairline and the grey and white peppered throughout his dark blond. “I feel like I’ve been lax on preparing you for what will inevitably be yours.”

“Father–”

He takes her hand in both of his, squeezing reassuringly as Emma’s face changes from confusion to acceptance.

“The crown will be yours, Emma, and I won’t be here to guide you forever. I should’ve done this sooner. From now on, I want you to shadow me in all audiences, all council meetings, everything. If I’m there, I want you by my side. I want you to speak up, to learn, to build your own opinions. I hope I can save you the struggle of finding your feet so, when the crown does come, you’ll hit the ground running.”

The thought of ruling is terrifying.

The thought of ruling without her father’s guidance? Even more so.

If she agrees—

She will never be Swan again.

She looks down at him, a smile, soft as the fur around his neck, meets her there.

“I’d like that.” She nods, wondering if he’s convinced by the lie that comes so naturally.

“Wonderful!” Her father beams, pulling her in for a hug. It’s an awkward angle but it doesn’t last for long. “We’ll start proper preparations after Solstice.”

Soon, David is standing, smoothing the wrinkles from his slacks and shirt before righting the fur edged robe around his shoulders. He’s a picture of opulence and authority. If Emma hadn’t seen him wear his royal garb over a thousand times already, she’d be in awe of it. Privileges of royal life, such as fancy silks and furs, didn’t draw her as they once had. She craved leather and linen and simplicity.

Summer had changed her.

“Who is it that’s requested an audience then?” Tracing the indentations in the arm of her throne, she probed, noting that her father had not divulged that particular information.

“Ah, yes.” He starts, lips pulling into a tight line as he paces before his throne. “I hired some external support on retrieving an item of extreme value from the edge of our kingdom. Upon my wake this morning, I received word that they’d returned and had requested to meet. That’s why I wanted you here today, Emma. To show you that, sometimes, even Kings have to convene with miscreants.” His voice drips with venom on the tail end of his sentence, as if the words burn as they leave his mouth.

She stays silent, the admission, dying on her tongue, that sometimes Princesses convene with miscreants too.

“Your mother will be here soon,” Taking his own seat, her father continues, picking invisible traces of lint from the flowing fur of his robe. “She’s just overseeing Graham’s security detail for the festival, you know how it is.”

That is not, in fact, what her mother is discussing with Graham but it doesn’t seem appropriate to mention it now.

They make idle conversation, discussing alliances and trade deals and all the politics that Emma is expected to learn when she takes her father’s throne. Most of it, she knows from the tutors of her youth but there are intricacies she’s not privy to that David is keen for her to learn. Agrabah will trade wine and jewels for grain when the harsh summers perish their harvests, Arendelle will trade furs, silks and meats when the arctic winters perish theirs. They will reach out in times of bountiful harvest too, offering to send what exotic fruit and spices will survive the voyage. Neverland rarely makes trade requests, their young ruler too stubborn to accept the aid of those his senior.

“Is it true his court is filled with children? I imagine that’s difficult come nap time.” Emma jokes, curiosity sparked by the mention of their most mysterious neighbour.

“Emma!” David scoffs, trying to stifle the laugh that breaks free. Like this, unconcealed laughter causing him to squint, crows feet deep and apparent at the corners, he’s no longer the King. He’s the man that wrapped her up in his furs after she’d fallen through the frozen lake as a child, who smudged cake on her nose every birthday until she was old enough to evade it, who would do anything to see her safe, no matter the consequences. “Wherever did you hear such a thing?”

Killian had told her. They’d been looking through his maps, his shirt covering her modesty and his arms circled around her waist. They hadn’t even made it to the tavern that night, need too prevalent, and after, when they were fully sated, she’d explored his cabin. He let her, watching from the bed as she went from shelf to shelf, admiring his treasures. He’d joined her by the time she reached his desk, never a fan of the distance between them. The maps outlined each realm, annotated with notes in Killian’s own cursive script.

“Neverland,” He’d said, pressing a kiss to her bare neck. “Would be far less treacherous if it wasn’t governed by children.”

She’d raised an eyebrow at him, reluctant to believe, the silent How? written all over her face. He shrugged in response, a smug smirk peering back at her.

“Magic, love.” He’d punctuated the words with a wink and they’d fallen together again, maps forgotten beneath them.

Emma can’t help her own laugh, partially at the memory but mostly at her father. It joins with his, ringing out in the echo of the hall. It’s been a long time since she’s been able to laugh with her father. It feels good.

Her mother appears, hurrying along the carpeted walkway with a determined look on her face. Their laughter dies down as Emma and her father both take her in. She’s flustered, taking the marble steps two at a time before sitting back in her spot on the King’s right. Emma gives her a questioning look at the same time David does. She smooths down flyaways at her temples and adjusts her dress to sit better against the throne before looking up at her family and nodding.

“He’s here.”

As if summoned, there’s a loud knock against the grand wooden doors directly ahead of them, at the foot of the great hall. It echoes against the stone walls, causing the chandeliers to shift slightly with the power of it.

The King straightens up, matching his posture to that of his title, and bellows in response.

“ENTER!”

Emma can feel the creak of the door in her bones as it screeches from the protesting hinges, it swings open slowly, only enough to let through one man before shutting with a slam. The man does not flinch; instead, he begins his walk towards their thrones. He’s familiar in a way that has her on the edge of her seat but his head is hung, thick dark hair touched with grey and white and the angle of her position obscuring his face.

With each step he takes, her heart stutters, he looks like– no, it can’t be. She’d been at the docks the night prior, The Jolly Roger nowhere among its moorings. She’d asked countless merchants and fishermen over the months for news of its return but none could provide any more than Killian had provided her on his departure.

I’ll be back when solstice comes.

Yet, this man, with his battered leather overcoat and dark embroidered waistcoat, strikes a pang of similarity in her she’s never quite felt. If it weren’t for the hook in place of his left hand, she’d have been entirely convinced that the man before them is, in fact–

When at the foot of the marble steps, he raises his head.

David tuts. “Captain Jones. You’re late.”

Emma’s breath catches.

It is him. Killian.

Her Killian.

Here.

She fights– oh, she fights – to keep her face void of emotion, praying the well of tears that threatens to spill at the sight of her love to lay dormant. He’s here. he’s here he’sherehe’sherehe’sherehe’s–

He’s here?

Joy turns to terror in her blood, clawing away until it’s consumed her entirely. He hasn’t yet noticed her or, if he has, he shows no indication of it. His eyes, as tempestuous as the day they met, are rage and fury and fixed only on her father.

Why is he here?

“Apologies, your Majesty.” He bites out, voice clipped and sarcastic. She has to bite the inside of her mouth to stop from smiling. “I’ve had to adjust to captaining a ship with one hand as the bloody dragon you neglected to warn me of seemed to enjoy slicing off my other one.”

He holds up his left arm, from under the wind-battered leather sleeve of his overcoat, the awkward brace of the prosthetic sits, a vicious curved hook attached to its end.

Emma gasps. The Swan he loves writhes beneath the surface of her skin, itching to be free.

“You knew the risks, Captain.” Her father adds, flippantly. “Treasure troves often acquire pests.”

Killian’s stare is fire and daggers, meant for no one but the King. It fills her veins with ice in a way she never knew he was capable of. In their time together, this was a side of him he’d never had to reveal. Emma wants nothing more than to go to him but she’s stuck on her throne, it’s golden embrace holding her tight as she watches steel form in her lover’s eyes.

“I have cleared you of all outstanding sentences, bounties and warrants held against you and your men and there’s five hundred gold ready to be transported to your ship,” David continues, motioning to the same doors Killian had entered through. His tone is terse, sharp as a blade’s edge. “I have upheld my end of our agreement.”

Killian scoffs, his eyes glance at her for less than a second and Emma’s stomach drops, but he doesn’t seem to pick up on who she is, refocusing his sights on the King.

She’s not sure what would hurt more, for him to know she lied or for him to not recognise her at all.

“I lost four men and a hand. Aye, we knew the risks, but the situation was not as you’d explained. We walked in unprepared and were almost destroyed because of it.”

“I trusted you with the information from my scouts, Captain. I hid nothing from you. Your lack of preparation is through no fault of mine.”

“Had I known the truth, I would not have lead my crew like lambs to the slaughter!” He shouts, looking for somewhere, anywhere to plant the seed of his own mistake. Beneath it all, Emma knows he’s in pain. She can hear it. She longs to soothe it. She cannot.

The King matches his shout, standing in the process. “That was your decision to make!”

A low growl rumbles between them and Emma doesn’t need to see it to know it’s Killian’s. The sound of it has imprinted itself in her mind, from when times were much simpler. He takes a step forward, but before his boot can even make contact with the polished marble step, David reacts.

Time slows to a halt with the familiar sing of unsheathed metal as her Father trains his sword on the approaching threat, poised to strike at a seconds notice. The breath leaves Emma’s lungs, stolen by the deadly sheen of steel forged in the belly of a long-dead beast. She wants to scream, to put herself between her lover and her father, she wants to but her feet are lead and her tongue is ash and all she can do is watch as Killian stares down the length of the King’s blade.

Killian’s eyes widen momentarily, fixed to the point mere inches from his face. It reaches almost to his throat, barely a step separating the tip of the blade from its target. Her father, the King, is power and justice with calculating eyes and, in that moment, Emma is afraid.

“One more step, Pirate.” The King spits, blade unwavering in his palm.

Emma’s heart stops, or maybe it’s racing, anxiety permeating every pump as it speeds faster and faster, fight or flight response triggered by the furrow forming in Killian’s brow. He does not step back and his eyes do not leave David’s.

“Don’t think the presence of my wife or daughter will impede me.”

“Father.” Her voice catches before she can even think to stop it, more forceful than she anticipates. David turns to her in complete silence, his gaze smouldering anger and his sword still trained mere inches from Killian’s throat. He’s met with her own powerful stare. One day, he expects her to rule this kingdom. One day, she will. It’s frightening and her stomach churns as the urge to bend to her father’s– no, the King’s will stirs within her.

Emma ignores it.

“Be rational, there’s been too much blood spilt already.”

The King’s fury softens, but doesn’t disappear completely. She half expects a reprimand for her outburst or at least a look to convey his disapproval but it never comes. He turns back to Killian, allowing Emma to do the same.

If he had been ignorant of her identity before, there’s no way to hide it now.

She can see the cogs turning in Killian’s mind as he takes her in; the top of her head and the circlet glinting in the sunlight streaming through the windows, her face and the sad eyes he’ll find there, her neck and his own thick chain tucked beneath lace. He goes no further. At the sight of his own ring, something breaks within him. Emma can almost hear the shatter from where she sits. He is here but he’s never been further away and it’s killing her.

So many things she should’ve said cross her mind all at once, screaming inside her skull, begging to be freed.

Despair and disbelief flash across his features–

And then it’s gone.

He faces David once again, the fire and fury he once held now calm and cold.

“I apologise for my manners, your Majesty,” He begins, his voice is controlled and a vision of decorum. Not Killian. Not her Killian. “I am not myself. Those men, they were brothers to me. It’s– It’s my fault. I could not protect them.” Taking two steps back, he bows, low and deliberate. David lowers his sword but doesn’t sheath it.

“My daughter thinks you’re deserving of mercy.” He muses, waving a hand towards her that Killian’s eyes don’t follow. It hurts a little. “I suggest you take your gold and leave before I ask my wife what she thinks.”

The Queen, sitting silently throughout the whole exchange, raises a single brow at Killian.

He nods, opening his mouth as if to speak before thinking better of it and turning away, coat billowing behind him, footsteps muffled by the carpeted walkway.

“I thought you a better man than most, Captain, agreeing to undertake such a perilous task for the chance to pardon your crew, give them clean slates. I admired you for it.” David shouts after him, returning his sword to its place at his hip. Killian stops in his tracks, turning only slightly to look upon the King’s face. For a second, there’s grief in his eyes, genuine hurt that Emma knows she put there. He blinks it away without acknowledging it ever existed.

“I am truly sorry for your loss.” David continues, all traces of anger gone from his voice. “But, disrespect me again and I’ll have you hanged.”

The slam of the door shatters the paralysis she’d fallen under, lips parted and eyes wide, watching the space where Killian had been not seconds before. The weight of David’s words hang in the silence.

[borisbubbles]

Eurovision 2010: 35 - 31

35. KEiiNO - “Spirit in the sky” Norway 2019

During the preshow I posited that "Spearwhil”  would be the Rasmussen but as it turned out-

I HEAR YOU CALLING ME AT NIGHT

No, Tom NOT NOW!!! I’m in the middle of my sentence. 🙄 Wait your turn Anyway, it turned out that ‘the Rasmussen’ really ought to be called ‘the KEiiNO’. Observe this Michal-esque rise up the scoreboard:

OutSzpak’ing Spzak. 😍 Let’s be honest though, it was-

I HEAR YOU CALLING ME AT NI-

- COMPLETELY DESERVED TOO.  Fred was especially great, who delivered EPIC yoik solo that I am sure won KEiiNO the televote on the spot. 😍

This particularly pleases me because I was worried Tom & Alexandra (who are both very good performers) would take the spotlight away from Fred, but no did the weakest link pre-show turned not only turn out to be the strongest one, but he was arguable the single strongest performer of finale night. SO PROUD OF THEM ANGELS. 😍 Let us all sing along

*cough* I said, “let us all sing along”

... 

(k Tom, now is ur cue)

I HEAR YOU CALLING ME AT NIIIIIGHT

THE NORTHERN LIGHTS ARE DANCING

HÅ LA HEI LOI LÅ

A lot of the criticism from KEiiNO comes from your typical value-seekers who can only enjoy themselves in public if their shallow trash comes coated in a thick layer of novelty gimmicks and Deep Meaning, so they don’t have to admit to others and themselves than they tune in to have fun, like everyone else. There’s nothing wrong with novelty gimmicks & the like, but applying that standard to everything is taking it a tad too far. Sometimes, simplicity is key and that’s exactly what KEiiNO were: unpretentious, highly-addictive EDM adorned with epic yoiking. 😍 

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34. Gianluca - “Tomorrow” Malta 2013

"Tomorrow” is, to use Gianluca’s own words, a curious delight: I always, always, always forget about it. Then I rewatch 2013 as I do at least once per year, and each time it’s like a Céline Dion song IT’S ALL COMING BACK TO ME and I’m in love again. 😍 “Tomorrow” is such a clever twist of the typical love song by telling the story from the THIRD PERSON PERSPECTIVE by an all-knowing narrator. It’s world’s merriest audiobook. 😍

Naturally, this works because Gianluca has TONS of charisma. He’s one of the most magnetic humans ever on a Eurovision Stage? 

It’s hard to believe that he ages like the rest of us, I’d assume he was birthed fully formed and clothed, at age thirteen, in whatever rests at the end of a Neverlandian rainbow. 

“Tomorrow” could’ve so easily been one of those “Annoyingly Positive songs”, but because he’s so relentlessly jolly, Gianluca injects “Tomorrow” with limitless happy energy, enough to melt the polar icecaps. I am happy that I don’t revisit Gianluca between watches, as I do with others, because each time I rediscover him it’s like finding a four-leaf-clover. 🍀

________________________________________________________________

33. Elitsa Todorova & Stoyan Yankoulov - “Samo shampioni” Bulgaria 2013

IMA LI MLADI? IMA LI LYUDI? TSYALO SELO DOIDE PEITE NE SE BOITE

Let us continue with one of the most glorious trainwrecks EVER in Eurovision. 😍 Of course, this being the GOD-tier the severity of wreckage (aka the Sennek Factor) is even higher than normal. In the case of “Samo shampioni” the messiness began DURING THE PRESELECTIONS. 😍 Okay you may not remember or know this backstory, so allow me to enlighten you:

Okay, so *initially* BNT selected Elitsa & Stoyan and for some reason decided to hold an NF: They introduced: first a terrible rapbomination, second a boring ethnoballad (think Iriao + percussion) and then pulled out an experimental fusion of ethnic bagpipes, polyphonic singing and dubstep, which Elitsa openly pointed as her favourite. 😍 Obviously, the audience had to choose for the latter? NOPE The audience chose the iriao-esque ballad 😍 and in one of the most hilariously open displays of riggage, LESS THAN A DAY AFTER THE NF (and after Elitsa allegedly threw a huge backstage temper tantrum threatening to withdraw LMFAO), BNT produced a statement that was all like “well. we can’t send “Kismet”. 🤓 You see... it has come under our attention that... the songwriter from Argentina (lmao) can’t agree to the copyright terms we demanded of him 🤓but that’s fine because it means we can send “SAMO SHAMPIONI” instead 😊‘ <3333333333333333333333456789 who the fuck is Christer Björkman, fucking NOBODY that’s who. And of course, once “Samo Shampioni” finally got to Malmö it was an utter disaster. 😍 I say "disaster” in the best meaning of the word though. I LOVE when countries showcase their musical traditions, but Elitsa and Stoyan do it so aggressively, BLASTING the unassuming viewer with loud af bagpipe noises, following it up with a menuet of polyphony, a clarion of “AAAAAAAAAAAA-YUUUU” and a finale of dubstep and mayumaniacal percussion. “Samo Sampioni” was loud, abrasive, a clamour of ethnic noise but by the same token such a catchy, infectuous, delightful fucking BOP. No surprise it got jurypwned but it was well worth the effort. 😍

________________________________________________________________

32. Nadav Guedj - “Golden boy” Israel 2015

Welcome to the Dicedrome, ladies and gentlemen: Introducing the man who put Israel back on the map after four straight NQs. But Nadav is more than just a Hebrew Tom Dice. 

For starters, “Golden boy” is also the first time we were ever subjected to Doron Medalie (and also Imri Ziv but lol Imri), who is at his BEST here (apart from that moment when he brusquely shoved Cesár out of the way as if he were Krisse Salminen lmfao 😍): “Golden boy” has everything I could want in an uptempo party song: Drama, catchy rhythm, limitless fun, chanting, dancing and an absolutely ridiculous premise: sixteen year old boy gets wasted after fruitlessly flirting with all sorts of femfolk on his first night out. Yes, THIS

is sixteen years old. 😍 But what I mostly love about “Golden boy” is the humour. Intentional humour is really hard to get right and “Golden boy” NAILS it for me. From self-deprecating one-liners, to that choreography to b-roll material like the sound effect of beer being pourn as Nadav gets further into the song, to of course the epic finale of “THREE MINUTES! BYE :selfie”. 😍

A wild ride which, as serendipity demands, is topped off by Nadav kicking off a strong Israeli streak that indeed ENDS up with Israel winning the contest (with a worse Doron composition :-/) and him showing us around in Tel Aviv. Funny how life works sometimes, huh? 

OKAY GOTTA GO  THREE PARAGRAPHS BYEBYE

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31. Jessy Matador - “Allez ola olé” France 2010

Did you know “Matador” is Eurospeak for “SLAYER”?  😉

Speaking of EPIC party songs, I was looking “Allez Ola Olé” up for my usual ranking purposes and this song.. is one of the most successful Eurovision songs EVER? I am not surprised, because “Allez olla olé” OWNS, but at the same time random 12th placers becoming massive off-season hits <3

(yes I am aware it’s because it was the French “Waka Waka” but that’s even more hilar, actually. What on earth is it doing in Eurovision <3)

Anyway, “Allez ola olé” definitely DESERVES all praise it can get. ETERNAL THORN IN THE SIDE OF THE EUROVISION ELITISTS <3 it is of course the anti-Proud, being all rhythm and no story, literally having no purpose other than making people dance (which I LOVE doing to “Allez Ola Olé”... within the confines of my bedroom, with the curtains closed because I have the dancing skills of drunk JarJar Binks) and honestly, what a spectacle. 😍

It features, in order of ascending awesomeness, male twerking (gender equality <3)

witty references to sex (which I don’t mind here because it’s clearly consentual, and therefore, healthy, ICKOLAS)

“Je sens le truc monter/..😏 ALLEEEEZ 😱”. 

