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fissions-chips · 10 months ago

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is that the hand of judgement or the hand of mercy?

(evil polycule au- tw for blood, violence, and gun violence, as well as suicide-ish themes (vaguely implied in dialogue, not by POV character))

Get off.

Get away.

Valentine’s voice was a sickening smear of noise in Jon’s ears, hard to be heard over the rising static- above him, the man could just barely make out the bright gleam of too-white teeth bared in a snarl, a smile. Was he being taunted? Mocked? It was too hard to tell.

The fingers around his throat twisted tighter, lifting him up and slamming him down. Jon’s head knocked back into the wall and his vision filled with a bright burst of red light. A choked shout tore its way from his throat and Valentine sneered, one hand moving to fumble for his face and stifle the sound at the root.

“-ou said you’d make this easy!”

The other man’s snarl met him just as he did, fingers sliding over mouth and nose, and Jon balked away- pinned between the wall and Valentine himself, there was nowhere to go, and he found himself crushed to the floor again, back bent sharply by the space where it joined the wall. He couldn’t breathe. Weight settled heavy across his chest and Valentine leaned down, until Jon felt his own ribs creak- he tried to heave himself away, arms shaking, only to have his head slammed into the wall once more. I did, he thought. I did.

And yet, despite his words and despite Valentine’s fury, Jon scrambled blindly for something, anything that would get the other man off of him. His hands found nothing and fingers curled beneath his jaw once more, squeezing.

“Stupid son of a bitch-“ Valentine cursed as Jon clawed at his wrists, eyes stretched wide in terror- there was a darkness etched beneath them, carved by illness and misery. Jon’s breath rattled beneath his palms, ribcage sharp and stark below the white of his suit. He could feel the edge of Jon’s hipbone against his knee, the man somehow thinned further than even the last time he had seen him- Valentine knew that, truly, it was his own fault, and a savage little spark of victory crowed in the back of his mind.

One hand rose from Jon’s throat to dig into his scalp, fingers dragging the man forward by the hair as he let out a strangled shout- other hand fumbling at the pistol tucked into his waistband, Valentine wrenched his head back. “Shut up.” He sneered, forcing Jon to meet his gaze. The man flinched at the venom he saw there, at the sight of his own wide, frightened eyes staring back at him in the pink-tinged mirror of tinted lenses.

Pathetic, he found himself thinking, and he shrank down further. He hardly recognized himself- thinned, trembling, all of the gold and gilt long gone from him. It had drawn too much attention, after everything- his hands shook too badly to put in his piercings now, too unsteady to fasten the narrow chains of gold around his neck. Look at you. A fucking joke.

“Who…” Valentine panted, a quiet click echoing in the air as he pulled the gun from his belt. Jon froze. “Who are you even trying to call? No one’s here, Jon- it’s just you and me.”

Jon felt the press of cold metal against his stomach, the other man’s eyes narrowing slightly as he drank in the way Jon was shaking beneath him. “Everyone’s gone home… and who would come if they heard you now, anyways?” His sneer shifted, melted into an award-winning facade of smiling kindness- Jon knew that look, the malice behind it clear in the way the bruising barrel of the gun lifted, shoving itself against his sternum.

“Go on- tell me.”

Jon’s mouth opened- he tried to force out some answer, tried to pull a name or face to his mind. There were none. Face falling from fright into one of dismay, he glanced left and right, thinking.

Valentine snickered. “Your poor secretary- your poor staff, to put up with the madman Jon Spiro and all his… delusion.” He shook his head. “I really do pity your board, having to clean up the mess you left at my headquarters that night- do you even attend their meetings anymore?”

No. Not anymore.

“They finally gave you the boot, eh? At every party, you’re all alone, poor thing-“ The words were hissed, venomous. “I never see your face on television anymore, unless it’s news of you being a fucking asshole… or pitiful. Good riddance. You know, Carla called you a fucking alcoholic the other day, spat it out like something rotten- if only she knew!”

Stop it.

“Broken, beaten, a fucking shell-“ Valentine punctuated each word with a sudden jab against Jon’s ribcage, the edge of the gun’s barrel sharp enough to bruise. “Where’d your supposed friends go, Jonny? That pretty blue-eyed fellow you whispered all your little secrets too, and that hulking pet of his… said they’d help you take me down, did they? Scare me away and make me leave you alone?”

Jon paled. Tim. The sharp-eyed, sinister man with the scar-marked face and a voice that didn’t match, too soft and creaking- the man who’d asked him for a smoke. A smoke, then a secret, some man in the North and what he knew of him- a man murdered and dumped in the Kola Bay, snow blowing around their feet as the boat dipped and rocked beneath them. Jon had told him because he was desperate, yes, for relief, and the way Tim had held his shaking hands between his own to warm them had been so gentle. He had just wanted… his attention. Anyone’s attention, without intent to mock or harm. Before Tim, Jon couldn’t recall a hand that had been reached out to him without beating him bloody, unless it had been across an office table. No one talked to him anymore, and he couldn’t find it in him to blame them.

And Tim… Tim, despite his kindness, had proven to be one of the most fearsome men Jon had ever met. In his mind, he still saw the face of that Mafiya man as Tim had carved the flesh from his fingers, warmed metal until it had crackled and glowed only to douse it on any skin he could reach. Messy work. Grudge work.

Tim had set his sights on Chicago’s criminal underbelly, after that- and Jon had helped him. God, he was stupid. Something nauseous bubbled up in his stomach, beneath his fear and the pounding of his heart and skull. I’m such an idiot, he thought, because he knew it was a foolish thing to do- and because he knew if Tim asked him again, for names or numbers or where this man could be found, he’d tell him. He’d tell him anything at all.

Anything to be held in those hands again.

“Well,” Valentine continued, lifting his hand from Jon’s hair to sweep it back across his own, tidying the strands that were beginning to come loose- it didn’t disguise the near-manic glint in his eyes, the way his teeth bared as he spoke. “I’m almost tempted, to let you rot up here in your pretty penthouse all by yourself- but you just can’t take a hint, can you?”

Jon shrank back against the wall, the gun cold against his heaving chest- his heart was pounding so hard in his ears that he could barely hear the other. The width of his vision had narrowed, Valentine’s face a blurred smear of glinting teeth and glasses above his own. “Wh…what?” He choked out, wincing as Valentine leaned close and sneered.

“I told you, once, that I wasn’t going to kill you until you begged me for it.”

Despite the hatred glittering in his odd eyes, Valentine’s voice was airy, conversational- as if he was recalling a memory of poor weather, or a previous performance. Jon stilled. He remembered, too, hazy as it was. He hadn’t been clear-headed for a long time now.

Shaking hands curled around the balcony railing, frost stinging beneath his fingers as Valentine had held him there, hand on the back of his head and forcing him to look down, down, down at the dizzying lights of the city far below. Threatening to throw him off. His feet lifted off the ground ever-so-slightly, vertigo snatching his breath away as the other had hissed into his ear.

“They wouldn’t think you fell.”

Valentine had tossed him away then, leaving him slumped against the glass door of the balcony as he’d strutted back inside, cool as could be. Jon hadn’t moved for hours after that, sitting there shaking with his head in his hands, fighting a feeling he didn’t know how to name. Despair, yes, and terror. Blind, mind-numbing terror- and a little bit of something else too, something that had left him reeling in a haze. He had only moved to go inside when he realized that night had fallen.

He felt that same feeling now, coiling like a snake in the pit of his stomach. Something hollow, sickening- his mind blanked, hands curling into fists until they ached. Something that pulled at him.

“And I have tried,” Valentine continued, dragging Jon’s attention back to him with a hand slammed into the wall beside his head. “-to be patient, and just… nudge you in the right direction.” That same hand slid down in the edge of Jon’s vision, the man kept from further retreat by the touch of cold metal to his throat. There was a quiet tap against the plastic box clipped to his belt, pills rattling.

Suddenly, with a furious snarl, Valentine ripped it free and tossed it across the floor, Jon’s medicine scattering across the pale tile and carpeting with a clatter. Jon stared after them, shocked. A shiver ran down him at the sight of the little white tablets- the image blurred and Jon realized there were tears welling in his eyes.

Oh.

Lip curling, Valentine grabbed his jaw and wrenched in forward, Jon’s yelp of pain drowned by the other man’s voice, trembling with rage and much, much louder. “But… there is some stupid little part of you, Jon, that’s fucking- fucking stubborn! You stupid fuck! Don’t you get it?” He shook him like a rag doll. “We’d all be happier if you’d have just taken the fucking hint years ago and died already!”