DAM BA DAM BA DAM BA DAM DAM

A fucking HAKA????? (btw, the female backing doing a salute is also lowkey great <3)

Actually, TWO HAKA’S????

This song may not have relevant meaning but my weave flew all the way to French Polynesia. “Allez, ola, olé” is nothing less than fucking AWESOME. 

In this update, we pay our final respects to Norway, Malta and France: Read more about them below:

NORWAY

I don’t feel like this chart reflects my true feelings on Norway, because I like them a LOT more than what their average implies. They’re largely just dragged down by a few bad entries in the first half of the decade. Norway in the second half of this decade has shown a lot of promise and they are on my list of countries that I expect to win in the upcoming decade. 

MALTA

Malta are a very average Eurovision country imo. As you can see, they very often select songs that are not worth giving a fuck about, but conversely the few times that they do, they’re usually excellent happy-go-lucky gems. I could see them winning if they find that rare 1-in-50 entry (by one of their jesc winners preferably), but only if they keep internally selecting their entrant because lmao MES(s)C <3

FRANCE

This is a really good chart for France and roughly what I expected. Not my favourite country but solidly upper tier. France really have reinvented themselves post 2016 and are reaping the rewards with generally higher results. I hope it gets topped off with another win soon. They deserve it. 

[thecatwhogrins]

To Be Human (part 3)

Part 1 / Part 2

Okay last one! I’ve been studying for my finals next week, so I’m sorry if this wasn’t up to the usual standards TwT I might rewrite some of this later and post it on my AO3, but for now please enjoy this trainwreck haha.

///

From then on, Obi started to live with Shirayuki at the tavern, in case Raji’s men were to bother her again. Upon seeing him, most of the men steered clear, especially since the first batch to have gone up against Obi came back limping and groaning in pain.

Obi helped in the tavern, jolly and always ready to spin a tale, usually of his own repertory of stories he had been part of, or so he claimed. The women came by more often than usual to admire Obi’s roguish good looks. Business was good and Shirayuki felt almost drunk with happiness.

One night, after the tavern had closed for the night, Shirayuki sat on the tatami mats, cleaning the tables, humming to herself. Obi entered the room carrying a bottle of sake and a set of glossy cups.

“Fancy a drink, little miss?” he laughed, eyes glinting.

The way he was looking at Shirayuki stirred something inside of her. Her whole body tingled, awareness taking over, making her blush.

“Sure, let’s drink to this beautiful night” she cheered, her gaze on the brightness of the full moon outside.

They sat side by side silently, absorbed in their drinks, unspoken words hanging between them, the moment so peaceful until Obi broke the quiet with a question.

“Miss, will you miss when I go back to the mountain?” his voice was barely over a whisper.

“Yes, Obi, more than you’ll ever know,” she answered, almost as quietly.

Shirayuki almost unleashed a squeak when Obi’s hand covered hers, gaining a loud laugh from Obi.

“Oh dear, miss, I’m sorry for scaring you!” he exclaimed, his hands up, “don’t worry, I’m not leaving for a while yet, I still have to fulfill my share of good deeds.”

“It’s okay Obi, I was just surprised,” she smiled, “yes, we still have time,”Shirayuki said this, but her heart said otherwise, an unseen pain gnawing away inside of her.

Both of their hearts were thundering away.

“Let me bring these to the kitchen,” muttered Obi, deftly getting up. At the same time, Shirayuki stood up as well, trying to reach for the platter.

“Woah there!” Obi tried to stop her from falling but let go of the sake bottle and the cups.

As a result, both collided and ended up in a heap on the floor, laughing till their stomachs ached. Obi was almost crying, he was chuckling so hard. Shirayuki’s cheeks were redder than her hair, her laughter was intoxicating, all dimples and giggles.

The laughter had barely started to die down and before she could stop herself, Shirayuki had reached out and kissed Obi. He swallowed his mirth and shock took its place. The kiss was short and Shirayuki looked at him, appraising her dearest friend’s reaction, full of hope and trepidation.

She was pleased when he swept her up into his arms sweetly, her hands grasping his yukata, her lips almost curved into a smile. He kissed hesitantly at first, then with abandon, gentle but passionate. He bit her lip gently and she shivered, gasping. He kissed down the column of her neck, and she tugged the hard bristles of his hair softly, breathless.

The smell of something burning brought them back to earth.

*

Obi had located the source of the fire but by then the highly flammable wooden inn was already halfway burnt, the shell of what once was.  

“Someone’s has set fire to one of the rooms!” cried Obi, running out of the tavern, cloth in front of his mouth and nose to protect himself from the fumes. Shirayuki had done the same.

Confusion and fear rolled around Shirayuki’s head, her eyes were watering.

The instigator made himself known once Obi and Shirayuki turned around, it was of course Lord Raji’s men.

*

Seeing Obi fight was not something Shirayuki was accustomed to. His lithe body and grace now made sense, as she witnessed his precise movements, his accuracy while he almost danced around his opponents. Obi had no weapons on him, nothing to parry the blows, but he never gave in, the cuts his enemies administered seemed to only be minor inconveniences. He was eerily beautiful.

More importantly, Obi didn’t kill even one of them.

He simply incapacitated them, rendered them unconscious. The scale was decidedly tipped in the enemies’ favor, but he fought valiantly. Shirayuki helping in the best way she could. She hit a few men with a branch she had found on the floor, her fighting style slow but efficient.  

It felt like an eternity until all of the men were lying on the floor, the only sounds Shirayuki and Obi’s panting breaths. Calm came back, almost unnerving after the chaos of the fight.

“Uh, I remember them being harder to beat, seems humans have grown soft,” he chuckled.

Shirayuki stared in horror as Obi started to fall forwards. His eyes met hers calmly, his whole body already going limp.

“No! Obi!” she grasped his strong frame with shaking hands, her mind reeling. She rested him on her lap carefully. She knew just by one look that her healing skills would not be enough, he had been cut so many times/ Obi seemed to know this too.

“Miss, look. I didn’t kill even one of them low-lives,” he gasped, his breath rasping. Shirayuki wanted to tell him that she was proud, that she had always known he would be able to do it, but she could only sob, one hand clamped over her mouth.

“Oh no, you’re crying…Please don’t cry,” his fingers hovered by her face, but he finally touched her cheek, cupping her face and wiping one of her tears away.

Shirayuki sucked in a breath, wiped her tears hastily and was about to tell him she wouldn’t cry anymore, but her words got blocked in her throat like dam blocking the flow of a river.

He wasn’t breathing.

To her horror, his cold body started to disintegrate into ashes, like dandelion seeds dispersing through the air. Shirayuki tried grasping onto the fragments but they disappeared. Obi had told her his soul would disintegrate if he died.

How unfair. It’s as if he had never even existed.

Shirayuki wept like a child, like the whole world could swallow her and she wouldn’t care. The pain in her chest was acute, like a bird pecking repeatedly at an open wound. She didn’t know how long she stayed in the meadow, but she stayed till night draped itself over the sky and her breath exhaled white against the still air.

In the end, Obi hadn’t turned back into a Tengu. Even if he had turned into one, it at least meant he was still alive, out there, somewhere, sailing on the winds. But he was dead. She would never see his cat-like grin ever again. She would never hear his teasing voice or see his clever eyes analyze everything. There was still the slight possibility that he would reincarnate. Had they done enough good deeds? Could he reincarnate? Her questions remained unanswered.

When the moon finally bathed the meadow in its pearly luminescence, Shirayuki finally moved, as though she had just been wakened from a long dream. She shivered and turned towards her home that had been burned to the grounds. The night was fair, the peaceful end to a spring day.

“Where to now?” Shirayuki whispered, looking around.

The wind blew into the inky sky, sweeping away the last of her tears with it.

“I will live on, Obi. Until we meet again,” she whispered, desolate but alive.

*

Shiayuki lived.

She opened an herbalist shop in town. After the fight, Raji’s men did not bother her anymore. Much like her grandmother, she kept up the tradition of bringing offerings to the temple that was on the path up the mountain. Black lacquered bowls, brazed meats, rice and incense.

But the bowls were always full when she came to fetch them at night.

Many a night she’d wake up before dawn, shivering, dreams of a tall man with amber eyes pervading her dreams. When she’d awaken he was gone, like smoke. Most days were spent in a similar manner, wondering, hoping.

One night, as Shirayuki came to fetch the bowls, she noticed a figure standing in front of the temple, praying. She did not wish to disturb the stranger but noticed that the food was gone. She rushed towards the offerings, grumbling. Had a forest animal eaten them all? Or maybe a vagrant? As Shirayuki pondered in wonder, the praying man with the golden eyes spoke up.

“Thank you for the food, miss, it was delicious.”

Shirayuki nearly dropped the platter she was holding.

[icecubelotr44]

Clear and Present Danger (6/16)

Summary:  Homicide detective Killian Jones has been searching for a way to bring Milah’s murderer to justice. There’s only one small problem: Robert Gold is the captain of the same homicide division. Enter Emma Swan, Internal Affairs investigator, looking into Gold’s shady dealings. Between the two of them, can they unravel the web of deals and lies that have gotten Gold to where he is?

Rated:  T, for violence, some dark themes, angst, and whump (you expected different?

TW: character death, mention of past self-harm, fatal car accident, school hostage situation

Other ships: mentions past Millian in a good light, Outlaw Queen, Snowing

Art credit/link: The totally awesome @cocohook38 made the cover you can see above and on her blog here. Later in the story, she’s illustrated some key points to the fic and I can’t thank her enough for her work! Chapter Four’s art is HERE.  Go show her some love!

Beta reader: @gusenitsaa took on this monster without probably knowing exactly what she was getting into (what do you mean 100,000 words?!) and any mistakes that you find are probably me being stubborn and ignoring her advice!  Thank you!

A/N:  Written as part of the 2018 Captain Swan Big Bang Challenge.  You can catch up with all the other fics that are complete by following @captainswanbigbang and/or subscribing to the Group Collection on AO3 and/or the C2 on FFN. This is complete in 16 parts and will be posted every Sunday from now until its completion.

Take it away, It’s going to be a bumpy ride.

Word count:  ~ 6,450 (100k Total in 16 chapters)

From the beginning: AO3 / FFN

Current Chapter: ao3 | ffn

CHAPTER SIX: OBSTRUCTION OF JUSTICE

Killian sighed for what seemed like the hundredth time that morning alone. He hadn't gotten much sleep the night before - after he'd docked the Jolly, Emma had bolted for her car so fast he couldn't even wish her a good night. He wasn't sure what he'd done wrong. He'd thought… well, he'd thought that maybe they were making progress. That maybe she was starting to trust him.

This morning was starting out spectacularly. Liam had left again, before the sun rose and before even Killian was out of bed - a note on the fridge just said "Cabin, Call You" - and had apparently taken the last of the coffee with him. The line at Dunkin Donuts had been ridiculous, some woman and her fourteen kids (he might have been exaggerating) had all ordered a full breakfast and, he'd swear, lunch as well.

Then, he'd gotten to work only to find that somehow, the greasy substance he was waiting for results on had been mishandled and destroyed. No one in the lab could explain how it had happened, but the evidence had been lost and there was nothing he could do about it.

Now they were stuck in traffic. Not the normal, pull your hair out because no one knew how to drive between the hours of seven and nine am kind of traffic. No, it was the slow, torturous crawl of bottlenecked accident traffic. According to the scanner, some idiot had stopped short in front of a tractor trailer, possibly for a small animal, and two lanes had been shut down completely as a result.

While he was glad he wasn't on that particular detail, Killian just wanted to get to Cambridge. He had a feeling that whatever Belle French could tell them, it would be worth the trip. If anyone knew LeGume and what he was into that got him killed, it would be the secret girlfriend.

"Bloody hell," Robin muttered under his breath as the car next to them merged and cut them off. His fingers clenched spasmodically around the wheel as if he were going to strangle it. "Don't they see we're in a police car?"

Killian huffed out an annoyed laugh in sympathy "It's unmarked, remember. And I don't think it's the steering wheel's fault, mate."

Robin cut his glare over to Killian and narrowed his eyes further. Killian resisted the urge to grab the wheel himself, knowing Locksley was capable of driving distracted but not wanting to make the evening news anyway.

Local homicide officers exacerbate accident. Story at eleven.

Finally, Robin gave up trying to wring the frustration out of the wheel and sat back with a resigned sigh. They weren't getting anywhere fast. "Did I tell you that Roland got a gold star for sharing yesterday?"

Killian grinned. "And you and Regina were worried that being an only child would stunt his growth," he teased jovially.

Robin rolled his eyes. "Says the man with a brother."

"You can borrow him any time you'd like," Killian said as seriously as he was able.

Robin cut a glance at him, clearly in disbelief.

"Oh, thank God," Killian muttered under his breath when they finally made it past the orange cones and could pick up speed again. Robin agreed by stepping harder on the accelerator and blowing by the soccer mom who had cut them off.

"So what did Roland share that earned him a gold star and, I'm sure, an ice cream cone?" Killian smirked as Robin grinned proudly.

"He shared his new markers with a girl at his art table. Let her use his green one, even."

Green was quite plainly Roland's favorite color. Killian knew this as well as he knew that his eyes were blue and Liam was his older brother. It was just the way it was.

Robin continued to fill Killian in on Roland's progress in kindergarten as they wound their way north to Cambridge. They finally turned down Ms. French's street and, surprisingly for the way the morning had gone, found a parking spot not too far away.

"Detectives?" Ms. French met them at the door, one hand holding it open while the other flipped up to check her watch. They were much later than Robin had told her they'd be there.

"Yes, ma'am," Robin acknowledged, showing her his badge and introducing both of them. "May we come in?"

She nodded, stepping back into the entryway to allow them access. "You said this is about Gaston? I haven't spoken with him in… well, nearly a week now."

Killian ignored the clenching in his heart that came every time he had to notify kin. "We're very sorry to tell you, ma'am, but Mr. LeGume was found dead earlier this week."

She blanched immediately, and the less cynical side of Killian whispered that there was no faking that. Whatever else she did or didn't tell them, Belle hadn't known that her lover was dead.

Robin took her arm gently when she swayed, her hand covering her mouth to stifle a cry of shock. He helped her towards the couch in the front room, lowering her gently to sit as Killian moved into the kitchen where he found a still-steaming cup of tea. He filled a glass with water from the tap anyway and brought both back to her.

"Ma'am," Killian called gently when he crouched down next to Robin. She looked up to smile blankly at him, and the empty look in her eyes was so familiar that he nearly had to turn away.

"Call me Belle, please," she allowed, taking the cup of tea from him and cradling it in her hands. "I'm not that old yet."

Killian nodded, placing the glass on a coaster made to look like an old first-edition book cover. Treasure Island, he read. The whole room was filled with books - some in floor to ceiling shelves and some scattered on the coffee and side tables. It was a miniature library and Killian got the feeling that it wasn't just for show. For one thing, the books were well cared for - but also well worn. There was no dust on the bookcases; she clearly took pride in each one.

"I don't know what I can tell you," she admitted. "Gaston and I… we talked about books. We went out up on the North Shore where we wouldn't be recognized. We didn't… he didn't talk about anything else."

Killian got the feeling that LeGume didn't do much talking at all, if the way Belle's cheeks grew red as she turned introspective were any indication. He remembered those early days with Milah. "You didn't want to be recognized? Or he didn't?" he tried.

Belle grimaced. "It was more of a mutual agreement. It wouldn't be good for him to be seen with a student, even if I weren't being graded by him. And I-" she cut herself off with a shake of her head and covered by taking a gulp of tea. It was clearly still too hot, and she nearly choked. Her eyes started to water and once that dam was broken, it was as if she'd given herself permission to grieve. Tears came fast and hard, though she was surprisingly silent.

Killian looked guiltily away, unable to handle the young woman's grief. It hadn't been so long ago that he'd been the same way: trying to put on a front when all he wanted to do was collapse into himself and break.

He might have done so irreparably if Liam and Robin and the Nolans hadn't held him together with superglue, duct tape, and chocolate chip cookies. Mary Margaret's cookies were to die for.

Some days, he still felt like he might just shatter, and even the world's fastest jigsaw-er wouldn't be able to fit all the pieces into the puzzle.

"I'm sorry," Belle managed a few moments later, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief she'd produced out of thin air, it seemed. "I know that you're busy trying to find out what happened, but I just-"

"No need to apologize, ma'am," Robin soothed, reaching out to take the mug away when her fingers slackened around it. "I know this must come as a bit of a shock."

Belle laughed daintily, but it rang hollow and the smile that crossed her face was pained at best. "A bit," she parroted wryly and Robin had the good grace to look chagrined.

"An unfortunate turn of phrase," he apologized.

Belle nodded her acceptance of this, but remained otherwise silent. Killian took the opportunity to sidle out of the room and look around the main floor. There were more books scattered haphazardly about - all well-loved and clearly taken care of, but within reach instead of on display. It looked like Belle would wander her home reading and leave the book wherever she was when she finished.

For all of the books that she owned, Belle had very few photographs adorning her walls. There were a few of her in various locations across the world, but she was alone in each shot.

"I've always loved traveling," she said quietly from behind Killian, but it still made him jump.

"I'm sorry," he apologized, placing down the copy of Oliver Twist that he'd picked up somewhere in his search. "I just-"

Belle smiled. "You were doing your job, Detective. I don't blame you for that. Do you read much?" she asked, nodding her head towards the book in front of him.

"My brother used to read this to me when we were kids," Killian allowed. "I'm afraid I don't read as much as I'd like to, anymore, though."

"None of us do."

Killian couldn't argue with that. He smiled politely and followed Belle back to where Robin was still looking contrite. They spoke for a while longer, but it was clear that the young woman's mind wasn't focused on the conversation any longer.

"If you think of anything else, Ms. French, here's my card. Please call," Killian finally allowed her an out which she took with alacrity. She snatched the card from him before looking sheepish, but ushered them towards the door anyway.

Killian would never figure out why they hadn't seen the photo on the way into the apartment. It wasn't like it was hidden, or something they wouldn't have noticed.

It was a picture of Belle, in front of Quincy Market, with Gold's arms wrapped around her from behind. They were both smiling into the camera, taken from such a low angle that it could only have been shot by a child.

"You know Captain Gold?" Killian asked before he could think better of it.

Robin's head whipped around and followed Killian's gaze to the photo.

"You mean Robert?" Belle asked offhandedly, something almost chilling in her tone.

Killian nodded slowly, the disharmony ringing in his ears over seeing his tormentor looking so happy with his arms around a woman who wasn't Milah. He looked so happy; they both looked so goddamned happy while Milah had been so miserable. Killian didn't understand. "When" - he cleared his throat - "when was this taken?"

"Oh, about three years ago."

Gold had still been married to Milah.

Killian was going to tear him apart. There wasn't a dark enough hellhole to drop him in. There weren't enough Hellhounds in the underworld to torment him. There wasn't-

Robin said something that Killian didn't catch, but it was enough distraction for him to mutter a strangled, "Thank you for your help," before nearly sprinting out the door.

The bright light of the sun assaulted him, making him blink rapidly to keep the tears out of his eyes. From the sun. Of course. Not because the bastard had been cheating on Milah for who knew how long and had spent all of that time castigating her for finding happiness with him.

"You all right, mate?" Robin asked a few minutes later, coming up to stand next to Killian so that they were shoulder to shoulder looking down the street. Killian wasn't seeing any of it.

The first time Milah had come to him, tears in her eyes and a stubborn look on her face, she hadn't told him what Gold had said to her. She'd muttered that she didn't want to talk about it, that it didn't matter; they were all that mattered to her and she'd go to Hell and back before she'd allow her husband to ruin the freedom she found with Killian. For his part, Killian had held her close and promised her the world - he'd have moved mountains or fled to the most remote corner of the world he could find if only she'd ask.

He thought she'd have done it, too, if it wasn't for her son. Killian had met the boy a few times, heard plenty of stories about "Bae"and his adventures in the Neverlands and Enchanted Forests in their backyard. But if there was one thing he knew as well as the fact that Milah loved him, it was that Robert Gold loved his son to an unhealthy degree. They'd never wrest the boy from his father's grasp and Milah would never truly leave him behind.

So Killian had settled. He'd accepted his relationship with her for what it was, loved her for the love she had for her son, and made do with the time that was given to him.

"Aye," he finally lied to Robin, squaring his shoulders and opening the car door. "Let's just get back to the station before we hit any more bloody traffic."

Emma couldn't believe it. She was looking at the results herself and she couldn't believe it. She'd found the note buried in one of Jones's files on the boat weeks ago and had tucked it in her pocket to ask him about later. He'd been dismissive, but the threat had stuck with her: LET THIS GO IF YOU KNOW WHAT'S GOOD FOR YOU. On a whim, she'd had it dusted for prints at an independent lab. Now, she finally had the results and she couldn't wrap her mind around it.

Detective Nottingham.

She didn't know the man well, just well enough to dislike him, but he didn't seem the type to stick his neck where it didn't belong. Still, a threat to a police officer wasn't something to be taken lightly and when Emma had questioned him, he'd been straightforward and succinct.

"Yeah, I put it on Jones's car. Bugger doesn't deserve the shield he carries." Nottingham had shrugged then and leaned back in his chair, as if he didn't have a care in the world. "Yanked the battery wire, too. Thought about… well, never mind."

Emma blinked. And then blinked again. "You're… admitting to threatening a police officer?" she asked incredulously.

He nodded succinctly, smirking at her.

"Tell me who put you up to this," she tried, sure that he'd never have admitted to it so smugly if he'd done it on his own.

A look of fear crossed his features before it was carefully masked behind the arrogance once more. "Don't know what you're talking about," he deflected - almost convincingly.

"Of course you do," Emma tried again. "The investigation into LeGume hasn't turned up any leads that would tie him to you; you had no reason to threaten Lieutenant Jones. Whoever put you up to it must have wanted the detective to look the other way. Someone told you to put that note on his car. Someone told you to destroy the evidence Jones found at the scene."

She thought that adding in that second charge would throw him off balance. Evidence tampering was much harder to wave off than what ended up being an empty threat to a fellow officer.

Nottingham just shrugged. "Nope. Just me. Thought losing the evidence would get him booted. What are you going to do about it?"

Emma read him his rights.

It was only when she finished that he began to splutter, rising to his feet with a look of utter disbelief as she cinched handcuffs around his wrists and led him to a cell. He didn't fight her, per se, but he wasn't willingly ambling along either. Emma thought about securing him in with the rest of the detainees overnight while she processed his paperwork, but wanted to make sure everything went by the book. So, a cell to himself, it was.

The clang of the jail cell slamming shut seemed to flip the switch in Nottingham, as if he had begun to realize that whoever his benefactor was - and Emma didn't need to pass a detective's exam to guess who it was - he wasn't coming to the rescue. Nottingham stalked the length of the cell, muttering under his breath the entire time, looking up every once in awhile before sulking to the back corner and starting his circuit again.

Emma needed to go fill out all the paperwork, but she was transfixed by the pattern Nottingham was making. Was he really willing to sacrifice himself rather than give up Gold?

"Thank you for taking out the trash as it were," Gold praised as he appeared behind her out of nowhere. Emma refused to jump, though he'd startled her. She looked at him out of the corner of her eye with a sneer. His eyes never left the scene playing out in front of them, Nottingham pacing behind the bars of the cell like a caged wolf.

Emma turned to face him, not willing to watch the scapegoat any longer. "You're not getting away with this," she promised, seething.

"Actually, I am." Gold smirked and leaned forward a bit. "I think you'll find that all your evidence conveniently points to Nottingham. Won't find a thing to tie me to any of this. I'm going to walk away from this with clean hands."

He was right. The bastard was right and there wasn't anything Emma could do to change it.

But that didn't mean she wasn't going to try. "That's not gonna happen," she assured herself more than threatened him. Emma had dealt with her fair share of bullies growing up. He was just another one.

"I like your confidence," Gold admitted with a disarming smile. Emma saw why Jones called him a crocodile, with all his teeth proudly glinting in the fluorescent lighting. "It's charming. But it doesn't change the fact that I win again."

Emma snarled. "You know I'm going to figure this out. I'm willing to roll the dice. Follow whatever bread crumbs I have to to finish this. And when I do, who knows what might come out about you in the process. Somehow I suspect there is more to you than a simple Homicide captain. You really want to start that fight?"

Gold grinned, but Emma could see the flicker of unease that he was trying to hide. It was gone an instant later, but Emma had seen it and that was all that mattered.

Gold's days were numbered.

"I like you, Ms. Swan," he blustered. "You're not afraid of me, and that's either cocky or presumptuous. Either way, I'd rather have you finish your investigation and get out of my precinct."

He walked away before Emma could get another word in. She shuddered with the need to do something. She was sure that Nottingham had been the one to threaten Jones and impede his investigation into LeGume's murder; he'd admitted it and he wasn't lying. But he wasn't the type to do it on his own.

No, Emma would have to dig deeper if she was going to figure out what Gold had on the officer, but she would find it and once she did, she'd use it herself to flip Nottingham on his leash-holder. With nothing else to do with or for Nottingham, Emma turned resolutely away and stomped back to her desk.

She nearly screeched when a hand darted out from the stairway and tugged her inside. Killian grabbed her wrist before she could punch him in the face, using his size to crowd her back against the wall and out of sight from the rest of the precinct.

"What the hell, Jones!" she hissed vehemently, wriggling and trying to get free.

Killian smirked, not hurting her, but clearly using his height advantage to stop her from getting free. "You want to calm down, darling?" he asked, a hint of something sharp in his tone.

Emma stomped on his instep, not hard enough to do any real damage, but enough to make him yelp and let her go.

"Bloody hell, woman," he whined, one hand pushed against her shoulder to keep her in place while the other reached in vain for his injured foot.

"Let. Me. Go!" Emma ordered, reaching threateningly for his pinky finger.

Killian gingerly put his foot down and made a show of taking his hand off her shoulder. "What did Gold want? Are you all right?" he finally asked.

Emma blinked. That was what all of this was for? "Are you kidding me right now? I thought we agreed that the less people see of us together, the better.

Killian shrugged and Emma wanted to be annoyed. She did. Half of the evidence they were able to compile on Gold had remained untainted because Killian wasn't connected with her. And she wasn't connected with him. But he looked so sincere and goddamned endearing that it was a struggle to keep the smile from escaping.

"I'm fine, Jones," she assured him softly, reaching out to lay her hand on his chest. What the hell are you doing? she thought before yanking her hand back like she'd been burned. "He was just spewing nonsense about how he's going to get away with everything. The arrogance…"

Emma could see the frustration and… was that resignation on Jones's face?

"We'll get him, Swan," Killian vowed, shaking away whatever Emma had seen in his eyes. "We have to. I have to. For Milah."

"Get out of my bloody way!" he shouts, trying to push past the two men holding him back. "That's my… that's… I need…"

God, he doesn't know what he needs. To start the day over? To be in the car with her? To get to her side, hold her hand, pretend that he was there in her last moments?

All of the above?

He knows it's too late; he heard the call for the medical examiner on the way across the city, lights and sirens blaring even though he knew he'd be suspended for it. She's already gone and there's nothing he can do about it.

But he still needs to get to her side.

"Liam!" he shouts, catching sight of his brother with a notepad and pen. "Liam, tell them to let me through!"

Killian watches as his brother looks up, can see the regret etched across Liam's face even from this far away. It's not grief there, no of course it isn't. Liam has never approved of what his little brother has gotten involved in. But Killian knows his brother isn't heartless, either. Not even his misgivings about the situation would stand in the way of-

"You can't be here, little brother," Liam says, but the words don't make any sense.

Killian shakes his head, not understanding. "Liam, I have to…"

"You have to go, Killian. You can't be here, right now. The scene-"

"I don't care a bloody whit about the scene, Liam!" he shouts, struggling against the other men still holding him back. "I need to get to her. Brother, please."

Milah is right there, still sitting in the car as though waiting for the tree to pull up its roots and move out of her way. He can't see her face, but he can see her hair, the curls blowing in the breeze. Bloody hell, he couldn't even count the number of times they'd driven down to the Cape and he'd spent half of the ride spitting her hair out of his mouth. It was all about freedom, she'd told him time and time again. She felt like she could breathe when she was with him, so the last thing she wanted to do was restrict her hair.

"I'm sorry, Killian, you know I can't-" Liam's head snaps to the side as Killian's knuckles collide with his cheek. Blood drips from a cut that one of his rings left behind.

Killian almost feels bad. Almost.

"Some bloody brother, you are," Killian hisses, yanking his other arm free from the officer and stepping back. He wants his brother to hit him back, wants to fight with someone - anyone - so he doesn't have to concentrate on-

"I know you don't mean that," Liam says calmly, pulling out a handkerchief to blot at the blood before it can sully his crime scene. That's all it is to him, Killian realizes, just another case.

"Liam," he pleads, "I have to see her. I don't care what the rules are."

"But I do," Liam insists, ducking under the tape and trying to pull Killian away.

Killian resists, tearing his brother's hand off his shoulder and spinning away from him, trying once again to get to her car.

"Killian, listen to me. You can't help her, not anymore. All you're going to do is give Gold an excuse to implicate you."

Killian freezes, but only for a moment. "You think my fingerprints, my DNA isn't all over that car? I'm already going to be a suspect, you bloody moron. What difference does it make?"

Liam takes a step back, the look on his face some combination of brotherly horror and resignation. "I'm sorry, little brother," he tries again.

"No! Liam, you have to-" he cuts himself off, shoving Liam aside and storming through the tape.

Liam grabs him one more time and Killian swings again, red coloring his vision as he gives in to the fiery anger coursing through him. He doesn't know how many times he hits his brother before he's lying facedown on the ground, Locksley's knee in his back and handcuffs around his wrists.

"No! Liam, no, don't do this! Robin, let me go!" he keeps shouting, not noticing nor caring how many eyes from the precinct are on him. Not caring about how all of this is going to get back to Gold. Let him know how much Killian still… will always love Milah. Let him see what Gold should have felt about her.

Robin doesn't move as Liam kneels next to Killian's head. Killian forces his head back, arching his neck so that he can glare at his brother. Liam is bleeding from the nose now, his left eye already swelling.

"I hate you," Killian hisses. "I hate you and I wish-"

"Don't say something you'll regret later, little brother. I already forgive you," Liam says gently. "Robin's going to get you out of here before someone decides to-"

"I hate you," Killian hisses again, but the fight is leaching out of him as quickly as it came. Even his anger isn't enough to get him out of handcuffs.

Liam nods sadly, but motions to Locksley and moves to help stand Killian up. They frog march him back to the squad car and fold him into the backseat, both ignoring the threats and the callous remarks he throws their way.

"I'm sorry I have to leave you with him like this," Liam apologizes to Robin and it just ramps the anger right back up. Liam has been apologizing for him all their lives; Killian hates it now even more than he had growing up. "I wish I could-"

"Captain Gold is already gunning for him, sir," Locksley interrupts. Their words are muffled through the window, but Killian can still hear them. "We don't need you getting in trouble, too. I'll take care of him."

"I know you will, mate. Here, I don't know if he has the keys with him." Liam hands over a set of keys, wincing when Killian's shoulder hits the glass. Killian glares at him when he bends down to make sure he didn't hurt himself. "Take him to the marina, see if you can't get him inside. I'll be along as soon as I can get away."

Killian doesn't even wait for Robin to shut the driver's door before he lays into him. He keeps screaming as they pull away from the scene.

Away from Milah.

"Where'd you go, Jones?" Emma asked softly, drawing his attention from where he was staring a hole in the wall back to her. The haunted look in his eyes frightened her; men who looked like that were unpredictable when it came to their crusades.

Captain Gold and his eventual downfall was definitely a crusade.

But Killian just shook his head as if clearing the cobwebs and grinned disarmingly at her. It didn't reach his eyes. "Nowhere fun," was all the answer he'd give.

Emma didn't need him to tell her - she could read him like an open book. She wondered how many times a month… or week… or day Killian relived Milah's death. He'd never told her the story, but officer reports put him at the scene soon after her official time of death. Emma could put two and two together.

"Look, Killian, I get it. I can't even begin to imagine what it's been like for you, working under him every day while you know what he did to her. But we've got to be smart about this. We-"

"You think I don't know that?"

Emma stared for a moment. "What part of 'we can't be associated with each other' did you miss, then?"

He shrugged. "No one's paying attention. I just…" he trails off, scratching behind his ear. It was a tell if ever Emma saw one.

"You just what?" she prompted beseechingly.

But Killian didn't answer. The slam of a door somewhere above him echoed through the stairwell and was followed by thudding footsteps.

"Go home, Jones," Emma hissed to avoid being heard by whomever was above them. "I promise I'll steer clear of Gold and his fancy words if you'll be a little more careful about being seen with me."

Killian nodded, slipping silently down the stairs before whoever was coming saw him. When he was gone, Emma slumped back against the wall and let out the breath she'd been holding for what felt like ever.

"Afternoon, ma'am," Henry Mills called out when he stepped onto the stairs just above her. "Can I help you with something?"

The sheer feeling of relief that overtook her seeing it was Nolan's rookie rather than one of Gold's lackeys surprised her. Would it really kill her case if someone saw her and Jones talking? No. She'd done fine without him before all this and she would do fine when this case was over and they were back to separate departments. So why the concern?

A niggling feeling at the back of Emma's mind told her she already knew the answer, but didn't want to admit it to anyone - least of all, herself.

"Ma'am?" Mills questioned again when Emma was silent for too long.

She nodded. "I could use some help pulling Nottingham's files," she began.

"Sure!" the rookie practically beamed at the idea of helping her. No one would bat an eye at the kid working with her, so the question remained.

Why is it different with Jones?

Hours later, Emma and Henry had pulled dozens of cases that Nottingham had closed. One thing was certain, though no one seemed to like the man, he was effective in what he did. The problem was, there were too many complaints sandwiched between the successful cases for Emma to even begin to decipher where Gold's interference came into play.

"Thank you, Henry," she said sincerely after making her last copy of the day. She was exhausted and even the rookie's exuberance had waned with the passing hours. The poor kid looked as dead on his feet as she felt.

"No problem," he replied tiredly, slamming the last filing cabinet drawer closed and pushing the lock button. He tossed her the keys, nodding his head towards the officer who was waiting to log them out. "You want to take care of 'Grumpy' over there?"

Emma bit back a smirk. "I'll handle him. You get out of here."

He grinned gratefully before slipping past the surly officer with a nod. Emma watched him go before squaring her shoulders and heading out the same way.

"It's about time, sister!" the officer growled as he snatched the keys from her. "Some of us got better things to do than wait around for you IA rats to burrow into the past."

Emma just raised an eyebrow. "I'll be back tomorrow," she promised, determined to find some kind of link.

Leroy - according to the name tag that had seen better days - just scowled. "Fine, fine. Just try not to stay so late, huh?"

Emma whipped her head around to find the clock behind his desk.

11:45pm.

No wonder the little man was pissed. Emma's stomach voiced its own protest at her long hours, the bear claw she'd had for lunch long since forgotten. She tried to look a little sheepish to mollify the officer, but he just glared and turned away. Taking the dismissal for what it was, Emma beat it out of there, determined to keep going until she'd crossed the threshold of her apartment and found her bed.

The squad room was nearly deserted as she passed by, only a few angry eyes watching her progress as she walked, head held high. She barely stopped at her desk to grab her bag before walking calmly for the elevator.

The night air was cool on her face and she paused for a second to soak it in. Boston may be filled with city air and city sounds, but it was home. She loved the bustle and the smell, the history and the modern melding into one culture that filled the city with whatever someone wanted to find. It was all there, waiting to be explored.

Her stomach growled again and Emma amended her earlier resolve to head straight home. If she hurried, she could get to Downtown Crossing and find something to eat that wasn't freezer burned or past its expiration date. Sleep could wait; her stomach couldn't.

Footsteps. Damnit.

Emma rolled her eyes as she turned the corner into the same alleyway where she'd first threatened Jones all those weeks ago. It was late, she was tired, and she'd honestly thought that he'd left the station hours ago. She was glad that Killian had taken her edict seriously and he wasn't trying to corner her in the office again, but whatever he wanted could wait until tomorrow. On the boat. After she'd had some sleep.

"For the love of God, can't you take a hint?" she asked testily, whirling around to face him.

Emma was still speaking when the fist ploughed into her face and sent her sprawling. "What the-" was all she could get out around the vice that gripped her chest when the wall behind her knocked the wind out of her.

Not Jones, her brain helpfully informed her a split second before someone's billy club sliced through the night air. Emma only just managed to duck away, the hard rod impacting her shoulder blade rather than her neck - her assailant's intended target. The blow still stunned her, making Emma stumble and throw one hand out to steady herself against the wall. The other reached for the knife she always kept in her pocket, needing something - anything - to protect her.

She rued the fact that she didn't carry her gun on a daily basis.

The familiar icy feeling of the metal grip pushed back some of the fear from being attacked. Emma harnessed the adrenaline as she'd been trained and spun on her heel to face her attacker.

Attackers.

There were three men circled around her, masks on their faces that made them look like they'd come straight off a B-movie set.

"Who are you, the Three Stooges? It gonna take all three of you to take down little old me?" Emma snarked, eyeing the badges clipped to their belts.

Cops.

Gold's men.

None of them were small enough to be Isaac, but Emma couldn't worry about their identities now. Stringbean and R2-D2 stepped back and she turned to face her third attacker head on. She ducked and slashed when the beefiest of the three took a swing at her, trying to grab her jacket. He pulled back with a howl, clutching his hand where blood oozed out. A painful wound, but not enough to slow him down, she catalogued automatically.

Keep track of all targets, it may save your life, her training echoed in her thoughts.

It was easier said than done. They came at her all at once, ducking and weaving around her own strikes and trying their best to catch hold of her. Emma wasn't aware of the damage they were inflicting at the time, her fight or flight response far too well engaged to notice trivial things like pain.

And then she was very aware of the lightning strike of pain at the base of her skull. One of the bastards had caught hold of her hair and yanked her off balance. Another trapped her arm under his and pried the knife from her desperately clenched fingers.

"What are you, seventh grade girls?" she managed to mutter before Beefy slammed his fist into her solar plexus, driving every last bit of air from her lungs.

Gasping and choking, Emma could do little more than go limp as Stringbean shoved her face-first into the brick wall. Her head hit the wall with a resounding thump and Emma slid down in spite of her best attentions.

R2-D2 began to kick at her and Emma pulled herself into as small of a ball as she could manage, wincing each time he connected with her ribs and biting back the tears - of pain and frustration both - until she could find an opening to regain her footing.