Jon’s eyes screwed shut as the other man’s teeth snapped, only inches from his face. The fury emanating from Valentine was overwhelming, and a strangled sob slipped from his mouth as Jon frantically clawed at the fingers digging into his jawbone. Pain splintered beneath his teeth, following the fault lines of decades-old injury, and even the gun rammed beneath his throat couldn’t stop his tears from falling.

“Do you like living like this?” The other man snarled. “Reduced to being some old-money upstart’s lackey, high and hooked on pills in a company building you don’t own anymore? The laughingstock of your peers and board, so utterly alone that you couldn’t name one person who will give a shit when I pull this trigger?”

Please stop- just stop talking. It was too much, all of it was too much- Valentine’s fury and the gun pressed to his jaw and the horrible, horrible knowledge of what, exactly, had finally driven the other man over the edge. Jon’s pill box bumped the side of his hip and the rattle of it forced another sob from him.

When did you start to hate me this much? The other man had never loved him, Jon knew that much- even if he had chased after it regardless. He had never quite known how to stop. But certainly, at one point, they had passed for friends, passed for lovers- had all of this come from the break-in? Before?

“-‘m done waiting.” Valentine’s voice cut through his racing thoughts, the pistol lifting from his throat to suddenly, jarringly, press to his teeth. Jon’s heart froze in his chest, his balk of alarm halted by Valentine’s nails sinking into the flesh of his jaw. The other man’s eyes were cruel, near-manic with fury- and yet, his hands remained steady as he leaned forward and hissed.

“Now- open your fucking mouth, so I can do us both a favor.”

Jon didn’t move. Jon couldn’t move. He couldn’t see the other man in front of him, could barely make out the words he spoke. Sight and sense and sound dissolved completely, and all Jon could make out was the cold steel pressed against his mouth, hard enough to hurt. It clicked, Valentine continuing to hiss something venomous and cruel into his ear- Jon stared down at the gleam of the metal.

His vision blurred, eyes stinging.

Please be quick. It was all he could think to beg for, in the moment. Please, please be painless.

Clk-

“Enough.”

Without warning, Jon found himself dragged forward as Valentine shrieked, wrenched away from the other man by an unseen force. The gun clattered to the floor, skittering out of reach as Jon froze against the ground, blinking down at the white tile between his fingers. Muffled curses and a heavy thump could be heard, followed by a sharp hiss of pain- the sound trickled into silence, drowned out by quiet, uneven footsteps, drawing nearer for a moment before they paused.

A shadow was across him. A dark figure loomed in the corner of his blurring vision, one hand reaching out. Jon kept his eyes down to the floor, trembling.

There was a small nudge against his shoulder- the tip of an Oxford shoe, smudging the white fabric of his suit.

“-on.”

He knew that voice, too-soft and creaking- Jon swallowed, trying to will himself to sink back on his knees and look up, rise to his feet, something. Something other than staring down at his own shaking hands with tears in his eyes. He couldn’t find the effort, however- the panicked, rabbit-fast racing of his heart was building in his chest, his breath beginning to catch in his throat as blind terror (and hurt, a hurt he couldn’t quite name and didn’t care to) threatened to overwhelm him completely.

“Jon?”

Tim’s voice was in his ear now, the man crouched at his side- head tilting slightly, his eyes narrowed further as Jon shuddered violently, sinking forward to huddle against the ground with a thin, hiccuping sound. For a moment, the newcomer said nothing, only watching as Jon began to sob again, frantic hands curling over his head to tangle into his hair, nails digging into his scalp as he lost the battle to pull himself back together.

Then, he turned his head. Ice-white eyes took in the scattered pills and upturned furniture, the mark against the wall where Jon’s head had been smacked into it. For the briefest of moments, something flickered in the edges of his otherwise-impassive face, a glimpse of some sinister emotion- then, the man stood, hands settling into his pockets as he turned on his heel, away from the other.

“You know,” he rasped, voice taking on a conversational note. His footsteps echoed eerily around the near-silent room. “I must applaud your deceptive nature- you really are a natural, aren’t you?”

“Oh, fuck you!”

Valentine’s voice cracked sharply as he spit the words out, struggling against the massive man currently pinning him to the ivory floor- blood was spurting from his nose, the tile smudged with red from where Butler, Tim’s bodyguard, had slammed him into it. It looked out-of-sorts, smearing down his handsome face to stain his teeth red.

Tim pondered this as he slowed to a stop in front of the two. “I like to believe I’m a perceptive man- very perceptive. And though I knew in an instant upon meeting you that you, like me, or like Jon, was nothing less than a wicked, wicked man… I must say, I never took you for such a…” He paused, head tilting slightly as he seemed to search for the word.

“A… bully. Yes, that’s it.”

Ghost-pale eyes narrowed as Tim quietly pulled a cigarette case from his pocket, taking one and lighting it. “Isn’t it beneath you?“ He muttered, taking a deep drag of smoke before blowing it in a fine jet towards the ceiling. His voice took on the slightest note of tension, a wire pulled taut.

“I told you, quite kindly, to leave Jon alone- that your games with him were over… and yet, here we are.”

“Oh, shut it, you pompous-ass bi-“

There was the slightest twitch in the way Tim held his cigarette, a minute nod of his head, and Valentine’s voice cut off with a shriek as the air shook with a wet snap. The man thrashed, head knocking against the ground and teeth gritted in pain as Butler twisted his wrist further still, the crunch of bone evident as his fingers tightened.

Tim took another puff of smoke, letting it linger on his tongue for a moment as he dusted his cigarette over the other man’s head. Valentine hissed, muttering pained and muffled curses against the floor. His glasses had cracked, the lenses splintering further as Tim crouched down, plucking them from the other’s nose without a moment’s hesitation. Blood had flecked the pale-pink glass, and Tim idly began to clean them.

“Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

For a moment, Valentine only breathed against the floor, swallowing thickly as his lip twisted in a sneer. “Go… go fuck yourself, Timmy.” He spat, glaring up at the other with eyes full of hate. He blinked, eyes flickering to a point past Tim- the man watched as Valentine’s snarl faltered, before it sharpened into a bitter, mocking smile.

“Have fun fixing that fucking mess-“

Another wordless gesture, another muffled screech as Tim’s shoe slammed into the other man’s skull, grinding it beneath his heel as a flicker of frightening, violent rage ghosted over his face. Then, just like that, it was gone, and his features fell back into the same impassive expression as before, the man jamming his cigarette between his teeth as he stepped away, turning his head. Behind him, the glasses clattered to the ground, lenses shattering completely as they met the tile.

Jon was pressed against the wall, shivering violently. His hands were still fisted in his hair, head hidden behind his knees as his shoulders shook with hiccuping sobs. As Tim’s shadow fell across him, he flinched, huddling further upon himself as he shrank away from the hand offered to him.

“Jon?” Tim tried again- his tone was still sharpened, and Jon shuddered as his fingers brushed the white fabric of his suit. They drifted upwards, curling beneath the man’s jaw even as he forced his voice to soften, low and soothing.

“Oh, Jon…” Forcing Jon to meet his eye, Tim was relieved to see a flicker of recognition there, the man stilling under his hand as he pulled him closer. Gently, Tim ran his thumb along the edge of his cheek, wiping the tears away. “No, no, none of that now. There’s no need for such an unsightly thing, my dear. You’re safe.”

Trembling, the man blinked up at him with wide, bloodshot eyes, hands fumbling to find purchase, clinging to him with shaking fingers. It had been weeks since they had last been able to meet properly, Tim too busy with preparations to arrange it- fury bubbled up in the pit of his stomach at the sight of Jon so ragged, and he forced himself to swallow it down for fear of frightening Jon further. He had always been a skittish man, worn thin and stressed- now, he seemed to be sick with it.

“He… I-“ Jon’s voice broke off into a choked sound as the edge of Tim’s thumb brushed a soon-to-be-bruise along his cheekbone. He didn’t flinch away, under the touch, but Tim saw a flicker of fright in his eyes, there and then gone. Swallowing, the man’s mouth opened, closed- Jon’s eyes drifted past Tim’s shoulder, only to widen at the sight of Valentine, wrist twisted at a sickening angle and with the man struggling violently beneath Butler’s hands.

He paled.

“Tim… Tim, wait-“ Jon’s breath hitched, his fingers tightening against the fabric of Tim’s jacket as he clung to him, heedless to the way the other’s eyes widened in shock at the sudden panic in his voice. “Val, he…”

After everything he’s done to you, you still call him by a nickname? It was saddening, really, to see a former criminal behave in such a manner. Tim’s brow furrowed.

Enough of this.

The hand around his jaw shook him slightly, Jon’s mouth snapping shut as he found himself forced to meet Tim’s eyes once again. They were stony, cold- nonetheless, his voice was still soft and his touch still gentle as he murmured.

“It’s out of your hands now, Jon.”

The fingers curled into his jacket slipped, and Tim caught Jon’s hand with his own, the other keeping his gaze fixed on the man in front of him, not the one struggling far behind. “But-“ Jon cut himself off just as Tim spoke again- this time, there was a note of command somewhere in his voice, soft as it was. He was a man used to being obeyed.

“Jon, my dear,” he repeated. “It’s not up to you anymore.”

The man blinked. He was still trembling under Tim’s hands- idly, the man gave the fingers intertwined with his own a small squeeze, in as comforting a gesture as he could manage. Slowly, Jon’s mouth closed- he looked back at Valentine. Back to Tim.

Then, without a word, he turned his eyes to the floor.

For a moment, neither moved- then, with a sigh, Tim forced himself upright, unsteady on his bad leg after crouching for so long. Automatically, Jon’s hands moved to steady him as he went- a small gesture, but one Tim appreciated nonetheless. He pulled the other up after him, Jon staggering as his feet met the floor. Pills clattered away from them across the tile, and Tim’s lip curled slightly. What a mess, all of this.

Before Jon could look up again, and see what was about to befall his enemy, Tim grabbed his hand tightly and began, slowly, to walk, leading the other out of the room. Jon, to his credit, followed without complaint, his head bowed and eyes wide and empty, staring down at the floor.

As they walked through the doorway, Tim paused, lifting a hand. Knowing Butler’s eyes were on him, he gestured again, a snapping sort of motion- then, hurriedly, he pushed Jon through the door and closed it behind him. It wasn’t quite fast enough, however, to miss the undeniable snap of bone, and he felt Jon shudder beneath his hand.

Under most circumstances, Tim would not have settled for something so quick, but Jon had been through enough for one evening- Tim would not stain the floors of his home further with blood.

Our home, now, he mused.

“Come.” Pulling Jon past the bedroom and into the bathroom, Tim flicked on the lights and steered Jon to the edge of the tub, waiting until he sat down to pull his hands away. Jon didn’t lift his head- that same shivering persisted, fingertips trembling as they dug into the white fabric of his trousers, the man struggling not to shake himself apart entirely.

“Jon?”

There was no answer. The other seemed hardly to have heard him, wide eyes fixed to the floor- he flinched violently when Tim’s hand brushed his shoulder, breath hitching in his chest.

Tim blinked. “You’ve got blood in your hair.” He spoke, simply- without waiting for permission or comment, he pulled a rag from the nearby counter and dampened it in the sink. “I don’t see any grievous wound, however. You’ll live.”

He received no answer for that, either.

When Jon finally spoke again, it had been almost an hour- Tim had cleaned the blood from his hair with careful hands, had combed and dried it. He, too, had said nothing, content to simply focus on the task at hand- shrugging Jon out of his coat, checking him over for further injury. Save for some nasty bruising, there wasn’t much to find, but he clicked his tongue all the same at the state of the other’s health.

“…Are you going to kill me?”

Jon’s voice was hoarse, cracking sharply- Tim startled, brow furrowing as he took in what the other had said.

“Hm? Oh- no, Jon, I don’t plan to kill you.” Initially sharp with shock, his voice softened again, quiet. One hand continuing to run itself through Jon’s hair, he looked in the mirror opposite them- Jon did the same. His face had a hollow cast to it, utterly exhausted- still, he was no longer trembling, and his gaze didn’t waver when it met Tim’s reflection, eyes narrowing slightly. “What makes you think otherwise?”

“If you’re here…” Jon muttered. He paused, visibly turning something over in his head. “Then that means you’ve finished whatever it was you were doing- and what you were doing was making arrangements with Fission Chips, or at least attempting to. Putting yourself on top.” When Tim’s eyes widened further in surprise, Jon sniffed.

“I’m… tired. I’m tired, and I’m not involved with much anymore, but I’m not blind, Tim.” After pausing again, eyes closing for a moment, Jon continued- his head fell into his hands as he spoke.

“Which means you don’t need me anymore, because you know now that I’ve got no say in any of it. I can’t help you.”

He didn’t sound particularly upset- he sounded like it was expected, though Tim didn’t miss the note of disappointment there. “I…” He began, before taking a moment to sort out his words himself.

“I have no intention of killing you, Jon. Like you said, you have no say in things overall- so what would be the point?” Shaking his head slightly, he resumed working his fingers through Jon’s hair- despite his doubts, the man hadn’t moved to lean away from him. Instead, Tim felt himself press back into the touch. “I’m many things- many, awful things, Jon, but I’m not a liar. I told you I’d help you, and I fully intend to see to it that you’re kept comfortable and content, whatever that may look like. I don’t need your help, it’s true… but I do like your company. You’re a clever man, no matter what that stupid fuck out there was telling you.”

Jon stiffened slightly beneath his hands, and Tim sensed that he’d struck a nerve. Sighing, he nodded to their reflections in the mirror- Jon’s head lifted, fixing him once more with that same hollow stare. “Fission Chips needs someone running it,” he continued. “And your board is a incompetent pain in the ass. That will all be dealt with- but don’t assume that your lack of say now means you won’t have any in the future. This isn’t an overthrow- there’s no one to supersede. I’m merely filling an empty seat… that doesn’t mean I’ll ignore your input on matters, if you’re willing to give it- I’ve never run a company such as this before.”

If he had been expecting some sort of reaction, a flicker of interest or excitement in Jon’s features as he watched himself in the mirror, watched as the other lifted his hands from his hair to settle against his shoulders, thumbs pressing gentle circles between the blades, then Tim would have been disappointed. Tim, however, was unsurprised when Jon merely closed his eyes, exhaustion emanating from him in waves, seeping out from the day he’d had- and at the prospect Tim was offering.

He doesn’t believe me, Tim mused. Or he doesn’t much care at the moment. He could hardly blame him- he and Butler had only arrived moments before interrupting the attempted shooting, but he had heard enough to shock him, and spark his fury. A decent night’s rest will do more for him right now than I ever could.

Tim wasn’t lying. He did feel some affection for Jon, somewhere deep down inside of himself, where the soft, gentle creature he had almost become still lived. As much as he cared for Butler, Tim had grown too used to having someone at his arm, someone he could look after. Jon was desperate for good attention, and in his moments of rare energy or impulse, his chatterbox nature and the sly, scheming criminal he was once known for came out. Tim wanted to see more of it.

Besides- he was useful. He was clever. He had managed to track down a very secretive man in the far north, and helped Tim get his vengeance on that same man, even as he’d stood on the deck of the ship outside, hands over his ears as Britva screamed and screamed. To return to Tim’s side again after witnessing such violence was no small thing.

Tilting his head, Tim continued. “Regardless of all feelings on the matter, you’re in no state to return to your former position right now, Jon. And I think you know that. In fact, I think it’s not really what you want at all- so perhaps, in the meantime, you could direct your attention to anything else you happen to desire, and I’ll see what I can do.”

There was a rap against Jon’s shoulder, the man looking up to find Tim pulling away from him, gesturing towards the door. “Though…” He paused, eyes sharpening slightly as the other man slowly forced himself upright to follow. “I know such words mean little to you right now. It’s late- you should get some rest, if you can. We can discuss further matters in the morning. I won’t be far.”

As his hand lingered on the bedroom door, however, he froze. Jon blinked back at him tiredly, one hand reaching up to scrub at his cheek where the tear tracks had dried. Tim saw his lip curl slightly in disgust- disgust with himself or the inconvenience, Tim did not know, and he felt that same fury at the Phonetix CEO spark up again.

“And… don’t go into the sitting room. Thank you.”

#okay i have been working on this one for MONTHS it is finally over- have one of the key plot points in the evil polycule au!#this is the cruelest i'd ever make valentine and while its not out of character it is usually outside of his kind of actions- but he pays #- for it rest assured. i'm not sure how i feel about this one in all honesty and there are some vague darker implications here that i #- typically wouldn't touch on but you know what. its finished and thats enough. also sorry Butler does basically nothing in this one lol.#fission’s fics #evil polycule au #forgive the POV switch halfway through I couldn’t find a good place to split it properly

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v33n4-c4rn1s · 11 months ago

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༺PROM DATE༻

veena lambert x mare torres

I love them, school au time!!