It never came.

Emma howled when Stringbean stomped on her hand, something underneath it shredding her palm open. He didn't give her the opportunity to pull it protectively into her chest, just stood with all his weight on it before hauling back and kicking her in the head with his other foot.

"Get your ass out of our house, bitch," was the last thing she heard before blackness closed in around her.

tagging: @killian-whump, @gilliangrissom, @nothingimpossibleonlyimprobable

[tinywritingexplorer]

You are enough for me - Thorin x Reader

Request: Thorin x reader where the reader is a half elf/dwarf and after some issues turns out to be Thorin’s One.

Chatter is going on everywhere throughout the recovering kingdom of Erebor. Months have gone by since the battle defending the mountain and although the Sons of Durin needed a number of weeks to recover, all lived.

Dwarves who once found home in the lonely mountain were slowly returning from all corners of Middle-Earth when news spread about the death of Smaug and the victory of the Battle of the Five Armies. Erebor is slowly growing to flourish once again. Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thraîn is to lead the dwarves of Erebor as rightful king under the mountain, to be crowned this very evening. And that, my dear, is where your tale will begin.

*

“I have no place among these dwarves, Bofur.” Bofur sputters, turning towards his friend, laying her hand upon her shoulder. “You have every right, Y/N. Your amad is from these lands, making it yours as much as the next dwarf, lass.” “I’m not even a full dwarf.” She sighs, but before she can come up with a response, Bofur pushes her back into her chamber to get dressed for Thorin’s coronation. Once dressed, she follows Bofur and Bifur through the halls of Erebor.

Despite her mother being from the kingdom, Y/N has never before set foot in the lonely mountain. Her mother has left her and her da when she was just a wee child, claiming that bedding an elf had been the biggest regret of her existence, parting from her child with venomous speech as she rode off.

Y/N shrugs off the memories who once haunted every waking and sleeping moment, focusing her gaze upon Bofur’s jolly hat, who was walking in front of her. Bofur that is, not the hat. “We’re almost there.” Bifur tells her in Khuzdul, smiling reassuringly.

The three enter the hall and are immediately greeted by Bombur and his wife. Y/N listens to the three brothers chatting, while gazing around the King’s Hall. It was a gorgeous open space with enough places for every dwarf of Erebor. The hall was decorated in celebration of Thorin’s coronation and in honour of the dwarves who had been brave enough to go on a quest to reclaim their homeland and succeed. Y/N was proud to see flags bearing the colours of her friends’ family and gazed upon them with a broad smile. She didn’t notice the whispers behind her, nor Bifur walking closer to her, protective of the small half dwarf. He wasn’t going to let anyone hurt her, not after all the hurt she’s already been through. “Sasakhabiya abnâmul.” He tells her and Y/N looks down, plucking at her dress. “Thank you, Bifur.” Behind her, she can hear the whispers from the dwarrowdams increasing. Y/N squares her shoulders, straightening up and accepting Bofur’s arm, who as well has noticed the whispers and sends the dams angry glances. Together they watch the coronation ceremony take place and Balin placing the crown upon Thorin’s head. Not long after the feast begins and people start walking around and chatting, dwarrowdams fluttering around Thorin. “That’s what he gets for being a king with no queen by his side.” Bofur grins and they both laugh at the King’s uncomfortable face.

“Hodhur rukhsaz.” Y/N hears someone behind her hiss, but she tries her best to ignore it, not wanting to allow the whispers to spoil her evening. Y/N and Bofur laugh the night away, being completely unaware of the fact that she’s being watched by two pairs of eyes all through the night.

The next day Y/N walks through the narrow halls of Erebor, ending up on a platform overlooking the entire market square. The view was beautiful, showing the usually busy square, slowly coming alive with the sun rising.

Suddenly Y/N turns around, hand on her dagger as she hears someone approaching behind her. Eyes widening, she leaves the dagger and dips into a courtsy. “Melhekhul.” Thorin comes to stand behind her, gazing over the market. “What’s your name?” “Imnê Y/N.” She states softly, shyly fiddling with a loose thread hanging from her sleeve. “You’re a friend of Bofur’s.” It wasn’t a question, so she didn’t answer. “I’ve had some complaints about you, Y/N. Quite a number of them.” Kiki sighs, leaning against the wall. This was old news to her. “May I guess? A half dwarf doesn’t belong in the halls of Erebor, shouldn’t besmudge the ancestral home of Dwarves with my very existence.” Thorin turns to her with a raised eyebrow. “With all due respect, Melhekhul, I can speak and understand Khuzdul just fine. The whispers do not go beyond me.” His mouth twitches. “I can see why Bofur has taken a liking to you. So quick witted.” “Alas, I admit it. Do you want me to leave?” It pains her to say, but she has no right to go against the King if he wants her to leave Erebor behind. “You are a personal guest of at least three of the dwarves who helped reclaim the Lonely Mountain. The only moment you have to leave is when you wish to, Lady Y/N.” With that he takes his leave, a small smile on his face.

The feast following the coronation of Thorin Oakenshield lasted a great long while, I’ll tell you. Over the past few weeks Thorin could often be found by Y/N’s side, interested in her adventures and cheeky, yet shy way of speaking. The King’s playfulness was slowly returning with no war to threaten the line of his kin. He took a liking to the half Dwarf with her Elfish features and was enamoured by her behaviour which contained both the stubbornness of Dwarves and the elegance of Elves.

His interest did not go unnoticed and the eligible dwarrowdams were furious. Y/N wasn’t even a full dwarf so could never be good enough for the King of Erebor in their eyes. Not like they were.

“Amrâlimê.” Y/N looks up from her book to see Thorin. “Can I have a word?” She accepts his outstretched hand and walks with him. “Is there no chance of finding your mother?” Ever since she told him that her mother was from the Lonely Mountain, he was hopeful about reuniting Y/N with her. “Thorin, I have no desire to seek my mother. She left when I was a wee child and her parting words were words that a mother should never speak to her own.” “It was not my intention to make you upset, ibin abnâmul.” Y/N smiles warmly at the Dwarf in front of her. “I know this, Thorin. Just like most you like a happy ending.” She nudges him playfully and he laughs, before turning serious again. “There is another matter I wish to speak to you about.” He shows her his palm, holding a carefully crafted silver bead. “I wish to court you, Amrâlimê. I wish to braid your hair and I wish to show all of Erebor that you belong to a King.” He’s fidgeting, Y/N can see him fidgeting and it makes her smile. “I don’t wish to belong to a King, I wish the belong to Thorin Oakenshield, the Dwarf who was brave enough to reclaim his home. His I will be.” He smiles and leans down to capture her lips with his own.

*

A loud noise wakes Y/N in the middle of the following night, followed by a clammy hand clasping around her mouth and a blindfold being put over her eyes. She was lifted off the bed, her struggling futile. With how many are they? The intruders drag her through the mountain and soon Y/N can feel the wind on her bare arms as she tries to scream for help.

“Throw her over the side! Now!” Hisses a female voice and Y/N feels herself freezing. She’s being lifted higher, ready to be thrown out of the mountain towards her death.

“Harkulul!” A voice booms and torches are lit. Y/N almost cries in relief when she recognizes Dwalin’s voice. “I suggest you put the lass down, Frín.” His voice leaves no space open for discussion. Soon Y/N was lowered onto the ground and she rips the blindfold off her head, glaring at the 3 dwarves around her. “You’re not going to let that wench destroy the future of Erebor, are you, master Dwalin?”  You turn towards the dwarrowdam, ready to give her a proper piece of mind when you stop dead in your tracks. “It can’t be…”

“Any harm coming to Y/N is treason to the crown, Vas, you know this.” “You can’t be serious! Allowing Thorin to-” “Harkulul, Vas!” Dwalin guides you away while the other guards around stay behind to lead the three rogue Dwarves to the prison or Erebor, where they would stay until further notice.

Dwalin knocks on a door and not much later a grumbling Thorin opens the door, face softening when he sees the shaking Y/N. “What happened?” He pulls her into his embrace. “I’ll brief you in the morning. Stay with her and care for her, Mahal knows she needs it.” Before fully turning away, Dwalin turns to Y/N. “From where did you recognize Vas, lassie?” “She’s my mother.” You mumble in Thorin’s bare shoulder. Dwalin curses loudly before storming off. Rather than asking more, Thorin just leads Y/N to his bedchamber, gently helping her undress and wrap her in the furs heating in front of the fireplace. He helps her into the bed, keeping her safe in his arms, fingers gently playing with the courting bead in her braid. Whoever hurt his One would pay.

*

Sasakhabiya abnâmul – You look beautiful.

Hodhur rukhsaz – Orc faced

Melhekhul – My king

Harkulul - Enough

[milkhoney531]

Collection of my short stories

Nobody

A being drifted in the wind, listening intently. He ignored the freezing weather and snow that soaked him. He ignored how his clothing froze and clung to his body. He ignored all of this, for someone had called his name. And he must go to those who call his name.

He quickened his pace until he was sprinting towards a cliff. A cliff he knew had a very deadly drop, for even the ever piling snow wouldn’t soften anyones fall, not with the jagged rocks below. Any and every jumper died upon those rocks, he knew. He leapt as his name was called again.

“Nobody can stop me from dying here.” A young teen spoke, their clothes dusted in snow with icy tears frozen to their face. The tten looked at their wrists, counting the scars as they stepped closer to the edge of the cliff.

But Nobody stopped them. He stood in front of the teen, blocking their way, a small smile on their face as sympathy flowed from them. The teen just stopped and stared with tired eyes. For the teen was too tired to care, too tired to feel, and much too tired to live.

“You’re tired. You’re sad.” Nobody broke the silence, “They hurt you. They hurt you so much just because you trusted them. Because you accepted yourself, discovered a new piece of yourself, and tried to show it to the world. But you were met with an arsenal of poisoned words. They shut you away and forced a mask on you. A mask of what, of who, they wanted you to be. They hurt you when you peeked out of that mask. They made you feel like a mistake, like a monster. So you hurt yourself.” Nobody paused as the teen choked back a sob, their lips quivering as their red eyes watered.

“You came here to end it all, just like those before you. Like those you’ve known. But your life isn’t over. It won’t end here. You’re going to live. You’re going to live.” Nobody stepped towards the teen, hugging them tightly, for the teen might break apart if he did not. “You’ll live to meet others just like you. To meet those who will love and defend you. To hear words of sugar and honey.You’ll live long enough to heal. You will heal. You may not be who you were before you were broken, no. You won’t be that person ever again. You’ll be better, stronger, and so full of love and light that you will light a path for those like you. Live on.” Nobody broke their embrace and took a step back.

“I’m counting on you.” And with a gust of wind the teen was alone. Nobody went with the wind, looking back with a smile. The teen stepped back from the cliff. The teen would live.

Nobody looked in front of him, listening to the thousands calling his name. Calling for one of the many other Nobodies. He, she, and they’s all rushed about to those that called for a Nobody, all swiftly aiding those that called for them.

____________________________________

Naughty or Nice

It was December 24th, Christmas Eve, but no elves were working, no reindeer flying, and no jolly Santa. For a message had been pinned to Santa's door, a message that said that Christmas was no more. He checked his list once then checked it twice, to see who had been 'naughty' or 'nice'.  He checked it once more, counting the names. He heaved a great sigh and went to a safe he thought he would never have to open again.

    Covered in cobwebs and dust of old, lay a satchel that once had been the color of gold before time and age had taken hold. With age-old practice, he took out quite carefully an object with a rustless metal sheen. An ancient scythe with an ageless look was now in the jolly man's hands through the jolly man looked quite grim as the bright red suit began to dim, getting darker and darker until it was a grim, grim black.

     The jolly joyful Santa Clause looked less and less like the man called Santa as the seconds ticked by, his once warm gaze went hollow with exhaust as he slipped off his coat to reveal the sight of white so pure and feathers so neat. And where once stood Santa was now Azrael, the angel of death.

    No ho ho hos would be given this year, the poor man thought. For there was no more nice on his list and God knew this well. Once a long time ago, Azrael was told to be Santa until the nice was no more. And if that were to happen, he must draw his scythe once more and cleanse the world of sin.

   As he went out into the world, he could hear the children singing.

      He knows when you're awake.

      He knows when you're asleep.

      He knows when you've been bad or good.

      So be good for goodness sake.

  The children sang the age-old warning, not heeding its advice. And soon dear old Santa shall have a new suit of youthful red.

____________________________________

Stormy Nights

Rain poured from the thundering heavens in the darkness of the cold night, pelting all who dared to set foot outdoors with freezing rain and chilling winds as lightning flashed and thunder crashed. Children shake and quake as they raked out sobs in fear of the unholy storm. Parents ran with flashlights and candles in hand as the power went out throughout the land. A siren sounds and people run for the radio and shelter as the spiraling wind nears the city, a flash of lightning reveals the tornado fast approaching.

  A single silhouette stands upon a building and races towards the storm despite the warnings of man-made machine and nature. The tornado is fast approaching, the person racing towards the storm, they briefly meet in a roaring battle between nature and morals of a mortal when the racing winds and roaring tornado vanish without a trace. The hero of this dire situation looming over the villain, the cause of the storm. The villain lays unconsciously in the mud as rain pours down them. The hero jumps into the night air, jumping on top of treetops and power cable until he reaches the city, vanishing from view.

  Once the storm clears the way, the sun begins to rise, and where the villain once lay was not even an impression in the mud, let alone the storm causing villain. Soon, the streets became busy with life and newspapers about the storm cancelling hero were strewn about the city.

   “The hero saved us!” Many claimed.

   “They saved us from the tornado!”

   “The tornado the villain made!”

   “Hooray! Hooray for the hero!”

Many similar words were spoken throughout the day, the praising of the hero and damming of the villain, all of which the hero and villain did hear.

  As the sun began to sink, clouds of dark grey covered the sky as the heavens began to cry. The people quickly went into the safety of their dry and warm homes as the light drizzle turned into a pounding pouring rain with winds screeching through the air and thunder clapping out a terrifying beat as lightning lit the oncoming night.

 A teen screamed and cried and cursed the heavens as they stood upon the rooftop of a shabby motel building, the wind ripping through their hair as rain hid their tears. Before the night of the terrible tornado they had been the hero the town once cheered for, yet that night they were in so much agony and pain that they could not control their powers, much like now, for even a has been hero can get so miserable, so depressed, that they do not care what havoc they reap.

 As the storm began to pick up a dangerous pace, the once villain, now hero due to the tornado, landed upon the motel rooftop. Their shoes clicked and cracked upon the rooftop, until they stopped beside the storm maker, a single hand on the teen's shoulder as they looked across the city. The teen looked up at their enemy with a tearful scowl.

  “This storm will pass if you let it. Don't let this city define you. Controlling one's abilities comes with time and practice. Losing control does not make you a villain, it makes you human.” The new hero spoke to the distraught teen.

  And as the night went on and the teen and young adult spoke of their troubles and offered one another support, the teen's mood lifted and the storm dispersed.

____________________________________

Trial

   The lights flickered on, the electric buzz filling the room with the fluorescent lights. Click, click, click, the door slowly opened with a whining creak as red powder dusted the floor, the rust covered hinges having not moved in many years.  

   The slow pitter-patter of feet crept into the empty room with careful caution. Girls no older than sixteen yet no younger than two filed into the large room, the lights reflecting off of the white linoleum floors that matched the white colored walls.    

   A bell rang through the room and the girls scattered about the room, a few picking up the younger children, others alone where they stood with wild eyes looking about the room as the younger girls cried, while those who were older stoically waited.  

    Then a ding sounded, briefly followed by static and the sound of breathing.   

   "Your balance shall be tested." Spoke the cold, old voice before all sound ceased.  

   The floor suddenly gave way, leaving only thin bars to keep the girls away from the seemingly bottomless pit. A girl the age of three fell screaming to her death, for she was the unlucky child that had not been atop a bar nor saved by an elder.  

       For a moment, no one moved, the oldest group of girls stared blankly with the war tore exhaust of veterans, the youngest screamed and cried in horror while those who had seen this a few times before and held onto their innocence tried to speak reassurances to those younger than them whole getting only pitied looks from those older than them.

    The bars jerked and several young and old children fell, all children crying as the fell to their deaths. The older girls knew to move. The eldest leaped into the air landing on the bars above while those younger tried to help those around them.  

      The eldest of the girls watched as the children fell to their deaths with a merciless gaze. For she had seen this all before. Only the best survive the tests, and she was the best. Tomorrow she would turn seventeen, an age no girl had reached before, yet she would reach it.    

    She gazed over at the highest point in the farthest wall, she knew it was not a mirror there, but a window. She knew he was watching. She knew how his finger lingered over a button, she knew he looked at her with a sickening gaze. She knew he would never let her live until tomorrow.    

     He had promised to free everyone if a girl reached the age of seventeen. She knew he'd never free them. He always killed the girls months before their seventeenth birthday, yet she had survived. She has survived and become a beacon of hope for those around her.   

     She leaped towards the farthest bar as all the bars that once surrounded and held her vanished into the walls. She landed with ease, immediately having balanced out.     

                A bell sounded.

       Only ten seconds left to the test. Gazing around, the older and middle-aged children were few in number, seven elder, three middle, and one of the youngest, a seven-year-old girl beaming brightly up at her with pride.

        A small smile found itself on the eldest child's face. She had watched the seven-year-old grow up and taught her what she had learned, for she saw much potential in the child. Relief that the child lived washed over her.         

    But soon terror flooded through her. The bar the seven-year-old once stood upon vanished into the wall and a horrible realization washed over the poor seven years old's face as she began to fall.

    "Mina!" The child screamed as they fell, reaching her arms towards the eldest, towards Mina.

        The eldest's world went in slow motion as she leaped towards the falling child, wrapping her arms around the child in a final embrace as they fell towards the bottomless pit together.

     The bell rung once more as the floor returned. Mina and the seven-year-old fell onto the floor with a hard thump, Mina taking the brunt of the fall.

      "Shuri?" Mina spoke softly, fearing the child in her embrace had died.   

    "Happy birthday, Mina," Shuri spoke as lifted her head from the eldest's smothering embrace.

     Tears filled the eldest's eyes, she was seventeen. The loud creaking of the garage like door lifting upwards revealing an elderly unkempt man in a field of green grass.

     "Your finesse was enough, it seems. You're free. All of you." He said solemnly as he glared at Mina.

       The girls slowly left the room they knew too well. Mina held Shuri's hand as they walked out into the new world before them.

____________________________________

Happy Birthday

  Doctor Jaster was in the laboratory working on fixing one of the broken down machines with the help of his assistant, Alice.

   His phone rang while he was working on the inner machinery. The sudden noise from his lab coat pocket had caused the young scientist to bump his head upon the machinery above him, earning a hiss of pain as he slid out of the metal confines.

      “Are you alright, Doctor Jaster?” Asked Alice, who was on her first day of the job.

  Doctor Jaster looked down at the child, marveling still, at how a girl not much older than his eldest son, Sam, had finished college and was able to work alongside him.

      “‘Tis but a bump. Nothing to fret about the child- Alice.” Jaster said, quick to correct himself as he slid his hand into his pocket and fumbled for his cellular device, soon finding the metallic object's smooth surface at his fingertips.

   Alice watched in faint curiosity as her superior took the phone from his lab coat’s crisp white pocket and answer the call. At this time she recalled how fondly the Doctor spoke of his sons, Sam and Patrick, and how the Doctor had invited her to his youngest one’s birthday that night.

  Her thoughts fluttered away like that of a small bird as a loud clatter sounded; before her, a phone laid upon the floor.