·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:··:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·

Oh Mare was nervous, his hands sweating, scratching at the back of his neck, The roses in his hands felt heavy. He seriously couldn't believe that he genuinely managed to get someone like her. To go out to prom, with him.

Veena lambert. Problem student. She would always tease him, her little 'sheep geek' as she said. The minute Mr.Nine sat the two together, she always found a way to get under his skin.

She would tug on his sleeve, play with his fingers, make the littlest comments about his love for learning.

"oh what a little nerd.."

Her tone, the way she spoke. It gave him goosebumps, his cheeks heating up while her nails would drag along his forearm.

He stood at her door, shaking hands knocking on the wood. His collar felt tighter, he swore he was sweating, his cheeks burning red.

He went to knock for a second time, the door swung open. A large man with a suit and tie on stood in front of him.

'shit. was that her dad?''

"oh uh! hello Mr lambert-!! i-"

".. who are you?."

Oh the accent was THICK. Italian perhaps? he had no clue. Suddenly his throat felt dry.

"oh uh..imhereforyourdaughter-'

He spluttered out. He held a hand out to shake, his whole body trembling. The older man's eyes were burning holes into his skull. To mare, one wrong move could have him as roadkill, veena's father had..hobbies.

"ohhh..yes you!! ah your the sweetheart lamb boy she's been gushing about all weekend!"

Mr.Lambert took a hold of mare's hand. Shaking it violently, his chest bouncing with the heavy chuckle that left his throat. Mare felt as if a weight had lifted off his shoulders, his heart rate slowing as he sighed, a grin on his face.

"it's so good to meet you sir!"

He baa'd softly as Mr.Lambert let his once trembling hand go.

"It's nice to finally put a face to the name! honestly, veena has been in her room for hours! you must be a special one! she's been talking about you non-stop! goodness I've never seen her so happy about a boyfriend before!"

Mare felt his own cheeks heat up even more, he chuckled softly, was he really that special to veena? he felt slightly lightheaded, the thought of her telling her dad about their relationship? goodness, too much for his little heart.

"Dad!!!"

Mares ears perked up. He couldn't see veena just yet, her father stood in front of her, raising his hands as he gasped.

"Oh there you are my little rose!! goodness Maria tidied you right up! you look stunning!!"

"You're not embarrassing me are you!?"

"of course not my petal! just simply stating facts!!"

Mare heard her groan, Mr.Lambert glanced behind him at Mare, sending him a little smile as he moved out of the way.

oh he was a goner.

Veena stood with her hands by her side. laced spider webbed gloves slid around her forearm. Her eyes tinted with black eyeshadow. eyeliner that was painted to look like spiderwebs settled on her face. Her lips dusted with her usual black lipstick. Purple jewels for earrings, a silver chain with a cross hung around her neck, the usual gemstone in the middle, nails still sharp and painted black. The bat clip in her hair was..sparkly now. Her dress was once again..per usual..black. a slit reaching her thigh. purple heels, a silver belt chain hung loosely around her hips. the top of the dress held up by two strips of black fabric.

"..take a picture. it lasts longer."

She grinned at him, sharp fangs poking at her lips as she moved towards him.

"These- are for you.."

He held out the roses, she took them from his shaking hands and looked down at them.

"Oh! these are lovely..you're such a sweetie! I'll put these in my vase!!"

she gently placed them on the table beside the door, Her father gently took them and handed them to his maid, Even she smiled at the couple..

Mare baa'd in surprise as her hands gently reached his chest.

"oh well don't you just look absolutely dashing."

She giggled softly, the fluff around his collar puffing up in surprise.

"ah- veena- please-"

He stuttered out, looking from her to her father. She watched his gaze, smiling slightly, spinning around to her father.

"we'll be back by 12 daddy!! promise!!"

She explained. Her hand reached to grab her father's. He nodded, kissing the top of her head.

"Very well! Matthew should be waiting on the drive for you both!"

Mr.Lambert chuckled as his daughter squealed happily, already halfway out the door.

Mare turned to follow but Mr.Lambert gently grabbed his wrist.

"I trust you..please look after her.."

He mumbled, a soft smile on his face. Mare nodded. patting his arm.

"Of course.."

·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:··:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·

It was loud. People dancing and drinking. A few times mare had managed to convince veena to at least try and dance and despite her growing nerves she did. They danced together. He had the opportunity to spin her around and hold her as close as he could, Peppering kisses to her cheeks as she squealed.

He knew his teachers were watching him, Mr.Nine took full pride in the couples relationship. As he would say:

"Hah! I sat them together! and now look! I'm a total matchmaker!"

Mare watched Veena's face soften, her eyes studying his face gently. They sat at a table together, his arm wrapped around her waist.

"You look,, really pretty.."

He muttered, his hand reaching up to cup her cheek. She giggled softly, her hand placing over his.

"oh stop it..you're making me blush-"

Oh that smile of his had her heart racing.

The music changed. From quick paced to soft and slow. Mare's stomach bubbled with excitement.

He cleared his throat. Standing up and reaching his hand out too her.

"my lady.."

That stupid mock posh voice he spoke in had veena giggling like a child.

"May I have this dance?"

She played into his posh act.

"oh my good sir! I never thought you'd ask!"

She let her hand slip into his, the two of them slowly sliding into the small crowd of students.

His hands on her waist, hers resting on his shoulders as they swayed softly.

"Mare-"

Veena began, looking right up at him.

"..thank you for tonight, it's been..so much fun, I really couldn't imagine doing something like this with anyone but you.."

Oh his heart melted, Her head rested on his chest.

"Oh veena,, that's..really sweet, I couldn't imagine having anyone else in your place.."

The music came to a slow and gentle stop. The two of them pulled away, childish giggles falling from their lips.

"Fresh air?"

Veena suggested. He hummed in agreement.

She led him through the double doors, into the school's large garden. Sitting down at a bench together, the air cooling them both down.

"You're so beautiful,,"

He muttered, taking her hand and lifting it to his lips.

Despite how many kisses they'd given each other..neither one of them had actually kissed via lips.

Veena acted to change this, it was a perfect night. How could she miss this opportunity?

Her hand slid up to his face, cupping his cheek, the other rested on his shoulder. He seemed to understand her actions. His hands resting on either side of her waist.

They stared at each other for a moment. Mares cheeks had begun to heat up. Even Veena's face felt warm in the cool air of the evening.

She took a breath. Leaned in.

And kissed him.

He reciprocated almost immediately, Returning her kiss, his hands holding onto her, he didn't want to let her go.

God it felt good.

They pulled away. Breathing heavily. Veena burst into giggles at Mares face, a deep crimson.

He pulled her in closer. Her laughter caught onto him, making him laugh.

In all honesty, they'd remember this night for the rest of their lives.

Under the moonlight, together, sharing kisses over and over again. Never growing tired of the feeling they both shared.

·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:··:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·

"I told you she'd kiss him!!! you owe me a tenner!!"

Mr.Nine cheered, flipping Mr.Hack the bird, Who simply sighed. Pulling out his wallet.

"Yeah yeah whatever."

He rolled his 'eyes' handing his colleague the money.

"You were wrong!!!"

Mr.Nine would never let this down.

He'd have to put up with this all summer.

God how was he even-

"WERE YOU BETTING ON OUR FIRST KISS????"

#veena lambert x mare torres #veena lambert #mare torres #sonacouple #sona x sona #fanfic #romantic #i love these two so much grgrgrg

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lemonadehtwooh · 2 years ago

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Lore about Fgo For Funsies AU Utterson:

and general design concepts and headcanons about him because <3 He's Babygirl. Warning for a super duper long read!

Originally he was a Caster Class but due to a suggestion from a friend, he ended up becoming an Archer class with a gun (the same friend also suggested what type of gun he thought was the "most gentlemanly" for the design). Utterson originally was designed to have a book/magic spells as a weapon instead, similar to Andersen, and would have been a support more than a damage dealer. Even now my headcanons for his skill set is based more on art-card support than buster damage (I headcanon his NP would as well be an art card)

Utterson's monocle represents "Looking through rose-tinted lenses", as Utterson's main flaw in the original novella is his blind faith in his friends, constantly believing in Jekyll and seeing the good in him despite Jekyll being very,,, Not Good. The poor man even loses sleep WORRYING about Jekyll TwT I love him. His monocle, curiosity, and deep love for his friends are the main components of his Noble Phantasm. The pearls connected to the chains are suppose to represent how he was more on the wealthy side in the novella

Utterson's main motives for how he acts is that he "wants to be a modern gentleman" and as well as he wants to help others

Utterson was originally going to be a grey monochromatic color scheme, however I thought it would be a lot funnier if he had a lot of purples and pinks. I like to think his first thought about what he is wearing would be "Oh dear!" and he would be shocked about all the color he wears. He eventually gets used to it, but it's very funny to imagine his surprise!

His Noble Phantasm is called "If he be Mr. Hyde, I shall be Mr. Seek" due to his quote from the novella. This quote also is the inspiration for For Funsies Utterson's obsession with puns and jokes (which also ironically contrasts his serious nature)

Sherlock X Utterson had originally started off as a joke due to Sherlock's design being similar, but unfortunately I got really attached to the concept and actually started shipping it. I personally headcanon Sherlock as potentially being gay asexual in my AU. He as well figures out Utterson's feelings before Utterson realizes them and proceeds to just Watch and study Utterson because of this XD. They also share the same "detective" type motives (albeit, Utterson's is less prominent)

The idea for specifically pinks and purples being his main colors sprouted from the idea of Utterson having an "opposite" color scheme from Jekyll. The green accents are as well a reference towards Jekyll and the similarities he and Utterson shared in the novella. This is also why Lanyon's eyes are pink

I headcanon Utterson to know German and Latin. Potentially some Greek as well. He just has These Vibes (also he's a lawyer)

More about Sherlock and Utterson, their dynamic is something of Sherlock absolutely enjoying watching Utterson and Utterson being a flustered mess due to never experiencing romance (headcanon due to the fact that in the novella he's mentioned to be a bachelor). It's not like Sherlock doesn't participate in their relationship (in fact, in canon Fgo, Sherlock is pretty much pointed out to be a mischievous dude, therefore I believe he would definitely tease Utterson and make insinuations that cause Utterson to pause or perhaps even stammer), Sherlock just enjoys watching the dude and seeing how Utterson reacts. Basically he lowkey forces Utterson to take lead, which Utterson wouldn't mind so much if it wasn't so fluster-causing to him. Utterson also confesses in the most DRAMATIC way possible for such a modest man (to be fair, most of the situation wasn't in his control... But still XD)

I think I mentioned it in a post before, but in my AU, Utterson is rather terrible at socializing due to how intimidating he can come off as. He's trying REALLY hard. I also think his serious attitude doesn't help

instead of "Master", Utterson uses the terms: "My friend" or "dear friend". Romeo, his Master in my AU (who is also my OC), loves this

I don't think he would like modern music... except for potentially musicals. Also a reference to the novella

His bisexuality is also a lowkey reference to the novella because 🤨 bachelor? At 50? In that time period? Okay... 😏. This is also headcanoned into the AU that he sorta just repressed his attractions so much that he completely thinks everything he feels is platonic until he starts researching about relationships in the modern era. And then the realization that he has the fattest crush on Sherlock hits him like a sack of bricks in the middle of him reading. I imagine he would even drop his book in shock. He then proceeds to deny this obvious fact until Jekyll and Lanyon are like " D U D E . " I also headcanon he had a crush on Jekyll at some point but it had faded rather quickly and he brushed it off as he just was feeling those "platonic" emotions deeper than usual.

His grey streak in his hair represents how OLD he was in the novella. Same with Lanyon and Jekyll (I haven't posted my redesign of Jekyll with the grey hair added yet RIP)

Despite Lanyon's usual hugs, Utterson is still rather touch starved and represses himself from giving (and sometimes even receiving) physical affection. He sometimes gets emotional over Lanyon and Jekyll hugging him to the point he gets to the brink of tears thinking about it. This is later figured out completely once he starts dating Sherlock and slowly gets comfortable with touch (especially handholding), and this realization also hits him like a sack of bricks

I imagine if he was given Summer wear, aka a swimsuit, each ascension he keeps covering up due to embarrassment until he is wearing one of those full body, red and white striped swimsuits. His card art would be of him in the original outfit, but his avatar would be covered up. He's a modest man!

He has that Catholic guilt fr. it's obvious and doesn't really need to be said But. *Gestures at him* You can't tell me he doesn't.

#forfunsiesau #alternate universe #fgo #fate go #fate grand order #fgo fate grand order #original character #fate oc #character design #fgo headcanons #headcanon #design process #random

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jjmaybud · 4 years ago

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bring her home to dad | rafe cameron

summary: BJ’s every parent’s nightmare and rafe brings her home to ward.

pairing(s): rafe cameron x fem!oc, platonic!sarah cameron x fem!oc, platonic!wheezie cameron x fem!oc.

word count: 5.17k

warnings: swearing, mentions of alcohol, fluff, angst, ward cameron.

author’s note: i’ve had this idea for a while and it was originally going to be a reader, but i have a lot of ideas for this oc and rafe that may or may not be a coherent story. i don’t know, we’ll see where it goes. this is an au where there isn’t any treasure hunt but like rafe still does coke and dropped out of college and sarah and john b end up dating. no season 2 spoilers! Also, the house they use in the show for Tanneyhill (it’s real name is Lowndes Grove) is actually so beautiful omg you can rent it for weddings!

BJ Bentley was in the passenger seat of her boyfriend’s truck on her way to his house for the first time. Though she’d been in a relationship with Rafe Cameron for the past few months, she understood the reservation he had to take her to meet his father. The dark tattoos all along her sun kissed skin and the style of her clothes definitely scared every one of her partner’s parents. It was especially worse when their parents were hard on them, and they tried everything to live up to their expectations. There were times when someone she was interested in brought her home just to scare their parents when they weren’t interested in her as well. It wasn’t like that with Rafe. For one, he was completely freaking out in the driver’s seat next to her as he drove to his house. And two, he told her from the beginning that he had to be in love with her to bring her home to Ward Cameron.

Well, he was in love with her. And she loved him, too. That’s why she was completely calm in the passenger seat as she waited patiently to pull up to the historic house. Rafe’s fingers tapped against the steering wheel as he was hyper aware of the world around him. Quick hits on the brake and too sharp of turns were a clear indication of his nervousness. BJ reached across the center console to take hold of his right hand. He gave it up to her with little hesitation, and she intertwined their fingers while bringing the back of his hand to her lips. The soft kiss released a bit of tension in his shoulders.

“We don’t have to do this today,” she said against his hand. He immediately shook his head at the idea.

He said, “No, I already told him you were coming today. He’s got Rose making her special meatloaf for the occasion.”

BJ placed their hands down on the console and smiled.

“I love meatloaf.”

He nodded, his mind still somewhere else, and stated, “I know. I told her.”

Rafe stopped the truck at a stop sign. With no one behind them, BJ reached her free hand up to his cheek and turned his head towards her, forcing him to meet her eyes. She smiled softly when he leaned into the palm of her hand.

“It’s going to be okay. I promise. I’ve dealt with plenty of parental disappointment. He might be a little harder on you, but he’ll let it go eventually.”

He smiled and kissed the palm of her hand before turning back to the road. As he pulled forward from the stop sign, she placed her outreached hand on his forearm to run her fingers up and down the prominent vein.

He said, “That’s not what I’m worried about.”

BJ’s hand stilled at his words, and she stared at the side of his face as she tried to think of any other reason he’d be so nervous.

“I don’t want him to scare you off,” he added as he avoided meeting her eye.

Her lip jutted out as she cooed, “Aw, Honey Bunch,” his eyes rolled and lip turned up at the pet name, “you don’t have to worry about him scaring me off. You’ve had plenty of chances to do that.”

Rafe laughed mockingly and reached over to squeeze her thigh. She laughed loudly as she tried to pull his hand off of her. When she managed to wrench his hand away from her, she reached over and poked his side which only resulted in his hand gripping her thigh again.

“Rafe Cameron,” she said in a firm tone, making him laugh. “If you don’t stop, I will knock you the fuck out.”

He didn’t stop. It took him almost side swiping someone’s car for him to let go of her and return his hand to the steering wheel.

“That’s what I thought,” BJ quipped but screeched and lifted her leg away from him as he pretended to reach for her thigh again.