  The Doctor fled from her sight and, little to her knowledge, the laboratory.

  Doctor Jaster ran through the icy tundra-bound city in which he, and many others, lived and worked. He violently shoved whoever was in his way to the cold hard ground beside him as he sped past.

  He did not rest nor slow as he rushed to his home, where his youngest son, at the age of three, was being watched by the trusted babysitter, Polly Nantucket.

  Upon his arrival, he received looks of sorrow from those who had gathered. Blinded by the flash of the ambulance and the police lights stop the vehicles and simultaneously deafened by the mixture of sirens and cries of the people who had gathered around his home.

  He watched in silent horror as Polly was rolled past him on a stretcher, sputtering I'll say apologies before being put within the ambulance which soon died off and away, toward the hospital.

  An elder police officer made his way through the crowd and grasped the scientist's arm, earning an apprehensive look from Jaster.

  Jaster was led towards his home and through the crowd when bright red upon white caught his eye. He halted in his tracks, ignoring the tugs upon his arm when he saw a ghastly scene.

  A cluster of crows was feasting. A man waved them away to reveal a toddler with snow-dusted red locks, face twisted in a scream with tears and blood frozen upon and around him.

  The boy's chest was split open with broken ribs that once encased his bow frozen heart and lungs that shall never again take in any air along with innards that shall never take in and digest the long-awaited cake he had looked forward to that day.

  Doctor Jaster collapsed to his knees, so king into the icy wetness of the snow beneath him as tears burst from his eyes and all went silent at the sound of his heart-wrenching wail.

  As he mourned, he remembered the light of his youngest son's, Patrick's, smile when he presented him with the bright orange coat that morning. The same coat the corpse of the once kind and talkative child wore now.

  All who tried to speak to the grieving father were mere murmurs to the scientist as more and more memories of his son's brief life played out before him in seeming slow motion.

  None dared to near Doctor Jaster again and merely gazed upon him with utmost sorrow. None told him of the appearance of the yellow bus behind him, nor of the child with curly blonde locks and bright magenta eyes coming forth.

     “Dad? What's going on?” The boy asked the brown-haired man that stayed kneeling in the snow.

  A woman tried covering the young child’s eyes, but it was too late. He screamed in horror and grief as he began sobbing.

     “Sam….” Jaster croaked out as he finally looked away from Patrick’s body.

  The boy, Sam, flung himself at his father and proceeded to sob and scream into Jaster’s chest, unable to contain an ounce of his sorrow and anger within him.

  The two, after many questions from the police, went to bed in their rooms, not bothering to try to eat. Both men and child fell into a deep and dreamless slumber, too emotionally and physically exhausted to conjure a dream or nightmare.

  Sam woke, mere hours later, to feel pressure on his bed.

    “‘Nother had a dream, Pat?” Sam slurred, forgetting his brother was gone.

  Then, he remembered. His eyes shot open and he screamed as he saw a knife before his chest. Then he lay forever silent.

  Jaster was banging on the door, unable to enter the locked room. Just as he was about to plow through the door with his side, the door slid open.

  As morning birds sang their song and the sun peeked out from behind the clouds, a camera crew set up in front of the Jaster household where bright yellow police tape closed off the crime scene to the public.

  Then the camera was on.

    “Jake Addams here with breaking news! Just last night William Jaster, respected scientists, and his sons Sam Jaster, age eight, and Patrick Jaster, age three, were brutally murdered. Police have no comment at this  time.” The reporter, Jake Addams reported.

  Then the camera clicked off and the crew packed up, headed for their next story.

[john-carter-was-here]

Excerpts from the Notebooks of Lazarus Long

Stolen from: Time Enough For Love by Robert A. Heinlein

 Always store beer in a dark place.

 By the data to date, there is only one animal in the Galaxy dangerous to man – man himself. So he must supply his own indispensable competition. He has no enemy to help him.

 Men are more sentimental than women. It blurs their thinking.

 Certainly the game is rigged. Don’t let that stop you; if you don’t bet, you can’t win.

 Any priest or shaman must be presumed guilty until proved innocent.

 Always listen to experts. They’ll tell you what can’t be done, and why. Then do it.

 Get a shot off fast. This upsets him long enough to let you make your second shot perfect.

 There is no conclusive evidence of life after death. But there is no evidence of any sort against it. Soon enough you will know. So why fret about it?

 If it can’t be expressed in figures, it is not science; it is opinion.

 It has been long known that one horse can run faster than another–but which one? Differences are crucial.

 A fake fortuneteller can be tolerated. But an authentic soothsayer should be shot on sight. Cassandra did not get half the kicking around she deserved.

 Delusions are often functional. A mother’s opinions about her children’s beauty, intelligence, goodness, et cetera ad nauseam, keep her from drowning them at birth.

 Most “scientists” are bottle washers and button sorters.

 A “pacifist male” is a contradiction in terms. Most self- described “pacifists” are not pacific; they simply assume false colors. When the wind changes, they hoist the Jolly Roger.

 Nursing does not diminish the beauty of a woman’s breasts; it enhances their charm by making them looked lived in and happy.

 A generation which ignores history has no past–and no future.

 A poet who reads his verse in public may have other nasty habits.

 What a wonderful world it is that has girls in it!

 Small change can often be found under seat cushions.

 History does not record anywhere at any time a religion that has any rational basis. Religion is a crutch for people not strong enough to stand up to the unknown without help. But, like dandruff, most people do have a religion and spend time and money on it and seem to derive considerable pleasure from fiddling with it.

 It’s amazing how much “mature wisdom” resembles being too tired.

 If you don’t like yourself, you can’t like other people.

 Your enemy is never a villain in his own eyes. Keep this in mind; it may offer a way to make him your friend. If not, you can kill him without hate–and quickly.

 A motion to adjourn is always in order.

 No state has an inherent right to survive through conscript troops and, in the long run, no state ever has. Roman matrons used to say to their sons: “Come back with your shield, or on it.” Later on, this custom declined. So did Rome.

 Of all the strange “crimes” that human beings have legislated out of nothing, “blasphemy” is the most amazing – with “obscenity” and “indecent exposure” fighting it out for second and third place.

 Cheops Law: Nothing ever gets built on schedule or within budget.

 It is better to copulate than never.

 All societies are based on rules to protect pregnant women and young children. All else is surplusage, excrescence, adornment, luxury, or folly which can–and must–be dumped in emergency to preserve this prime function. As racial survival is the only universal morality, no other basic is possible. Attempts to formulate a “perfect society” on any foundation other than “Women and children first!” is not only witless it is automatically genocidal. Nevertheless, starry-eyed idealists (all of them male) have tried endlessly–and no doubt will keep on trying.

 All men are created unequal.

 Money is a powerful aphrodisiac. But flowers work almost as well.

 A brute kills for pleasure. A fool kills from hate.

 There is only one way to console a widow. But remember the risk.

 When the need arises–and it does–you must be able to shoot your own dog. Don’t farm it out–that doesn’t make it nicer; it makes it worse.

 Everything in excess! To enjoy the flavor of life, take big bites. Moderation is for monks.

 It may be better to be a live jackal than a dead lion, but it is better still to be a live lion. And usually easier.

 One man’s theology is another man’s belly laugh.

 Sex should be friendly. Otherwise stick to mechanical toys; it’s more sanitary.

 Men rarely(if ever) manage to dream up a god superior to themselves. Most gods have the manners and morals of a spoiled child.

 Never appeal to a man’s “better nature.” He may not have one. Invoking self-interest gives you more leverage.

 Little girls, like butterflies, need no excuse.

 You can have peace. Or you can have freedom. Don’t ever count on having both at once.

 Avoid making irrevocable decisions while tired or hungry. N.B.: Circumstances can force your hand. So think ahead!

 Place your clothes and weapons where you can find them in the dark.

 An elephant: A mouse built to government specifications.

 Throughout history, poverty is the normal condition of man. Advances which permit this norm to be exceeded–here and there, now and then– are the work of an extremely small minority, frequently despised, often condemned, and almost always opposed by all right thinking people. Whenever this tiny minority is kept from creating, or (as sometimes happens) is driven out of a society, the people then slip back into abject poverty.  This is known as “bad luck.”

 In a mature society, “civil servant” is semantically equal to “civil master.”

 When a place gets crowded enough to required ID’s, social collapse is not far away. It is time to go elsewhere. The best thing about space travel is that it made it possible to go elsewhere.

 A woman is not property, and husbands who think otherwise are living in a dreamworld.

 The second best thing about space travel is that the distances involved make war a very difficult, usually impractical, and almost always unnecessary. This is probably a loss for most people, since war is our race’s most popular diversion, one which gives purpose and color to dull and stupid lives. But it is a great boon to the intelligent man who fights only when he must–never for sport.

 A zygote is a gamete’s way of producing more gametes. This may be the purpose of the universe.

 There are hidden contradictions in the minds of people who “love Nature” while deploring the “artificialities” with which “Man has spoiled ‘Nature.’” The obvious contradiction lies in their choice of words, which imply that man and his artifacts are not part of “Nature”–but beavers and their dams are. But the contradictions go deeper than this prima-facie absurdity. In declaring his love for a beaver dam (erected by beavers for beavers’ purposes) and his hatred for dams erected by men (for the purpose of men) the “Naturist” reveals his hatred of his own race –i.e. his own self-hatred.  In the case of “Naturists” such self-hatred is understandable; they are such a sorry lot. But hatred is too strong an emotion to feel toward them; pity and contempt are the most they rate.  As for me, willy-nilly I am a man, not a beaver, and H. sapiens is the only race I have or can have. Fortunately for me I like being part of a race made of men women –it strikes me as a fine arrangement and perfectly “natural.”  Believe it or not, there were “Naturists” who opposed the first flight to old Earth’s Moon as being “unnatural” and a “despoiling of Nature.”

 “No man is an island–” Much as we may feel and act as individuals, our race is a single organism, always growing and branching– which must be pruned regularly to be healthy. This necessity need not be argued; anyone with eyes can see that any organism which grows without limit always dies in its own poisons. The only rational question is whether pruning is best done before or after birth.  Being an incurable sentimentalist I favor the former of these methods – killing makes me queasy, even when it’s a case of “He’s dead and I’m alive and that’s the way I wanted it to be.”  But this may be a mater of taste. Some shaman think that it is better to be in a war, or to die in childbirth, or to starve in misery, than never to have lived at all. They may be right.  But I don’t have to like it – and I don’t.

 Democracy is based on the assumption that a million men are wiser than one man. How’s that again? I missed something.

 Autocracy is based on the assumption that one man is wiser than a million men. Let’s play that over again too. Who decides?

 Any government will work if authority and responsibility are equal and coordinate. This does not insure “good” government; it simply insures that it will work. But such governments are rare – most people want to run things but want no part of the blame. This used to be called the “backseat-driver syndrome.”

 What are the facts? Again and again and again – what are the facts? Shun wishful thinking, ignore divine revelation, forget what the “the stars foretell,” avoid opinion, care not what the neighbors think, never mind the unguessable “verdict of history” – what are the facts, and to how many decimal places? You pilot always into an unknown future; facts are your single clue. Get the facts!

 Stupidity cannot be cured with money, or through education, or by legislation. Stupidity is not a sin, the victim can’t help being stupid. But stupidity is the only universal capital crime; the sentence is death, there is no appeal, and execution is carried out automatically and without pity.

 God is omnipotent, omniscient, and omnibenevolent – it says so right here on the label. If you have a mind capable of believing all three of these diving attributes simultaneously, I have a wonderful bargain for you. No checks, please. Cash and in small bills.

 Courage is the complement of fear. A man who is fearless cannot be courageous. (He is also a fool.)

 The two highest achievements of the human mind are the twin concepts of “loyalty” and “duty.” Whenever these twin concepts fall into disrepute– get out of there fast! You may possibly save yourself, but it is too late to save that society. It is doomed.

 People who go broke in a big way never miss any meals. It is the poor jerk who is shy by half a slug who must tighten his belt.

 The truth of a proposition has nothing to do with its credibility. And vice versa.

 Anyone who cannot cope with mathematics is not fully human. At best he is a tolerable subhuman who has learned to wear shoes, bathes, and not make messes in the house.

 Moving parts in rubbing contact require lubrication to avoid excessive wear. Honorifics and formal politeness provide lubrication where people rub together. Often the very young, the untraveled, the naive, the unsophisticated deplore these formalities as “empty,” “meaningless,” or “dishonest.” and scorn to use them. No matter how “pure” their motives, they thereby throw sand into machinery that does not work too well at best.

 A human being should be able to change a diaper, plan an invasion, butcher a hog, conn a ship, design a building, write a sonnet, balance accounts, built a wall, set a bon, comfort the dying, take orders, give orders, cooperate, act alone, solve equations, analyze a new problem, pitch manure, program a computer, cook a tasty meal, fight efficiently, die gallantly. Specialization is for insects.

 The more you love, the more you can love – the more intensely you love. Nor is there any limit on how many you can love. If a person had time enough, he could love all of that majority who are decent and just.

Masturbation is cheap, clean, convient, and free of any possibility of wrongdoing–and you don’t have to go home in the cold. But it’s lonely.

 Beware of altruism. It is based on self-deception, the root of all evil.

 If tempted by something that feels “altruistic,” examine your motives and root out that self-deception. Then if you still want to do it, wallow in it!

 The most preposterous notion that H. sapiens has ever dreamed up is that the Lord God of Creation, Shaper and Ruler of all the Universes, wants the saccharine adoration of His creatures, can be swayed by their prayers, and becomes petulant if He does not receive this flattery. Yet this absurd fantasy, without a shred of evidence to bolster it, pays all the expense of the oldest, largest, and least productive industry in all history.

 The second most preposterous notion is that copulation is inherently sinful.

 Writing is not necessarily something to be ashamed of – but do it in private and was your hands afterwards.

$100 placed at 7 percent interest compounded quarterly for 200 years will increase to more that $100,000,000 – by which time it will be worth nothing.

 Dear, don’t bore him with trivia or burden him with your past mistakes. The happiest way to deal with a man is never to tell him anything he does not need to know.

Darling, a true lady takes off her dignity with her clothes and does her whorish best. At other times you can be as modest and dignified as your person requires.

 Everybody lies about sex.

 If men were the automatons that behaviorists claim they are, the behaviorist psychologists could not have invented the amazing nonsense called “behaviorist psychology.” So they are wrong from scratch – as clever and as wrong as phlogiston chemists.

 The shamans are forever yacking about their snake-oil “miracles.” I prefer the Real McCoy – a pregnant woman.

 If the universe has any purpose more important than topping a woman you love and making a baby with her hearty help, I’ve never heard of it.

 Thou shalt remember the  Eleventh Commandment and keep it Wholly.

 A touchstone to determing the actual worth of an “intellectual” – find out how he feels about astrology.

 Taxes are not levied for the benefit of the taxed.

 There is no such thing as “social gambling.” Either you are there to cut the other bloke’s heart out and eat it – or you’re a sucker. If you don’t like this choice – don’t gamble.

 When the ship lifts, all bills are paid. No regrets.

 The first time I was a drill instructor I was too inexperienced for the job – the things I taught those lads must have got some of them killed. War is too serious a matter to be taught by the inexperienced.

 A competent and self-confident person is incapable of jealous in anything. Jealousy is invariably a symptom of neurotic insecurity.

 Money is the sincerest of all flatter.  Women love to be flattered.  So do men.

 You live and learn. Or you don’t live long.

 Whenever women have insisted on absolute equality with men, they have invariably wound up with the dirty end of the stick. What they are and what they can do makes them superior to men, and their proper tactic is to demand special privileges, all the traffic will bear. They should never settle merely for equality. For women, “equality” is a disaster.

 Peace is an extension of war by political means. Plenty of elbowroom is pleasanter – and much safer.

 One man’s “magic” is another man’s engineering. “Supernatural” is a null word.

 The phrase “we (I) (you) simply must –” designates something that need not be done. “That goes without saying ” is a read warning. “Of Course” means you had best check it yourself. These small-change cliches and others like them, when read correctly, are reliable channel markers.

 Do not handicap your children by making their lives easy.

 Rub her feet.

 If you happen to be one of the fretful minority who can do creative work, never force an idea; you’ll abort it if you do. Be patient and you’ll give birth to it when the time is ripe. Learn to wait.

 Never crowd youngsters about their private affairs – sex especially. When they are growing up, they are never ends all over, and resent (quite properly) any invasion of their privacy. Oh, sure, they’ll make mistakes – but that’s their business, not yours. (You made your own mistakes, did you not ?)

 Never underestimate the power of human stupidity.

More from the Notebooks of Lazarus Long

 Always tell her she is beautiful, especially if she is not.

 If you are part of a society that votes, the do so. There may be no candidates and no measures you want to vote for … but there are certain to be ones you want to vote against. In case of doubt, vote against. By this rule you rarely go wrong.  If this is too blind for your taste, consult some well-meaning fool (there is always one around) and ask his advice. Then vote the other way. This enables you to be a good citizen (if such is your wish) without spending the enormous amount of time on it that truly intelligent exercise of franchise requires.

 Sovereign ingredient for a happy marriages: Pay cash or do without. Interest charges not only eat up a household budget; awareness of debt eats up domestic felicity.

 Those who refuse to support and defend a state have no claim to protection by that state. Killing an anarchist or a pacifist should not be defined as “murder” in a legalistic sense. The offense against the state, if any, should be “Using deadly weapons inside city limits,” or “Creating a traffic hazard,” or “Endangering bystanders,” or other misdemeanor.  However, the state may reasonably place a closed season on these exotic asocial animals whenever they are in danger of becoming extinct. An authentic buck pacifist has rarely been seen off Earth, and it is doubtful that any have survived the trouble there . . regrettable, as they had the biggest mouths and smallest brains of any of the primates.  The small-mouthed variety of anarchist has spread through the Galaxy at the very wave front of the Diaspora; there is no need to protect them. But they often shoot back.

 Another ingredient for a happy marriage: Budget the luxuries first!

 And still another– See to it that she has her own desk – then keep your hands off it!

 And another– In a family argument, if it turns out you are right – apologize at once!

"God split himself into a myriad parts that he might have friends.“ This may not be true, but it sounds good – and is no sillier than any other theology.

 To stay young requires unceasing cultivation of the ability to unlearn old falsehoods.

Does history record any case in which the majority was right?

When the fox gnaws – smile!

A "critic” is a man who creates nothing and thereby feels qualified to judge the work of creative men. There is logic in this; he is unbiased – he hates all creative people equally.

 Money is truthful. If a man speaks of his honor, make him pay cash.

 Never frighten a little man. He’ll kill you.

 Only a sadistic scoundrel – or a fool – tells the bald truth on social occasions.

 This sad little lizard told me that he was a brontosaurus on his mother’s side. I did not laugh; people who boast of ancestry often have little else to sustain them. Humoring them costs nothing and adds to happiness in a world in which happiness is always in short supply.

 In handling a stinging insect, move very slowly.

 To be “matter of fact” about the world is to blunder into fantasy – and dull fantasy at that, as the real world is strange

and wonderful.

 The difference between science and the fuzzy subjects is that science requires reasoning, while the other subjects merely require scholarship.

 Copulation is spiritual in essence – or it is merely friendly exercise. On second thought, strike out “merely.” Copulation is not “merely” – even when it is just a happy pastime for two strangers. But copulation at its spiritual best is so much more than physical coupling that it is different in kind as well as in degree.  The saddest feature of homosexuality is not that is “wrong” or “sinful” or even that it can’t lead to progeny – but that it is more difficult to reach through it this spiritual union. Not impossible – but the cars are stacked against it.  But – most sorrowfully – many people never achieve spiritual sharing even with the help of male-female advantage; they are condemned to wander through life alone.

 Touch is the most fundamental sense. A baby experiences it, all over, before he is born and long before he learns to use sight, hearing, or taste, and no human ever ceases to need it. Keep your children short on pocket money – but long on hugs.

 Secrecy is the beginning of tyranny.

 The greatest productive force is human selfishness.

 Be wary of strong drink. It can make you shoot at tax collectors – and miss.

 The profession of shaman has many advantages. It offers high status with a safe livelihood free of work in the dreary, sweaty sense. In most societies it offers legal privileges and immunities not granted to other men. But it is hard to see how a man who has been given a mandate from on High to spread tidings of joy to all mankind can be seriously interested in taking up a collection to pay his salary; it causes one to suspect that the shaman is on the moral level of any other con man.  But it’s lovely work if you can stomach it.

 A whore should be judged by the same criteria as other professionals offering services for pay – such as dentists, lawyers, hairdressers, physicians, plumbers, etc. Is she professionally competent? Does she give good measure? Is she honest with her clients?  It is possible that the percentage of honest and competent whores is higher than that of plumbers and much higher than that of lawyers. And enormously higher than that of professors.

 Minimize your therbligs until it becomes automatic; this doubles your effective lifetime – and thereby gives time to enjoy butterflies and kittens and rainbows.

 Have you noticed how much they look like orchids? Lovely!

 Expertise in one field does not carry over into other fields. But experts often think so. The narrower their field of knowledge the more likely they are to think so.

 Never try to outstubborn a cat.

 Tilting at windmills hurts you more than the windmills.

 Yield to temptation; it may not pass your way again.

 Waking a person unnecessarily should not be considered a capital crime. For a first offense, that is.

 “Go to hell!” or other insult direct is all the answer a snoopy questions rates.

 The correct way to punctuate a sentence that starts :“Of course it is none of my business but –” is to place a period after the word “but.” Don’t use excessive force in supplying such moron with a period. Cutting his throat is only a momentary pleasure and is bound to get you talked about.

 A man does not insist on physical beauty in a woman who builds up his morale. After a while he realizes that she is beautiful – he just hadn’t noticed it at first.

 A skunk is better company than a person who prides himself on being “frank.”

 “All’s fair in love and war ” – what a contemptible lie!

 Beware of the “Black Swan” fallacy. Deductive logic is tautological; there is no way to get a new truth out of it, and it manipulates false statements as readily as true ones. If you fail to remember this, it can trip you – with perfect logic. The designers of the earliest computers called this the “Gigo Law”; i.e., “Garbage in, garbage out.”

 Inductive logic is much more difficult – but can produce new truths.

 A “practical joker” deserves applause for his wit according to his quality. Bastinado is about right. For exceptional wit one might grant keelhauling. But staking him out on an anthill should be reserved for the very wittiest.

 Natural laws have no pity.

 On the planet Tranquille around KM849(G-O) lives a little animal known as a “knafn.” It is herbivorous and has no natural enemies and is easily approached and may be petted – sort of a six-legged puppy with scales. Stroking it is very pleasant; it wiggles its pleasure and broadcast euphoria in some band that humans can detect. It’s worth the trip.  Someday some bright boy will figure out how to record this broadcast, then some smart boy will see commercial angles – and not longer after that it will be regulated and taxed.  In the meantime I have faked that name and catalog number; it is several thousand light-years off in another direction. Selfish of me –

 Freedom begins when you tell Mrs. Grundy to go fly a kite.

 Take car of the cojones and the frijoles will take car of themselves. Try to have getaway money – but don’t be fanatic about it.

 If “everybody knows” such-and-such, then it ain’t so, by at least ten thousand to one.

 Political tags – such as royalist, communist, democrat, populist, fascist, liberal, conservative, and so forth – are never basic criteria. The human race divides politically into those who want people to be controlled and those who have no such desire. The former are idealists acting from the highest motives for the greatest good of the greatest number. The latter are surly curmudgeons, suspicious and lacking in altruism. But they are more comfortable neighbors than the other sort.

 All cats are not gray after midnight. Endless variety–

 Sin lies only in hurting other people unnecessarily. All other “sins” are invented nonsense. (Hurting yourself is not sinful – just stupid.)

 Being generous is inborn; being altruistic is a learned perversity. No resemblance –

 It is impossible for a man to love his wife wholeheartedly without loving all women somewhat. I suppose that the converse must be true of women.

 You can go wrong by being too skeptical as readily as by being too trusting.

 Formal courtesy between a husband and wife is even more important than it is between strangers.

 Anything free is worth what you pay for it.

 Don’t store garlic near other victuals.

 Climate is what we expect, weather is what we get.

 Pessimist by policy, optimist by temperament – it is possible to be both. How? By never taking an unnecessary chance and by minimizing risks you can’t avoid. This permits you to play out the game happily, untroubled by the certainty of the outcome.

 Do not confuse “duty” with what other people expect of you; they are utterly different. Duty is a debt you owe to yourself to fulfill obligations you have assumed voluntarily. Paying that debt can entail anything from years of patient work to instant willingness to die. Difficult it may be, but the reward is self-respect.  But there is no reward at all for doing what other people expect of you, and to do so is not merely difficult, but impossible. It is easier to deal with a footpad than it is with the leech who wants “just a few minutes of your time, please – this won’t take long.” Time is your total capital, and the minutes of your life are painfully few. If you allow yourself to fall into the vice of agreeing to such requests, they quickly snowball to the point where these parasites will use up 100 percent of your time – and squawk for more!  So learn to say No – and to be read about it when necessary.

 Otherwise you will not have time to carry out your duty, or to do your own work, and certainly no time for live and happiness. The termites will nibble away your life and leave none of it for you.  (This rule does not mean that you must not do a favor for a friend, or even a stranger. But let the choice be yours. Don’t do it because it is “expected” of you.)

  "I came, I saw, she conquered.“ (The original Latin seems to have been garbled.)

  A committee is a life form with six or more legs and no brain.

 Animals can be driven crazy by place too many in too small a pen. Homo sapiens is the only animals that voluntarily does this to himself.

Don’t try to have the last word. You might get it.

[genogenocrazycatman]

Throne - Chapter 10

Throne [Archive of Our Own, FanFiction.Net]

Characters:  Original Female Character, Red Haired Shanks, Benn Beckman, Lucky Roo, Yasopp,

***

“I can be very disarming.”

“Looks like you’ve been disarmed,” I jabbed, not looking up at him.

Benn let out a loud laugh at that.

Shanks grinned. “You wound me.”

“Clearly, I’m not the only one.”

***

Chapter 10

  After having the Red-Haired Pirates around for the past few weeks, the tavern filled with its Aurorean regulars who had finally returned after their self-imposed exile felt empty.

  The men, mostly fishermen, were scattered about, nursing beers while they chatted about the current events, the most exciting of which was the departure of the Red-Haired Crew, who had left for their next adventure late in the afternoon.

  It was a drastic change, considering that the night before, the tavern had felt as if it would burst at the seams with the energy from the pirates that filled it.

  Knowing that something is going to happen doesn’t mean anything unless you can do something about it. I knew they would be leaving, but that did nothing to lessen my disappointment. I hadn’t even gotten to give them a proper goodbye due to Tel’s antics the night before and my guest who had arrived in the morning.

  “You’re-“

  I stopped the tumbler of whiskey just short of my lips. “I swear on everything good in this world if you say ‘lucky,’ I’m going to knock your ass out and ship you back to the Old Man,” I threatened. I set the glass down and glared at the kid across from me.

  As I had learned, his name was Kaz, and he was a relatively new member of the Whitebeard crew. He joined a little over two years prior when he had an unfortunate run-in with the Old Man.

  If I had to guess, he was in his mid to late twenties. He wore years of wear and tear on his body; scars and callouses marred his pale skin, but he lacked the typical signs of age.

  This was his first trip to Aurora, and after putting up with him for about 12 hours, I was determined to make sure it was his last.

  “But you are,” he argued. “What would you have done if I hadn’t shown up when I did?”

  “One: It makes absolutely no fucking difference that you showed up when you did because the Red-Haired Pirates were leaving anyways.”

  Kaz had arrived in the morning. He’d recognized the Red-Haired Pirates ship and immediately went looking for me. He’d begun at the docks, where the workers there had sent him to the tavern. At the tavern, he’d talked to Rayne and possibly set a record for getting cracked over the head with a cane in the shortest time. She’d sent him to the store.

  I was helping Benn and a few of the others get all their ducks in a row in preparation for their departure while their captain slept on my couch.

  “Two: I wouldn’t have done a god dammed thing, and neither would you because the whole fucking point of my being here is not to draw attention.”

  Once he confirmed that I was, in fact, who he was looking for, Kaz flipped his long black hair over his shoulder, revealing the purple jolly roger inked on his neck. He gave a wide grin and walked up to the counter, letting out an overly enthusiastic “Sis!”

  Now, I knew the Red-Haired Pirates already knew about my connection to the Whitebeard Crew. I also knew that their knowing didn’t put me at risk. However, Kaz knew none of that.

  He had absolutely no clue what kind of flags his actions would raise. I was on Aurora, so people didn’t know I was Whitebeard’s kid, and he was running around with the Old Man’s brand, calling me his sister.

  He might as well have danced around with a giant sign that said, ‘Whitebeard’s daughter Kidnap at will.’

  Sure, we could take anyone that would be a concern, but what if someone ran and told the Marines? Marco had told me what they did when Roger was executed – how the Marines had hunted down the women he had potentially been with and their children to make sure that Roger’s bloodline had ended.

  Thankfully, Benn and the others took the hint and immediately played it as if our interactions were strictly transactional instead of friendly.

  Had it been a different day, I probably would’ve been less annoyed than I was. After all, I knew that the Red-Haired crew wouldn’t do anything. No harm, no foul. But on this particular day, it pissed me off.

  “Did no one tell you anything about this whole situation?” I asked.

  “Told me to make sure that you’re safe. I’m here. Red Hair’s gone. You’re safe. Mission accomplished.”

  “Where the hell did Newgate find this one?” Rayne chirped.

  I just gave her a tired look.

  “Just saying if you figure it out, I’m sure the two of us could return him and be back here before the next one shows up.”

  “As if Pops wouldn’t notice my absence.”

  “I’m sure he’d notice,” I said. I doubted the newfound peace would be lost on the Old Man.

  “I just don’t think he’d care,” Rayne added.

  “His favorite son missing? Of course, he’d care.”

  “Ha! Favorite son? Everyone knows that Marco is his favorite.”

  “Oh, kiddo,” Rayne sighed. “I hate to be the one to break it to you, but you’re his favorite.”

  “Can I really be the favorite when he hasn’t seen me in nearly twenty years?” Hell, I couldn’t even get him to write me. All I got from him were captain’s logs; if I was honest with myself, I wasn’t even sure they were from him. I wouldn’t put it past Marco to send gifts on his behalf.

  “She’s blood. She doesn’t count. She has an unfair advantage.”

  ‘When have I ever?’

  “I’m the one who scared off Red-Hair. When Pops hears-“

  “Oh no! Not a chance!” I snapped. “Listen here, you’ve already annoyed me. You are not going to make my life even more difficult. You’re not going to breathe a word of Red Hair being here to anyone. Not a fucking soul.”

  Dipshit would run back, tell everyone that Shanks was here, and the Old Man would likely overreact. Last time, he stuck me on an island by myself. This time, he’d probably throw me in a fucking cave somewhere.

  “Like hell, I’m not! Do you have any idea what this means?”

  “Nothing. It means nothing because you didn’t do anything because they were already leaving. You lucked out that you showed up when you did. I don’t know what your deal is. You want attention from the Old Man? We all do. There’s over a thousand of us. This isn’t the way to get on his radar.”

  The Old Man went out and collected every misfit and stray he could find. He gave them a place to belong and called them his children. I always wonder, though, if he truly understood what that meant. Children want attention. Children want to be loved. While love is limitless, time is not. It’s impossible to give that many children the interactions they desire in a meaningful way.

  “And no one’s going to believe that you scared them off. You’re not exactly the most intimidating man I’ve ever met,” Rayne said. “Liz could take you easy. You don’t stand a chance against Shanks.”

  “You really think I’d lose to her?”

  I raised a brow. “I’ll kick your ass into next week.”

  “I’d like to see you try.” He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest.

  This kid. Fuck he was annoying. He just had a way of grating on my nerves. It was the overconfidence, disillusionment, and inability to hear anything besides what he wanted.

  “That can be arranged.”

  “Take it outside,” Rayne barked, her cane coming up threateningly.

  This was one of the best things about my brothers coming through. I didn’t have to hold back. I wasn’t worried about everything being taken as an act of war on Aurora. I could get annoyed, get mad, and pick fights, and the worst that came of it was that someone called me a bitch.

  “You couldn’t lay a finger on me,” Kaz taunted.

  “Oh, I’m gonna lay a whole damn fist.”

  “Wanna bet?”

  “What’re the stakes?” I asked.

  “I win, you leave me alone about telling the Old Man about Red Hair.”

  I nodded. “Fine, but if I win, you keep your mouth shut.”

  “I accept that. I’ll even make it easier on you. All you have to do is land one hit on me.”

  “How long I got?”

  “Ten minutes.”

  I nodded. “I can work with that. I want your word.” I extended my hand for him to shake.

  “You got it.”

  He met me halfway across the table.

  I gripped his hand and pulled him closer so that I was right up in his face. “Remember, it’s important to the Old Man that all of his sons keep their word.”

  It wasn’t an honor thing, as much as it was a pride thing for my father. If you were going to do anything, you were going to do it with pride. What was there to be proud about going back on your word?

  I tossed back the rest of my whiskey. “Let’s do this.”

  We stepped out from the tavern's warm glow into the moon's cool light. I led him through the trees that surrounded the tavern to a clearing. It was far enough away that we shouldn’t have been able to disturb the villagers. Even if we did, it was so far into the trees that none of them would dare venture to look, save for maybe Tel.

  “Rules?” I asked.

  “None.”

  I nodded. “Devil fruits?”

  “Fair game.”

  “You have one?”

  “I guess you’ll have to find out.”

  I rolled my eyes. It wasn’t going to make a difference.

  “Count of three?”

  “One…”

  “Two…”

  “Three…”

  Neither of us moved.

  There was a tense moment of stillness before I chuckled. ‘Of course.’

  Kaz seemed to have gone serious.

  Seeing we had the same plan, I decided to give him the advantage and attack first. I launched myself at him, initially aiming high but swiftly adjusting my positioning so that I could go for his legs. If I could get him on the ground, I bought myself a little time to turn around and attack again as he got back up.

  He jumped out of the way, using my shoulder to push off to get even higher up in the air. He was graceful, fluid like water. His movements flowed together, saving energy. As effortless as it looked, the subtle adjustments meant that everything he did was strategic. He was being careful.

  I was not. I kept throwing myself at him, using different techniques and attacking from different angles. He dodged, never making a move to come near me. He has said that the goal was for me to hit him. He never had to touch me, so it looked like keeping away was his strategy.

  It was clear that he was using observation. He was so intently focused, and even though I was only going at half speed, he wouldn’t have been able to evade me otherwise.

  I was at a distinct disadvantage in that regard. However, it didn’t matter if you could predict a move if you weren’t fast enough to dodge it.

  I landed a short way away from him. “Seven minutes,” he said.

  “Plenty of time.”

  I took a deep breath before moving again. This time, I had a plan, a direction. I wasn’t just trying to feel the kid out. I moved, thinking not of landing a hit but getting him in place for one the next time I moved. I started at the same pace, but the speed increased.

  He finally fell into one of my traps, dodging left. Before my fist could connect with his face, he disappeared.

  I whipped my head around, and he was right behind me.

  “You little shit.”

  He disappeared again, this time appearing right in front of my face.

  “Cute,” I deadpanned.

  “Not as easy as you thought it’d be. Three minutes.”

  “Not as difficult as you make it out to be.”

  Fruits like that required some level of concentration. If he were splitting his focus between teleporting and observation, he wouldn’t be able to use either at full capacity. That being said, he was doing exceptionally well. It was truly impressive.

  I had to distract him somehow.

  I transformed into my hybrid form.

  Kaz’s eyes widened at my appearance. ‘There’s a crack.’

  I crouched low, running my hands across the dirt, before charging. He teleported out of the way. While he was in between, I hurled a rock I had grabbed at one of the tree branches. The beehive hanging there came crashing to the ground.

  Home field advantage.

  Kaz reappeared, and within thirty seconds, the bees began to swarm us.

  “What the hell?!”

  ‘Crack.’

  Balor’s skin was tough, too tough for the bees to sting. Kaz’s not so much. He started to fret, and I returned to my previous strategy. It took only two more tries before my fist connected with his gut, causing him to double over in pain.

  “What do you think?” I asked. “Thirty seconds left?”

  He couldn’t respond immediately. I transformed into my full Balor form. Even the bees were frightened enough to keep their distance.

  I leaned over Kaz and reached down to help him up.

  “That was dirty.”

  “I asked if you wanted to set some rules. You said no.”

  “Bees! What if I was allergic?”

  “Rayne’s allergic. She has some special medicine for when she gets stung. Trust me, you would’ve been fine. The whole town thinks I’m some kind of savage murderer; the last thing I need is the crew thinking so, too.”

  “You wouldn’t have won without your trick,” he shot.

  I pointed to the eye in the center of my forehead. “I haven’t even started going into my bag of tricks. That being said, your observation haki is impressive.”

  “Yours is trash.”

  “I know. I’m much better armament and conquerors.”

  “There’s no way you have conquerors!”

  “I su-“ before I finished my sentence, a wave of conqueror’s knocked Kaz out.

  “That wasn’t very nice,” I said, glancing towards the trees where Shanks was lurking. “I wanted to do that myself.”

  “So have I since he showed up this morning. A bit of payback for disrupting my last day here.”

  I rolled my eyes, shaking my head. “You weren’t up when he got here this morning. You were knocked out while I helped your crew get ready to go. I’ve been putting up with him.”

  “So, I’ve been waiting since noon. What’s a couple of hours? I still couldn’t come and see you.”

  “Wow. Were you looking through those romance novels Thatch insists on getting me?”

  “There are far more interesting things in your apartment for me to go through than novels.”

  I laughed at the wiggling of his eyebrows. “You’re such a perv. Don’t you have a crew to captain or something? Why are you here?”

  “Because I wanted to see you before we set sail, but he got in the way,” he explained, nodding toward Kaz.

  My brothers were good at nothing, if not completely disrupting my days. Even the ones that didn’t stick around me caused a stir. I was constantly running around, ensuring they didn’t do anything stupid.

  “Were you expecting me to stand there and wave a handkerchief that the wind would pluck from my hands and carry to you?”  I teased.

  “It would’ve been nice.”

  I snorted, lifting Kaz over my shoulder. “Let me drop him off. Then I can throw snot rags at you as you paddle your rowboat in circles.”

***

Previous | Next

***

Master List | Mobile Version

[special-agent-fiction]

Hoist The Colours

One-Shot, Prequel to COTB - Jack Sparrow x OFC

The plan had been to sail the Caribbean together until they the deck of their beloved Wicked Wench splintered beneath their feet from old age. But the Wench had splintered early and now Jack was out for blood; he'd summon the Pirate Lords himself if it meant getting Her out of Beckett's clutches and back at his side, where she belonged.