The rest of the ride was silent aside from the music playing from the radio. Eventually, the sound of the turn signal interrupted the melodies of the song as they waited for the car in the other lane to pass to turn left into Tanneyhill. Trees blocked the view of the house from the gate, but she could see peaks of a white house with many windows. As they drove up the driveway and passed the trees, she could see the beautiful house in it’s full glory. The house itself was beautiful on it’s own, but the surrounding view made it stunning. She could see the expanse of the water over to the left while an expansive yard of trees veered to the right.

“Home sweet home,” Rafe muttered as he pulled into a parking spot next to someone’s car. He turned the engine off and unbuckled his seat belt but didn’t make a move to get out. BJ unbuckled her own seat belt and waited. She watched as he took a couple of deep breaths before turning to meet her eye. Her lips turned up in an encouraging smile. She leaned forward over the console enticing him to do the same. Their lips met in a soft peck and met a few times more before pulling away for good.

The couple got out of the truck at the same time and met at the back. BJ let Rafe stair up at the house before reaching her hand out for him to hold. He huffed a heavy sigh before taking her hand in his. On their way to the front door, BJ stopped walking. If he didn’t have her hand in his, he probably would have kept going. He stopped, their hands extended, and watched her eyes widen.

“What? What’s wrong?”

Her eyes moved from the house to him, and she said, “I’m going to meet Wheezie!”

Rafe released a relieved sigh as he let his head fall back with his eyes closed. The hat on his head nearly fell off as it’s bill hit the back of his neck. BJ laughed as she stepped closer to her.

“Don’t do that to me,” Rafe mumbled as he let her pull him along. When they got closer to his front door, he took the lead. He led her past the front room and into the main part of the house. They took a few turns before reaching a decent sized kitchen. As an old house meant to be preserved, it lacked the open floor plan most modern day houses choose to do. While some rooms were spacious, it felt very choppy as they moved through the house. Even the kitchen was cut off from the dining area. The only person in the kitchen was a blonde woman who was definitely not Sarah Cameron or Wheezie.

“Oh, hello!” The woman greeted as she worked on cleaning off the counters. She stopped at the sight of them and tossed the washcloth into the sink. Her eyes widened once she got a better look at the girl standing next to Rafe, but BJ took it in stride as she let go of Rafe’s hand to go shake hers.

Rafe spoke up from behind BJ, “Rose, this is BJ. BJ, this is my stepmom, Rose.”

“It’s really nice to meet you, Rose. I heard you’re making meatloaf! It already smells amazing,” BJ stated as she shook the woman’s hand. She watched Rose take in the tattoos on the back of her hand and the chain hanging on one side of her skirt, but she pretended not to notice as Rose fixed a genuine smile on her face.

“It’s nice to meet you, too! Rafe mentioned meatloaf was your favorite, so Ward asked me to make my special recipe.”

“Is there anything Rafe and I can do to help?” BJ offered. Rafe started to speak from behind her, but Rose beat him to it.

“Actually, the table still needs to be set, if you don’t mind?”

BJ shook her head and said, “Not at all.” She turned around to Rafe. “You know how to set the table, right?”

Rafe huffed and nodded his head. He turned to the left and led her into the dining room where a long, rectangular table that seats eight people took up one side of the room and a smaller, circular table that seats four people took up the other. He stepped over to the china cabinet and opened both of the doors.

“I can start with the glasses while you get the plates?” Rafe suggested as he looked at her. She nodded and walked over to him. He pointed at a specific set of plates before grabbing the glasses on the higher shelf. A place mat was already placed in front of each seat that was to be used. BJ started on one side as Rafe started on the other. They met at the head of the table, and BJ stared up at Rafe as he refused to move out of the way.

She wasn’t much shorter than him normally, but she was almost nose to nose to him with her boots on. The amused smile on his lips and the quirk of his eyebrow tempted her to do something about him being in her way. With a playful tint in the corner of her eye, she stood on the tips of her toes to press a kiss to his lips. His hand found her hip as their kiss lasted longer than necessary. When she pulled away and fell back flat on her feet, Rafe hummed and nodded his head. He patted her hip and stepped out of her way.

“You may pass,” he said, making BJ laugh. The rest of her task went without fail before the two of them placed the silverware out: BJ was in charge of the spoons while Rafe put out the forks and knives. The sound of a man’s voice interrupted the peaceful silence that laid over the air.

“Alright, I got the ice and another bottle just in case. I saw Rafe’s truck outside. Have you already met her?” The man stated as the couple saw him approach the island that Rose was standing next to.

Rose nodded, walked towards her husband, and said, “Yes, I did. They’re setting the table now.”

Ward tried to turn to look at where they were standing, but Rose grabbed the front of his blazer and pretended to fix it while she whispered to him. BJ puffed out a silent laugh as she looked at Rafe.

She whispered, “Very subtle.”

Rafe only had the energy to chuckle once as he watched the two in the kitchen. BJ studied the couple and watched Ward’s facial expressions to gauge his reaction. She noticed the exact moment Rose told him about her...appearance. His head tilted towards his wife in a quick motion to look in her eyes. Rose scolded him swiftly, and Ward fixed his face into a stoic expression. BJ could feel her boyfriend tense from beside her as she watched Ward look to the ground and nod at whatever his wife said.

BJ took the lead, grabbed Rafe’s hand, and pulled him into the kitchen. Rafe tugged on her hand to keep her from intruding on his dad and stepmom’s conversation, but BJ went through this too many times to know it was easier to rip the bandage off right away.

“Hi, you must be Ward! I’m BJ Bentley,” she introduced herself, extending her hand once again. Though he was warned, Rafe’s father appeared to still be surprised at the sight of her. He took it in stride regardless. His eyebrows shot up in delight and a charming smile crossed his face as he reached his own hand out.

Ward greeted, “Ah, nice to meet you, BJ. I have to say I was surprised to hear Rafe had a girlfriend, let alone that he was bringing her home to meet us.”

“Dad,” Rafe said as Rose called her husband’s name in warning.

“Honestly, I was surprised, too,” BJ confessed. “Didn’t think Rafe was the girlfriend type.”

The timer on the oven went off to interrupt the tense conversation. Rose hurried around the island to pull the door open. She used a cooking thermometer to check the temperature inside the meatloaf.

“It’s done. Rafe, can you go upstairs to get your sisters?” Rose asked.

Rafe made sure BJ was okay before reluctantly heading out of the kitchen to the stairs she’d seen on the way inside. She watched him until he disappeared out of the room and turned back to his parents. The brunette tucked her hair behind her ear as she caught Ward staring at the tattoos on her thighs sticking out under her skirt with a disapproving purse of his lips. She turned to Rose, the safer of the two, and offered her help.

“I can take the potatoes to the table if you’d like,” BJ offered as Rose sliced into the meatloaf and placed it onto a large plate. The potatoes were on a similar plate cut into chunks and seasoned so well that BJ’s stomach grumbled at the smell.

Rose smiled and said, “That would be great. Thank you.”

BJ returned the smile and grabbed the plate. Once she reached the table, she placed the potatoes in the center with enough room for the meatloaf. Ward followed her into the room and motioned to the side of the table with only two seats set.

“Rafe sits on this side next to me. Feel free to sit next to him,” Ward said. BJ nodded and stepped around Ward; she noticed then they were about the same height. Since Ward hadn’t pulled his chair out, BJ thought it best to wait to be seated. Her mouth didn’t agree to the plan.

“Your home is very beautiful. It has a lot of history behind it, right?” She inquired as Rose brought in the meatloaf before returning to the kitchen, probably for the drinks.

Ward’s head tilted in interest as he answered, “That’s right. People don’t usually know that.”

“I did a paper on Denmark Tanney in college. As you must know, he was the only person to survive the wreck of the Royal Merchant.”

A light lit up behind Ward’s eyes at the mention of the Royal Merchant. She mentioned offhandedly one day while hanging out with Rafe that she did a paper on the man who built his house after he told her he lived in Tanneyhill. He told her how much his dad loved the house and its history, so she knew she could use that to get on Ward’s good side. She wasn’t worried about whether the Cameron’s liked her, especially not Ward, but she wanted there to be mutual respect between them. From what Rafe has said about his father, she knew she would never like him. But as Rafe’s father, she had a level of respect for him that she wanted to be returned. No matter how the man treated him, Rafe loved Ward and looked up to him. She had to respect that.

“Of course,” Ward replied, his words more genuine than the other times he’s spoken. “It’s what drew me to the house in the first place. Tell me did your research take you to the information about the gold he was able to get off of the Royal Merchant?”

Rose brought in a pitcher of iced tea as well as a cup of scotch on the rocks for Ward. She started to pour a glass of tea for herself as she listened to their conversation.