The King and his men stole the Queen from her bed, And bound her in her bones. The seas be ours and by the powers, Where we will, we'll roam.

Yo, Ho, haul together, hoist the colours high, Heave ho, thieves and beggars, never shall we die.

Now some have died and some are alive, And others sail on sea. With the keys to the cage, and a Queen to save, We lay to Fiddler's Green.

Yo, Ho, haul together, hoist the colours high, Heave ho, thieves and beggars, never shall we die.

The pearl has been raised, from its watery grave Its Captain searches the seas. A call to all; pay heed the squall, Let it blow you home.

Yo, Ho, haul together, hoist the colours high, Heave ho, thieves and beggars, never shall we die.

The King and his men, stole the Queen from her bed, And bound her in her bones. The seas rose up to take her back, And sat her on her throne.

The rope was burning the once soft palm of her hand as she used it to lean over the side of the ship she was currently stood on. The water was awash with debris from the decks of both ships as cannons blazed back and forth between them with men on both sides running to-and-fro securing cargo and reloading cannons.

This conflict had been on the cards for days and it had only been a matter of time until the ship that had stayed largely on the horizon came into full view and started firing on them.

There was little chance they’d all walk away from this but she didn’t care; her only concern was for the row-boat that had departed from them yesterday and whether or not it had reached safety.

“They’re blowing us to smithereens, Captain!” She turned from the enemy ship to glance down to her first mate and the terror in his eyes. “What do we do?!”

“Give ‘em everything we’ve got!” She called down to him, her hair whipping about behind her as another blow rocked them all. “Jones!” She shouted for the man again as he turned to scurry away. “Our masts are looking a little bare up there.” She nodded upwards. “Let’s make sure they remember who holds this ship.”

He flashed her a grin before turning and striding to the front of the helmsman’s station and bellowing down to the crew.

“Hoist the colours!”

The black flag inching its way up towards the azure sky above them was one of the most glorious sights she’d ever seen and clearly her opposing Captain agreed judging by the increased curses resonating over to her.

The cannons were giving them all they had and she’d never been more proud of her crew; they were all going to die here and they knew it but not one had abandoned ship. This was a cause they would all fight for; the East India Trading Company be dammed.

She winced as a particularly nasty hole was suddenly blown into the side of them and wondered how much longer they were going to be able to hold out until water began pouring in and dragging them down.

Just a little longer. She urged the wood beneath her feet. C’mon girl; just long enough for him to get away.

The ship seemed to respond to her as a cacophony of cannon fire rang out and the opposite ship almost toppled. They recovered quick enough through and the sight that greeted her was enough to make her want to vomit over the side.

“Ready the wat-” The order died on her tongue as a single flaming arrow soared across the small gap of water and embedded into their main sail; its tip dragging all the way through, spreading the fire until it hit the deck with a clunk.

The flames were everywhere in a mere heartbeat.

The sails were being ravaged and fire slithered down the rigging as it spread across the ship. The deck was now bursting apart with screams and the scent of burning flesh reaching her.

The arrow had done its job and the distraction it had caused was enough for a few well-placed shots to breach them completely. They were lurching and there was little she could do to stop it.

The rope slipped from her fingers as another shot sent the ship shuddering and then she was falling, falling from her ledge and into the waters below; limbs splayed as her beloved ship was gradually being consumed with fire.

She hit the water with a back-cracking thud and her last sight was of a ship turning to spill its contents on the other side of the ocean. Everything was too warm as she sank further into the depths of the sea she had never believed would betray her in this way. Her eyes flickered closed as the underwater pressure consumed her.

And with that, the Wicked Wench was lost.

Memories of hands wrapping roughly around the tops of her arms and dragging her from the depths she had sunk to, were fuzzy. But, as her eyes fought against the crusted flecks of salt coating her face, she knew they had to have happened.

The cell she’d been slung into was dismal to say the least. A single lantern hung opposite her bars and cast only a mere shadow of light into the square room, though no light would have surely been preferable as when her eyes finally snapped fully open, all that surrounded her was a dusting of straw acting as a carpet and a threadbare mattress which she promptly recoiled from once she realised that it wasn’t a shadow under her cheek, but a stain.

The salt had dried on her skin and was now tearing her apart with every move as she scrambled from the scrap of fabric and curled into herself on the opposite wall. Her hair continued to drip down her back, further soaking the flimsy white shirt that had been so good at keeping her cool in the baking heat on deck but was now chilling her to her bones thanks to the sliver of wind smoking its way through the cracks in the walls.

She let her eyes flicker back closed as a whirlwind of memories bombarded her all at once. She could still smell the plumes of smoke rising up from the alight sails of her beloved Wicked Wench. Another shiver rolled down her spine as she realised that she was likely the only survivor.

Head bowed in prayer, she whispered a thanks to all the men now at the bottom of the ocean for their sacrifice before whispering a plea for the safety of their departed leader – god, she hoped he’d made it.

She let a small sniffle escape her before resting her head back against the wall and letting her eyes flicker closed in a desperate attempt to escape this dreary cell and her likely execution if only through her dreams.

They say that Shipwreck Island is one of those places that’s very hard to find, unless you know exactly where it is. With no fixed plot on any map, the secret isle was a guaranteed safe-haven for all who sailed under a jolly-roger.

But, to those who were more than mere residents on the island; those who knew the twists and turns of the Devil’s Throat and the wonder that the long-dead volcano at the heart of the island held, it was the epicentre of piracy itself.

“Takes my breath away every time.”

She hummed her agreement; eyes fixed on the magnificence at the centre of the secret cove high above sea level. The wrecked hulls of long retired ships was a glowing, living mass as they sailed through the mouth of the Devil’s Throat and towards the ships docking at the hidden city.

“C’mon love.” Jack nudged her as she once again lost herself in the beauty before them. “Thought you’d be more excited to come home.”

A slow smile stretched across her lips as his words: home. While many called the island itself home, only a handful could lay claim to the cove.

“I am.” She assured him. “But I’m far more concerned about what my father will say when he sees us sailing in together.”

“He doesn’t scare me.” He promised, a hand sneaking around her back to pull her closer.

“He should.” She whispered, laughter dancing in her eyes as her hands slid up his chest to rest either side of his neck. “Because he’ll definitely take your breath away.” Thumbs either side of his Adam’s Apple as she splayed her hands around his throat, she emphasised her point with a light squeeze.

“I’d like to see him try.” He pried her hands away with his spare and gave her a dashing grin. “After all…” He let his hand drag up and down the soft cotton sleeve of her shirt. “…you can’t steal what is already stolen every time I look at you.”

“That’s a sickening sentiment.” She told him, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek before stepping out of his arms and turning back to the fast approaching city.

“You know, you’re just like an oyster.”

“Cold, hard and grey?” She snorted. “How charming, Sparrow.”

“You hide yourself under this shell; afraid to show vulnerability.” He said, waving a hand at her as she wrapped her arms around herself and refused to meet his eye. “Because inside…” He leant closer, his breath tingling as it blew across the column of her throat. “…there’s a shiny pearl needing protection.”

“I assure you, Jack…” She turned her head slightly to meet his eye. “…if there is a pearl hiding under all of this…” She leant in and whispered. “…it’s most definitely a black one.”

“That it is my sweet.” He agreed, pride clear in his voice. “And I am proud to have played a part in its sullying.” His hand curled at her hip again as they stood side by side on the bow of the Wicked Wench.

“I think simply growing up here played a bigger part than you did, Sparrow.”

“Ay, but there’s one thing I can do that the cove can’t.”

“Which is?”

“Piss off your father.”

He gave her no time to reply as his hands turned her fully towards him and pulled her into a searing kiss just as their anchor dropped and the ship docked with her waiting father scowling on the makeshift dock.

“He’s going to kill you.” She whispered against his lips before breaking into a laugh as he did further damage to his tumultuous relationship with Captain Harrier by dropping her into a dip and stealing another kiss.

There were hands on her again; shaking her awake as she was hoisted from the damp floor and forced to kneel with her arms outstretched. Her indignant cried were ignored as red-coats blocked her view and a pair of manacles were clamped around her wrists. It was only when they were fully secure was she hauled up to her feet and forced from the cell.

“Where are we going?” She ground out as she was pushed forward through the dungeon of cells and around corner after corner. “I said: where are we going?” She growled at the British soldiers; their stoic faces doing their King proud as they led her up through the layers of the dungeons. “Are you all deaf?”

“The Director wants to see you.”

“Director?” She asked, swallowing a curse as she was nudged up a set of stone stairs and almost tumbled into the pair of red-coats at her front. “Such a strange way to source actors for a play; destroying ships and drowning a crew.”

“Not that type of director.” A red-coat at her back drawled.

“Pity.” She sighed as they reached the entrance to the dungeon and she was thrust into daylight and forced to cross the stone courtyard of the fort. “I do a magnificent Juliet.”

She fell silent as they re-entered the fort and moved through its labyrinth of corridors until they reached a set of particularly opulent doors.

The red-coats in front separated to open the doors and with a quick nudge from behind, she entered the room.

“Apparently you put up quite the fight.”

Her eyes snapped from the tables of trinkets that filled the room and settled on a figure stood behind a hulking desk; arms folded behind his back as he stared out to the ocean. She felt her stomach roll at the voice of the man she had being doing her utmost to out-sail since his arrival in the Bahamas.

“I can’t take all the credit.” She replied, swallowing any nerves and letting her manacles clang as she stepped further into the room, eyeing a few items that would no doubt bring a small fortune when sold on. “My crew were magnificent.”

“And yet, not magnificent enough to save their lives.”

“Maybe if they’d been given a fair chance…”  The man laughed. “A flaming arrow was cheating and we both know it.”

“But it did its job and now the Wicked Wench is little more than a pile of ashes floating on the waves.”

“You always have been the type to carry a grudge, Beckett.” He turned to fully face her at the sound of his name; the endless blue behind him framing his opulent clothes. “Pity you couldn’t reach us in time to claim your actual target.”

“Yes, my men did report that Jack wasn’t among the crew; congratulations on the promotion, Captain Harrier.” She offered a mock curtsey at his words. “Tell me where he is and I promise your execution will be quick.”

“I’ll take slow and painful, thanks; at least it’ll be memorable.”

“Where is Jack Sparrow?”  She shrugged and turned to the map covering an entire wall of the office; squinting at the small flags adorning it. “Where is he?” Beckett asked again, slamming his hands onto the surface of the desk as she shrugged again. “I will have you flogged.”

“I don’t care.”

He let out a low growl at her indifference and she watched from the corner of her eyes as he clenched and unclenched his fists.

“Then I will steal you from your bed every night and bombard you with questions until you crumple from exhaustion.”

“Wasn’t sinking the Wench enough?” She spat. “Wasn’t killing all those men enough for you?”

“Jack Sparrow is a thief; he deserves to be punished.”

“They. Were. People.” She ground out; rage filling her as memories of finding men, women and children chained up below the deck of Jack’s beloved ship. “If anyone deserves to be punished it’s you. All we did was set them free.”

“Jack Sparrow stole from me; my cargo, my ship and my good name.” Beckett rounded the desk to stand in front of her; eye to eye. “And so, I intend to steal from him.”

“You already sank-”

“He calls you his Queen, does he not?” Her spine stiffened and her chin lifted as he smirked at her. “News will reach him wherever he is, and I will take pleasure in knowing that I have stolen his most treasured possession…you.”

She couldn’t breathe. Every intake of air she took was met with a steel trap preventing it from reaching her lungs.

“Just a little tighter, Miss, and you’ll be perfect.”

She let out a whimper at the words and dug her nails deeper into the chair back she was holding onto for dear life as two women wrestled her into the most restricting corset Beckett had presented to her.

“How does that feel, Miss?”

She straightened, or at least tried to, and ran her hands down the sides of her boned figure. She sneered at the sight of her impossibly small waist in the floor length mirror; it was sick that this torture device was considered not only fashionable but a necessity for every woman in ‘civilised society’. Give her breeches and one of Jack’s old shirts any day.

“You’ll look just like a princess with that waist.”

All she could do was nod to the women as they scuttled off to collect the next layer of her outfit.

She’d been Cutler Beckett’s prisoner for almost a fortnight now and ever since their reunion in his office overlooking the bay of Nassau, everyday had been the same; wake, have lungs restricted in the latest boned cage, try and figure out how to move in a horrendously petticoated dress and then try ignore the two guards constantly at her back as Beckett paraded her around as his newest trophy.

“The East India Trading Company will revolutionise the Caribbean and with a known pirate, who has sought my forgiveness for her wrongdoings and pleaded for a second chance, at my side; there’ll be no stopping me.”

News had to have reached Jack by now, wherever he was, and she just hoped to God that he would stay away from here and get back to the cove where he can lay low for a while. But she knew better, and Beckett knew better so with every shift of the wind she begged whatever cruel God that watched over them to detain Jack for as long as possible.

“Director Beckett had this made specifically for you, Miss.” Eyes fixed on the horizon she hadn’t even noticed the women return. “You’ll be the talk of the Caribbean in this.”

The layers of frills and unnecessary skirts were on her in an instant with the dress’ three-quarter length sleeves encasing her arms in silks dotted with pearls. The women kept ‘ohhing’ and ‘ahhing’ as each new design element was revealed to them but she couldn’t focus on any of it, couldn’t give her usual nod of agreement because her prayers had not been answered; for breaking the horizon was ship with no naval marking on it and a figure practically hanging from the main mast as it stood high above the decks among the sails.

She didn’t know the ship; didn’t recognise the dark wood or the dyed sails, but she knew that figure; knew the pose and the steely determination that would be in his eyes as they settled on the white mansion high above the bustling port town.

“I hope I’ll look as pretty as you when my time comes, Miss.”

“Hmm.” She couldn’t take her eyes off him; her heart was thumping uncontrollably as her corset continued to constrict her and fear gripped every bone in her body. She wanted to knock him off that mast and force the ship around – he couldn’t be here; Beckett would kill him.

“You’re so lucky, Miss, to have man such as Director Beckett.”

Another hum of agreement left her at the words.

“You make such a beautiful bride.”

That one caught her attention and her eyes snapped from the incoming ship to the woman stood before her.

“What did you say?”

“You make such a beautiful bride.” She repeated, a light smile on her lips as she straightened the lace cuffs of her sleeves.

“Bride.” She repeated. “I’m no…” She trailed off as the woman stepped aside and left her staring at her reflection in the floor length mirror. “…bride.”

She was resplendent in ivory; the silk flowed over the copious amounts of skirts like water running down a sail and her bodice was a tapestry of pearls coming together to make intricate shapes and patterns. There was lace trimming her sleeves and the line of her bust and her hair had been coiled into an elaborate bun with curls falling everywhere to emphasise the undisturbed fall of the sheer veil cascading down her back.

“I…I…”

“Don’t you like it?” They asked. “I don’t know how you couldn’t; I’ve never seen such a beautiful wedding dress.”

“Wedding dress.” She repeated; her mouth dry, breaths shallow and mind spinning.

“Mrs Olivia Beckett; doesn’t that sound splendid?”

They’d had to drag her from the house. She’d refused to move from the room once her mind had caught up with Beckett’s plan. The maids had been confused at her refusal and then her shouts and kicks as two red-coats barged into her room, clasped her by the arms and hauled her down the staircase.

She was still protesting now; her arms fighting the hold of the man who’d been forced in beside her to stop her from trying to make a break for it, even as her carriage rolled through the streets.

She felt sick; everything was churning and it was only getting worse as the noise of the streets increased as everyone tried to get a peek at the bride of the benevolent Director of West African Imports and Exports for the East India Trading Company.

“Let me go.” She tried again, wrenching her sideways. But his hold remained strong despite her maids warning to treat her gently lest they ruin the dress. “Please.” She whispered, her voice breaking. “I don’t want this.”

“And His Majesty doesn’t want pirates roaming the seas.” The guard snapped. “Anyone else would have been hung but you’ve been saved.” He reminded her. “This…” He sneered at the dress and the cheering citizens. “…is far more than you deserve, pirate.”

She fell silent at that. it was true; she’d been spared the gallows but this was as much of a death sentence. To be cut off from the sea, from Jack, was like cutting out her heart. She belonged on the deck of a creaking ship with one hand on the wheel and the other keeping the sun from her eyes; it was in her blood and in her soul and Cutler Beckett knew that keeping her here with the sea so close but so far away, was better torture than any.

“The seas are ours.” The guard said as the port’s church came into view. “And this is a reminder to anyone who sails under that dammed flag that no matter where they go; we’ll find them.”

Apparently, the church was full; there wasn’t a single empty spot in the rows of pews as men and their wives had flooded in from all over the Caribbean to attend the wedding with some of Beckett’s former Calabar colleagues having made the crossing too.

It made her feel sicker. How hadn’t she realised this was his plan? How hadn’t she heard anything about a wedding? With people travelling from so far, this had to have been planned well in advance and yet it had still been a heart-stopping shock to her.

“Get out.”

She threw the guard a glare before taking the outstretched hand of the soldier stood outside the carriage and allowed him to help her down. The crowd broke into cheers at the sight of her; glistening in the mid-morning sun with her veil dancing behind her on the ocean breeze rolling in from the port.

“Move.” The order was low as she was once again taken by the arm and led inside, the man careful to not show the people that she was being dragged here against her will.

The church’s antechamber was cold as she was forced to face the sealed double doors that when opened would reveal a packed room and an empty aisle.

“Shouldn’t my father be the one doing this?” She asked, glancing to the man who had appeared from nowhere to take her arm. “We can contact him and postpone this until he arrives – it would be the proper thing to do.”

“I doubt your father would be displeased with your stand in.” He said, eyes twinkling slightly as he dropped her arm and held out a hand. “Governor Weatherby Swann.” He introduced himself.

“Olivia Harrier.” She said, accepting his hand and letting him place a kiss to the back of it.

“My dear…” He began as he re-took their position. “…we all know who you are.” He laughed softly. “I was delighted to receive your invitation; I’m on my way home to England after visiting Port Royal ahead of my public appointment and a quick respite here is much appreciated before I continue on to collect my daughter Elizabeth.”

She forced a smile onto her face as she realised that he didn’t know this wasn’t what she wanted; that no one likely knew that Beckett was forcing her into this as his prisoner.

“She does love a wedding and is most put out to be missing one so high profile as this; a reformed pirate and an East India Trading Company Director? Well, it’s the talk of England let alone the Caribbean, or so her letters tell me.” He continued.

“I’m glad you could make it, Governor.” She murmured as music began to play from inside the church. “But you see, this isn’t-”

She was silenced as the double doors swung open and the congregation turned to watch them. Governor Swann gave a gentle tug on her arm and then her feet were moving of their own accord; taking her further into the building and away from the open doors through which the civilians would watch.

She reached the end of the aisle far too soon and with a fatherly pat on the shoulder from Governor Swann she was forced to turn to the priest and try and ignore the smug smile on Beckett’s lips.

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this congregation, to join together this Man and this Woman in holy Matrimony; which is an honourable estate, instituted of God in the time of man's innocency, signifying unto us the mystical union that is betwixt Christ and his Church…”

She tuned out after that; not willing to pay attention to the endless rules of marriage that he was setting out before them. She couldn’t believe this was happening; it had to be a nightmare…or was this hell? Had she drowned that day on the Wench and this was her hell? Her eternal punishment for turning her back on God was Beckett. Yes, that sounded about right.

She was forced back into attention as Beckett took her hands and turned her to him.

“Wilt thou, Cutler Beckett, have this woman to be thy wedded wife, to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honour, and keep her in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?”

“I will.”

“And wilt thou, Olivia Harrier, have this man to be thy wedded husband, to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou obey him, and serve him, love, honour, and keep him in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live?”

She couldn’t speak. She had completely lost the ability to speak.

The church was silent as they waited for her answer but she couldn’t do it; she couldn’t pledge her life to this man under duress. She opened her mouth to turn to the priest and tell him everything; that yes, she was a pirate, but he was forcing her into this against her will and without permission and she didn’t love him! She loved the man with kohl around his eyes and gold in his teeth.

“She will.”

Her head snapped back to Beckett as he stared at her, the priest nodding solemnly and explaining to the congregation that she was simply nervous. They tittered in reply and the Bible was lowered to reveal a single gold band sat upon its pages.

“I, Cutler Beckett, take thee Olivia Harrier to be my wedded wife; to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part, according to God's holy ordinance; and thereto I plight thee my troth.” He recited reaching out for the band as her left hand was left suspended in the air. “With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow: In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.” He slid the band onto her finger and smirked. “Amen.”

The hearty applause of the congregation was cut through by cries of shock emanating into the church from outside. Everyone turned, even her, as the commotion grew closer.

“What is-”

“I object.” The two words reached them clearly even though their speaker was stood far away at the entrance to the church. “We are at the objecting part, aren’t we?”

She couldn’t help it; she laughed. She laughed hard with her head thrown back and relief filling her body.

“I missed it didn’t I?” The man asked, sauntering into the main chamber and leaning against a pew. “She’s always telling me I need to work on my timing.” He said, nodding to Olivia. “I’m always the last to…arrive.”

Her laugh intensified as the woman he’d been directing his words too blushed a scandalised red.

“How did you get out?” Beckett asked, her laughter dying in her throat at his tone and the tightened hold on her hands.

“Really got to work on your security, mate.” Jack said, pushing from the pew and making his way down the aisle. “With everyone making sure she didn’t do a runner…” He flashed her a grin. “…no one was keeping an eye on poor old Jack.”

“Get him.” Beckett’s order was low as he glared at Jack, the pirate having come to a stop at the very end of the aisle with her outstretched arms still in Beckett’s tight hold being his only barrier. “Guards…” He called out again, Jack’s eyebrow arching as no one came rushing in. “GUARDS!”

“Amazing what a quick tap on the back of the head can do.” Jack mused, picking at his fingernails boredly. “Not seeing the butt of a pistol coming? Doesn’t inspire a lot of confidence in His Majesty’s men.” He sighed, shrugging his shoulders. “Now, if you’ll excuse me…” He reached out and pried Beckett’s fingers from her own, sliding the gold band from its place on her left hand and dropping it back onto the priest’s open Bible. “…I really must get on with this rescue; timing is everything you see.”

She needed no encouragement to take his hand and let him lead her from the church, the congregation and her groom too stunned to move.

“Jack.” His name was a whisper on her lips as they stepped out into the sunshine. “How-”

“No time for explaining, love.” He told her, nodding to the unconscious guards dotted around the place. “We’re not out of the woods yet.” He made to pull her forward, through the gaping crowd but she stopped him.

“Thank you.” She breathed, her free hand pulling him close by his shirt to press their lips together.

“Anytime, love.” He mumbled against her lips before letting out a groan at the sight over her shoulder.

“Not so fast, pirates.” She echoed Jack’s groan as Beckett’s voice neared them; the man clearly having found his courage as he watched them lock lips from his spot at the altar.  

The still assembled crowd of civilians gasped at the sight of the pistol clutched in his hand and its barrel wavering between the pair. They must be sight, she mused. Her, in all her finery clutching to Jack; an undeniable pirate with his red bandanna tied around his forehead and a belt full of weapons at his waist.

“I was willing to overlook your criminal past, Miss Harrier.” Beckett continued as he too stepped out into the sunshine, the congregation all twisted in their seats with necks craning to get a view of what would no doubt be the most talked about wedding for years to come. “I was willing to raise you above your station and into a symbol of the East India Trading Company’s generosity.” The pistol steadied and focused directly on her. “I see now that you deserved none of it; that you are and always will be a pirate.”

“I wouldn’t do that, mate.” The tip of a sword was at Beckett’s throat immediately as the Director’s thumb pulled back his pistol’s hammer.

“You’re right.” She released her hold on Jack’s shirt and stepped out of the comfort his arm around her waist promised. “I am a pirate.” She told Beckett. “Always have been, always will be.”

She stepped forward and with a quick tug on the pistol’s barrel pulled it from his hold, leaving him completely vulnerable to the steel at the column of his throat. Her finger was quick on the trigger and the cries and shouts from the crowd as the gun went off, shooting upwards into the open air, filled the quiet space as she turned to address the gathered people both within and outside of the church.

“So, let this be the day you all remember as the day you almost caught Captain Jack Sparrow…” the sword retracted from Beckett’s neck with a small nip at the underside of his jaw. “…and Olivia Harrier.” She dropped into another mock curtsey, the pistol between her fingers a stark contrast to the ivory of her gown.

Their hands intertwined instantly as she rose and then they were off, barrelling through the streets of Nassau and down towards the port.

When Cutler Beckett eventually stopped staring at the smudge of red coating is fingers as he pulled them from the thin line under his chin he would no doubt release a particularly wonderful strain of curses and all but kick awake his fallen men.

Olivia grinned at the thought.

And when they regained enough consciousness to follow after the fleeing pirates, they’d find nothing but a pile of sheer material that had once been a veil laying in a puddle of mud halfway to the ocean that she’d victoriously ripped from her hair as they ran and let fall behind her.

Obey and serve? Not likely.

“You’re late.”

They came to a skidding stop at the docks of Nassau. Jack was barely out of breath as he greeted the frowning man waiting for them at the wooden planks raised slightly above the water level but she was gasping for air, one hand clutching at her corseted waist; fingers poking around for some sort of relief from the cage, as her eyes landed on the older man pointing to a hastily tied up row boat nearby.

“Who are you?”

The man’s gruff demeanour changed as his eyes landed on her; hair slightly matted from the ripping out of her veil but otherwise still picture perfect in her wedding dress.

“Joshamee Gibbs, at your service.” He lifted the worn top-hat from his head and fell into a slight bow.

“A pleasure.” She replied, her smile strained as her eyes lingered on his clothes, specifically the insignia of His Majesty’s Royal Navy partially hidden under his heavy coat. She turned to Jack. “You trust him?”

“Gibbs saved my neck before.” He told her as the man straightened, his posture one of pride as Jack spoke. “Years ago; on a voyage with Teague.” She nodded but eyed the man carefully. “And he’s the best rum smuggler in the Caribbean.”

“Well in that case…” She held out her hand to him. “Olivia Harrier.” He shook it once, a smile on his lips. “Now, please tell me your plan doesn’t include me getting into that…” She nodded to the row boat. “…in this.” She gestured to her dress and watched their smiles fade. “I’ll be little more than a beacon for them to shoot at!”

“Not to worry.” Gibbs assured her as Jack moved to untie the boat. “You’ll be fine; once you get to the Pearl, no ship will catch up.” He slid his coat from his body and wrapped it around her; the dark material hiding just enough of her.

“The Pearl?” She asked, letting him push her towards the row boat. “Where did you get another ship from?”

“Long story.” Jack said, hand outstretched to help her down. “Gibbs…” He turned to the man once she was seated; the coat gripped around her. “…take what you can.”

“Give nothing back.” The man concluded, hand raised in salute as Jack pushed off from the dock.

“I like him.” Olivia noted, watching as he took off from the docks to no doubt relay misleading information to whoever came looking for them. “He seems a good man…for a pirate.”

They were cutting through the waves of Nassau with ease as Jack’s arms pushed and pulled at the oars in a well-practised rhythm honed from years on the ocean.

“What ship is this?” She asked, neck craned as the small row-boat turned and revealed the side of a magnificent ebony hull. “I’ve never seen one like it.”

“It’s more familiar than you’d think.” He told her, grinning at her confused frown as he gave a final pull of the oars and lined them up alongside the ship.

She let her hand skim the surface of the worn wood, the grain seeing strangely familiar to her as a rope ladder unfurled from the deck to reach them. Her hands gripped the coarse rope and she let a smile bloom on her painted lips at the familiar feeling of a ship beneath her palms. She pulled herself upwards with ease letting the hands of the waiting crew pull her up and onto the deck as she craned her neck to take in the array of the tied-up sails blowing in the slight breeze.

“Welcome aboard, Miss Harrier.”

“Thank you.” She brushed at the material of her dress, legs reacclimatising to the gentle rock of the ship as she glanced around crew. “Whose ship is this?” She asked again, hearing Jack’s boots land on the deck behind her.

“Mine.”

“Yours?” She turned to him, a crease between her brows.

“Well…” He took her hand and led her across the deck, the crew parting to let them through before scuttling off to their positions and jobs. “…ours.” He led her up, onto the helm and placed her hands on the ornate wheel. “Feel familiar?”

“The Wench.” She breathed, the grooves in the wood too familiar to be anything but those of her beloved ship. “But she was lost; burned to a crisp.”

“And now she’s here; returned to us.”

“Gibbs called her ‘The Pearl’.” She reminded him.

“Aye, felt she needed a re-name, what, with all the bad blood.” He stroked the wheel, his hand covering hers as he stood behind her. “And so I welcome you, Olivia Harrier, aboard the Black Pearl.”

The ship sprang to life instantly; the sails unfurled and caught the breeze perfectly, letting it push them outwards as the sound of an anchor retracting filled the air. The move from stationary to sailing was seamless, not even a judder rocked the deck as the anchor fully retracted and they began to drift from the cove that had hidden them from the whole of Nassau.

“Now…” Jack breathed, his voice filling the shell of her ear as their fingers intertwined atop the wheel. “Show me that horizon.”

[greezyscumbag]

Lies and Family Ties

Dean X Reader; Mary tells Dean that the reader cheated on him to stop him finding out about her (Mary) stealing from Ramiel.

—

Knocking on the door of the bunker, you shift on your heels outside of the place you used to call home. Palms sweaty, heart racing and you’re sure that you can smell the nervousness radiating from you.

The door opens, your now ex-boyfriend looking anything but jolly to see you on his doorstep. “Sorry, I already gave all my change to the homeless guy down the street.”

“I’m just here to get the rest of my stuff, then you’ll be clear of me for good.” Standing up straight, arms crossed against your chest, you hold your head up high, refusing to feel belittled by the man who tossed you away so easily.

He runs his tongue across his bottom lip arrogantly, a sarcastic smile on his face as he pulls open the door, inviting you inside begrudgingly. “Make it quick. Don’t take anything you didn’t pay for.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” you spit, striding past him angrily, the ache in your soul becoming even more prominent from being this close to Dean, yet knowing he’s no longer yours.

You pass Sam and Castiel in the kitchen, ignoring their judgemental gazes as you head to Dean’s room, to a bed that used to hold two bodies, not one.

Pushing all the memories within these walls away, you grab your suitcase from under the bed, flipping back the lid and throwing your belongings inside. You wanted to be out of this place as swiftly as you could be, your presence clearly unwanted.

“I’m surprised you had the nerve to show up here.” You look back over your shoulder, Mary leaning smugly against the door frame, your attention moving back to your suitcase. She was the reason you were packing in the first place, the lies she told Dean being the very statements to sever the ribbons of your relationship.

“Yeah? I’m surprised you’ve got the nerve to still be here.” you hiss, a bubble of laughter leaving her lips as she pushes you closer and closer to the edge, anger bubbling inside you. “Aren’t you afraid your web of lies will unravel?”

“Don’t be silly, sweetheart, my webs are perfectly crafted. My son will always believe his dear mommy over some worthless bitch.” Now it’s your turn to laugh, not a slither of humour in your tone. You skim your fingers over the white frame on the beside, the besotted couple grinning at the camera.

If someone had told you then, that just months down the line Mary would be alive and kicking, and she would be the very thing to rip your lover from your arms, you would’ve laughed in their face.

“You know what,” you spin around, your glare harsh enough to wound as you stare at the poisonous bitch in front of you. “I hope your boys never find out who you really are. It’d break them to know their mother almost killed their best friend.”

“Not only are you working for the British, but you disturbed the Prince of Hell, stole from him and then stood in silence as Castiel’s life drained from his eyes.”

Her expression turns colder as you taunt her, her lip quivering in anger, not being able to take the truth you’re dealing out. She makes her way towards you, fists clenching, as you speak aloud all the damage that she’s done. “Shut your mouth.”

You shake your head, standing up against her, refusing to cower under her wrath. “If you were my mom, I’d be wishing you’d have stayed on the ceiling.”

Smack! Your head sharply twists to the side as her hand makes contact with your cheek, smugness running through your veins with the knowledge that your words have hit home. “If you ever tell anybody about me stealing from Ramiel, I’ll cut your heart out.”

“She doesn’t need to tell me anything.” Mary jumps at the sound of the voice, your fingers rubbing your cheek, trying to soothe the sting. Dean enters the room, coming to stand by your side, his mother lost for words.

“Sweetheart, let me explain…” She trails off, the level of vexation in Dean’s eyes enough to shut her up. Her eyes move to you as you watch the scene unfold. “You little bitch-”

Dean pushes her back as she lunges for you, his broad figure standing protectively in front of your own, your heart clenching, hoping that maybe there is something left to salvage.

“I want you out of here, now. Don’t bother coming back.” Dean warns, the ice chill in his voice something you’d been faced with a few minutes before. Mary weighs up her options, before backing out of the room resentfully, a vengeful twinkle in her eyes.

Once she’s gone, you turn back to the task at hand, shoving your final few things into your suitcase, ignoring Dean’s burning stare on your back. You move around in silence, him not being brave enough to break it, and you wanting to hear an apology before anything else.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” You freeze at the question, Dean’s voice timid as it should be. Throwing the shirt in your grasp onto the bed, you turn to face the older brother, not being able to believe his arrogance.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I don’t remember you giving me a chance to say anything when you believed your mom’s bullshit lies over me.” He looks down at the floor as you scold him, your eyes beginning to glaze over with due to frustration.

“I’m sorry-” you cut him off with a scoff, his emerald eyes as glassy as your own as he lifts them upwards to meet you. You want nothing more than to wrap your arms around him, tell him that everything is forgiven and you can go back to how it used to be.

“You weren’t sorry when you kicked me out in the pouring rain and called me a dirty whore.” The dam breaks, you cursing yourself as you turn your back on Dean, your fingers roughly swiping away the fallen tears.

You zip up your suitcase, thankful you’ll be alone in a few minutes and able to sob to your hearts content without prying eyes. “What are you doing? Don’t go.”

“What does it look like I’m doing, Dean?” you sniffle, grasping the handle of the case and holding the heavy object to your side. “I want you to be happy, and if that means me leaving, then so be it.”

You shove past the older Winchester, your chin quivering as you somehow hold in your cries. You let out a shaky breath as a hand grabs your arm, Dean’s warm touch stopping you in your tracks.

“Stay. All I want is for you to stay.” he pleads, his throat thick with emotion. You turn your head, his glassy eyes meeting your own, a desperate look on his face.

After what feels like hours of silence, you make your decision. “Five minutes. Let’s see how well you do.”

—

A/N - Thanks for all the support on my last Dean imagine, it was incredibleeeeeeee!!! Feel free to request :) now, gif before the imagine, or after??? Let me know! X

[whataboutmyfries]

Chapter 19

The door was opened by the kind man the students had been introduced to on the first day of term. He greeted Draco with a warm smile, moving aside to let the Slytherin in.

Draco walked into a room that was comfort embodied. The room had dark navy walls, with hovering orbs of light floating across the ceiling. The space was also filled with mismatched armchairs, all of them looked to be the most plush chairs found in a lord's castle in some faraway land. There were even a few beanbags. (Draco had recently learnt about these when he lived a muggle lifestyle for a couple of years.) At the far corners of the room, there were two large bookcases, one filled with books and the other containing various beverages, a wide variety of cups and boxes of tissue paper. The area had a lush beige carpet, with tables placed at regular intervals among the maze of chairs. Each table held tissues or mugs of various shapes and sizes.

Draco looked around the room in awe. Behind him, Mr.Sutton cleared his throat. Draco turned around at the sound.

"Would you like to sit?" The man asked, lowering his tall slim figure into a chair.

"Yeah," Draco said, a little jittery and out of his depth. He folded his elegant frame into a chair, his body's reflexes going back to the manners that had been drilled into him all those years ago. His body instantly sank into the soft, warm hug that the chair gave him. He immediately relaxed a little at the feeling.

"Would you like something to drink?" The man said, his kind eyes twinkling with genuine concern and compassion. Draco smiled politely, nodding his head in assent.

"What would you like? I'm sure we could find whatever you please," The man said, getting out of his chair and walking over to one of the bookshelves to look at the libations stored there.

"Some butterbeer would be great, thank you so much," Draco replied, taking a few deep breaths to calm his nerves.

"Coming right up!" the jolly man replied, waving his wand at the cabinet. Two bottles of butterbeer floated down into his hands as he walked back to Draco. He sat back down, pushing a bottle towards the Slytherin, who smiled gratefully as he lifted it to his lips. The pale boy took a large swig before he finally opened his mouth.

"Mr Sutton, I wanted to talk to somebody about some things that I have been going through for a while. I was raised to never talk about my feelings and such so please excuse me if I say something I'm not supposed to, or stumble along the way. I just need to get some things off my chest." Malfoy said, staring at the drink in his hand, unable to meet the other man's eyes.

"Of course Mister Malfoy, this place is a free and safe environment." The therapist said in his deep, soothing voice.

So Draco took a bracing breath before the words he had caged inside him burst out like water from a dam.

━◦○◦━◦○◦━◦○◦━◦○◦━◦○◦━◦○◦━

After three hours, two boxes of tissues and numerous bottles of butterbeer later, Draco had finally taken a great weight of his chest. He had told the man in front of him everything that he had gone through; from his hellish upbringing to his Harry bring in the hospital. He could honestly admit that he had never felt this good before. Vincent ( as he now insisted Draco call him) had listened to him patiently, occasionally offering advice and sympathy.

When he decided he was fully decent again, he got up and shook hands with Vincent thanking him profusely for all his help, before walking out of the lavish room.

As he left, he couldn't help but think of how happy he was. Although his head was a mess of emotions, happiness and relief were strong contenders in the fight. He decided to take the day off school, quickly returning to McGonagall's office to tell her so, before he walked out onto the quidditch pitch.

He took out his broom and kicked off from the ground, flying lazily around the pitch, enjoying the feeling of the wind running its fingers through his hair and kissing his alabaster skin. As he circled idly, he thought about all the feeling he was experiencing.

Anger, at Harry for kissing the other girl Fear, at what Harry had done to himself Relief, because he had finally told somebody all of his worries and problems Pride, in himself for ultimately doing what was best for himself.  

Happy that he had sorted out his thoughts, Draco landed, running his fingers through his hair in an attempt to tame it before he replaced his broom and headed back to the dormitories. For the rest of the day, Draco relaxed, occasionally going down to the kitchens to get snacks. When classes finally let out, he immediately got dressed and went to St Mungo's to check on Harry. The last thing McGonagall had told him was that Harry was awake and responsive and was asking to see him.

Draco arrived at the hospital, navigating through the crowd of witches and wizards. A mediwitch told him the whereabouts of his boyfriend. He took an elevator to the floor she told him Harry's room was. Eventually, he found the door. He stood before it for a few seconds, wondering what would go down once he walked in, but as much as he was afraid, he was desperate to ascertain the wellness of his mate for himself, so he took a steeling breath and pushed the door open.