“Yes, and no one has ever been able to find it. He had letters to his son that a lot of people have picked apart trying to find out where he hid it, but no one’s figured it out.”

“Ugh, dad, please tell me you haven’t bored BJ with your stories about the Royal Merchant,” Sarah Cameron stated as she came into the kitchen. She sent BJ a smile and a wink as she walked to her seat, leaving the middle one between her and Rose empty. Rafe followed in shortly after.

Ward laughed as he shook his head. “Of course not, Sarah. BJ brought it up.”

Sarah’s eyes widened in surprise and put her hands up in surrender. Rafe came to stand next to his girlfriend. Ward and Rose looked at him expectantly.

“Wheezie’s on her way down,” he stated before reaching over to pull out BJ’s seat. She smiled at the gesture as she stepped out of the way.

“Wow, Rafe has manners?” Sarah asked, sarcasm dripping from her words as she sat down. Rafe glared at his sister as BJ stepped in front of the seat. He pushed in her seat as she sat down. She mumbled her gratitude as he sat down next to her. Rose and Ward sat down after the kids, and Rafe took it upon himself to pour himself a glass of iced tea. He offered the pitcher to BJ, and she took it graciously.

The sound of loud steps interrupted the short silence, and a young, teenage girl wearing a bright pink tutu and a sequined, long sleeve shirt. BJ’s eyes widened in surprise, and she turned to Rafe as she pressed her lips together to contain her laugh. Rafe placed his elbow on the table and covered his mouth to hide his smile. From what Rafe told her about his youngest sister, the tutu was out of character for her.

Sarah gasped and said, “Love the tutu, Wheeze.”

“Wheezie, what are you wearing?” Rose asked as the girl sat down next to her. BJ turned back to watch the scene unfold in front of her. Wheezie smiled at her before turning to her stepmom.

Wheezie said with a shrug, “Wanted to try something new.”

“Wheezie, we have a guest. Go upstairs and change,” Ward demanded as he tilted his head back to stare at her down his nose.

“I think Wheezie has a right to dress however she wants,” Rafe said, finally lowering his hand away from his face.

Sarah added, “Yeah, dad, we should let her express herself.”

BJ could see what her boyfriend and his sisters were doing. Wheezie was dressed in an out-of-character outfit to make her brother’s girlfriend feel comfortable wearing the clothes that the older generation deemed unacceptable. Rafe and Sarah were helping coax their parents into understanding why she wore the clothes she did. It warmed her heart to see it. Wheezie didn’t know who she was, they’d never met before, but she was doing this because she loved her brother. Sarah and BJ had known of each other before she started dating Rafe because they went to the same parties.

“Also,” BJ spoke up, “I really don’t mind. I think you rock the tutu, Wheezie, and those sequins really bring out your eyes.”

“Thank you, BJ,” Wheezie said before she turned to her father expectantly. Everyone turned to him to see his reaction. Ward Cameron sighed as he stared at his younger daughter.

“Fine.”

***

“So, BJ, what are you studying in college?” Ward asked as he sipped on his second glass of scotch. The men finished their plates as well as Sarah while the rest of them were still working on finishing their potatoes and little bit of meatloaf. BJ complimented Rose on her recipe after the first bite once she tasted the burst of flavor on her tongue. She talked to Wheezie about a new movie that was coming out. Apparently it was a part of a series that the young girl really liked, so she told BJ the synopsis of the first movie and invited her to come over to watch the first two movies together. Most of dinner was Rose and Ward alternating asking BJ questions about herself or Sarah telling everyone what she’d been up to for the day and what she was planning to do in the next couple.

BJ took her time swallowing the potato she’d been chewing and answered, “Actually, I finished college last year.”

Ward and Rose’s attention perked at the sound of that.

Rose asked, “I thought you said you were the same age as Rafe?”

“She is,” Rafe answered. “She finished her Bachelor’s degree in business, right?”

He looked to her for confirmation. She nodded.

“I started taking a lot of my general education credits my junior year of high school and took more business centered classes in the summer,” BJ said, turning to Ward and Rose. “By the time I graduated high school, I was a junior in college.”

Ward appeared to be impressed with what he was hearing and asked, “So, are you working now or have you decided to do something else?”

“I am. I work with my mother in her real estate investment business. I’ve always been around the office, even interned there the summer after high school graduation, and that’s how I knew I wanted to have a career in business.”

“I have to admit that’s pretty impressive,” Ward said and stared at his son. “I wish Rafe had as much drive as you do.”

BJ looked to Rafe to see him stare into the bottom of his glass that only had chunks of ice at the bottom. She could tell by the pout of his lips and his slouched shoulders that the comment hit a little too hard. Without allowing the others to notice, she reached under the table to place her hand over his on his lap.

“Rafe has plenty of drive,” BJ defended. “He’s just got to figure out where he wants to put that energy. Calculated energy is better than wasted energy.”

Ward only hummed in response. She finished her plate without any interruption. Rafe and Sarah grabbed everyone’s empty dishes. BJ helped Rafe stack all of the plates before Ward asked Wheezie to show their guest around the house.

“Yeah, BJ, I’ll show you Rafe’s room first since you’ll probably spend a lot of time there,” Wheezie said as she pushed her chair out to stand up.

Rafe stepped back into the room and scolded her, “Wheeze. Shut. Up.”

BJ laughed and stood up to follow after Wheezie. She patted Rafe’s shoulder as she passed him. Wheezie talked the entire time as she showed the older girl every room in the house. Most of the stories included embarrassing stories about Rafe.

“The rug right here?” Wheezie pointed out as they stood in the hall leading to the stair and outside of Rafe’s room. “Rafe tripped over it running out of his room and almost busted his chin going down the stairs. Luckily he stopped at the turn or he would’ve broken his arm.”

BJ shook her head and asked, “When was this?”

“Last week.”

The two giggled at the news, and Wheezie took her up another set of stairs. BJ followed her into a room that was clearly hers. It was a typical young teenager room with a few posters and brighter, mismatched colors.

“The tour is now over, please don’t forget to tip your guide and remember to visit again,” Wheezie said in a highly comical, animated voice. She worked on taking off the tutu as BJ looked around the room. It wasn’t a big room, but it was large enough to hold everything her heart desired.

“Is she your favorite artist?” BJ asked, pointing to a small poster of Taylor Swift next to some, what BJ could assume were, lyrics.

“Of course, she’s a lyrical genius,” Wheezie said, and BJ could tell how much the girl looked up to the artist by her voice. “Who’s your favorite artist?”

A sheepish smile was brought to her lips and turned to Wheezie. The youngest Cameron was sitting on her bed against her pillows, and BJ went to sit on the edge near her.

BJ said, “So, this may come as a shock, but I love Whitney Houston.”

Wheezie’s head tilted forward in surprise as her eyes widened. BJ laughed. The former girl looked down at BJ’s clothes and tattoos before looking back up to her with narrowed eyes.

“There’s no way. You definitely listen to classic rock like Nirvana,” Wheezie said.

“Okay, Nirvana is definitely not classic rock. Whoever told you that lied to you. And yes, despite my looks, Whitney Houston just hits the spot.”

Wheezie laughed and said, “I can’t wait to tell Rafe.”

“Hah,” BJ mocked and hit the girl lightly on the leg, “he already knows.” She hopped off the bed and headed for the door. “I’m going to go find him. I just take the stairs all the way down right?”

The only response she received was a nod before leaving the room. BJ could hear slightly raised voices drifting up the stairs as she started down them. She could hear Rafe’s voice but couldn’t make out any of his words.

Then, clear as day, she heard Ward’s voice, “I don’t care, Rafe! Think about what people will say when they see you with her. What they will say about our family.”

“You didn’t say this to Sarah when she brought John B home,” Rafe countered.

“John B doesn’t dress like she does and doesn’t have tattoos up and down his arms! I don’t care if you love her, you-”

Suddenly, it was quiet as BJ stepped on a particularly creaky stair. Not that she was quiet on her way down, but they didn’t hear her over their yelling. As she came down, she saw Rafe, Ward, and Rose through the doorway into the kitchen standing in awkward silence as they waited for her.

“Please, don’t stop on my account,” BJ said as she walked towards the three of them.

Rafe started to talk, “BJ, I’m sorry-”

BJ held up a hand to stop him.

“You don’t have to apologise, Rafe. It’s not the first time I’ve walked in on an awkward conversation with my boyfriend’s parents. I just hoped your father had enough respect to talk to me about it.”

She smiled a sickeningly sweet smile as she met Ward’s eyes. Rafe said her name and offered for them to leave.

“And I wish my son had enough respect not to bring you home,” Ward said as he took a long drink of his scotch.

BJ’s smile didn’t falter at his words as Rose sharply said his name.

“You know, Ward, a person can always change their clothes,” BJ informed the older man and motioned to her own clothes. “Hell, on a normal day, I don’t typically wear this. I only wore it now so you could see the ‘worst’ of it and learn to get over it. I understand your reservations on tattoos. It’s not everyone’s preference. I, for one,” BJ stepped over to Rafe and motioned to his bare arm, “love the blank canvas that is your son.” Rafe muttered an “oh, my god” at her words. “But you should never judge someone’s character for what they decide to do with their bodies. It’s their actions you have to pay attention to.

“Your actions, specifically, have told me that you are a very insecure man who tries to keep the image of his perfect family intact to hide the fact that he feels like an imposter in the life he’s created for himself.” Ward stood up straighter and set his glass down forcefully. Rose put her hand on his chest to stop him from taking a step towards BJ. “The only reason I’m saying this to you is because, although I do not like you one bit, I have respect for you. I know who you are, Ward Cameron. Started on the other side of Outer Banks and, through hard work and sacrifice, you made it to Figure Eight. You raised a beautiful family despite hardly being there for them emotionally. Anyone can respect someone who has managed to do that for themselves.”

Ward scoffed and interrupted BJ’s tangent, “I let you into my home, and you decide to speak to me like this in the name of respect? My actions have told you all of this about my character? Through one dinner?”

BJ shrugged and simply said, “I minored in psychology. And I’m sorry if you find what I’ve said to be disrespectful. I found you talking about me without me present to be disrespectful. I love your son whether you like me or not and as long as he still feels the same way, we’ll have to treat each other with mutual respect.”

Rafe’s hand slipped into hers. Through their interlaced fingers BJ felt his grip tighten as he stood up to his father. With her other hand, she reached out for a handshake. Ward stared down at her hand for a moment before looking at Rafe. Another squeeze on her hand. Ward and BJ locked eyes. He sighed and reached out his hand. A firm handshake, and the two were on their way with Rafe saying over his shoulder he might be back later.

Her boyfriend practically dragged her out of the house and to his truck. The sun was already set, so the lights around the house were the only thing to light their way to Rafe’s truck. The overhead lights inside turned on and off as they got in. The dash light lit up Rafe’s features as he turned the ignition over to start the engine. BJ watched as he sighed heavily and fell back against his seat, and she reached over to grab his hand again.

“I almost shit myself when you called him insecure,” Rafe confessed, making her laugh out loud. “I thought he was going to kill us both.”

BJ leaned over the console and said, “But he didn’t.”

He opened his eyes and turned his head without lifting it to look at her. Pieces of his hair fell onto his forehead, and she smiled at him as she studied his face. A sweat had broken out on his face and neck, but it was slowly drying in the cool air of the truck’s air conditioning.

“No, he didn’t.” BJ watched his soft lips as he spoke.

“Now, the worst is over.”

He nodded. “It is.”

BJ’s free hand reached up to the back of Rafe’s head and pulled his face towards hers. Rafe didn’t put up any fight as he leaned into the kiss. She pulled away with a sigh, and the boy moved so he could comfortably lean against the console as she played with the hairs at the back of his head.

“Wheezie’s cool,” BJ admitted. “She told me a lot of embarrassing stories about you.” Rafe rolled his eyes. “Something about you and a rug followed by a small tumble down the stairs.”

Rafe shook his head and said, “I have just as many embarrassing stories of her.”

BJ smiled.

“I can’t wait to hear them.”

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lindendragon · 3 years ago

Text

Unwilling accomplices

AU where the Prince gets taken from the cellar by the Nyakuza as they plunder the frozen and desolate Subcon. They make him work for them and he ends up forming a tenuous friendship with the person whose home they housed him at. Both of them hate their circumstances and eventually agree to escape town together.

The summary in my ao3 post doesn't give a detailed explanation to what this is about, so putting this here on my main blog too.

AO3 link

Chapter 1/?

Content tags: Kidnapping, Torture, Imprisonment, Depersonalization, Dissociation, Suicidal Thoughts, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, (very mild and very vague in this chapter) Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Past Abuse, Vanessa Is Her Own Warning

At times, it was almost as if the shadows were reaching out to him. Perhaps it was to shroud him, to keep him company, as absurd as the idea was. Not like he had anything else anyway.

Now with the window boarded up, the glow of the sun and moon themselves prevented from keeping him company despite being one of the rare constants of the world, with the single candle next to him out for what must have been hours, they blanketed him completely, closing him off from the world. That's good. He'd rather it stay that way. Then he can't see his prison anymore. That might as well be his entire world now, since he'll never see anything else again.

Maybe if he stays completely still, his nerves will numb completely, and he'll never hear the clinking of his confines accompany his wheezing breaths or the constant dripping of water again. And if he pushes the memories away enough, maybe they'll fade and he'll forget that life was ever any different than this. Because what use is there in feeling and remembering if it only ever aches? When his body is now nothing more than a torpid vessel caging his soul in suffering? How isn't he dead by now? He's pretty sure he's supposed to be.

If she wants her puppet, she can have it.

But he isn't at that point yet. He can still tell the differences between states of consciousness. Feeling empty felt different than feeling nothing. When he was conscious, he still thought, even if it was fogged and nothing came of it.

He can feel himself slipping back into unawareness when the thud of footsteps forces him back. Oh, she's just back from her supply run then. He shouldn't be dwelling on something as simple as a routine, especially when he could barely even think… but the steps sound different this time, a faster, lighter rhythm to them, with a frequent echo that seems as loud as the ones right before, like multiple sets of them layering over each other. They don't stop, soon accompanied by thumping and slamming that reverberated through the manor.

Is she upset again? At what… what did he do this time?

His chain-bound body stiffens at the thought and its implications, a heavy chill piercing through it and into his shadow-shrouded soul.

No. He doesn't want her to come down. He wants her to leave him alone. It's why he kept his sorrow silent. It's why he never called out for her, even as his hunger became so strong it tore at his insides and he ran out of tears to cry. As agonizing as this solitude was, it was better than being forced to look her in the eye, begging for the barest scraps of relief as she did what she pleased with him.

But no, he'll never get the mercy he needs. Even the shadows themselves seemed to retreat in her presence, or perhaps they were just overtaken and claimed by her own darkness, like soot blackening every surface it touched regardless of light. Her touch felt like the coldest thing there is, and he'd distantly wondered how his body hadn't been frozen solid under it, like the rest of the kingdom had. The relief he did get from her was meager, reminders of rose-tinted moments of the past flashing whenever she gave it to him. It's not worth it. It's best to- he just has to let it pass, and then he can go back to pretending that there's nothing beyond the shadow's embrace, intangible yet so gentle as it shrouded him, numbing yet almost comforting.

The steps grow closer yet distant at the same time, or were they happening simultaneously at different places? And something else is off. It's the voices- something he never thought he'd hear again. The voice of another, not her or himself. He's hearing another, and that must mean they're here, someone is here, somehow. And he can hear them coming down the stairs, towards him. The peculiarity gives him just enough strength to draw his gaze towards the opening door as light is let into the room.

Once his eyes adjust to the sudden presence of light, a pair of legs and a long black tail enter his vision. Definitely not Vanessa. Moments later a call sounds out, then others, about half a dozen, follow them further into the room. He can just spot large triangular ears on top of some of the shorter ones' heads.

The sight sends questions storming his mind, though their coherency is short-lived, flickering and disappearing as soon as they conjure- Other people are here? Why? Is it a- he's dreaming- delusional again, isn't he?

Sometimes, through the delirium, he sees images flickering in the darkness, morphing into familiar objects and people. Distorted fragments of the past, things that can't really be here. Was his mind trying to substitute what had been so cruelly ripped away from him by showing him manifestations of the people that brought him joy in life? Was it trying to provide some kind of fleeting comfort where there was none? It wasn't working. It was just salt and acid being rubbed into the wounds he'd tried so hard to numb. He can't think about those times. Closing his eyes in the already pitch black room did not make them go away, inescapable, just like everything else.

This can't be here either. Why would anyone come here, to this place that must be long-forsaken by now? It can't be real- it has to be another delusion. He doesn't know what to do if it isn't. He can't even tell if that would be good or bad.

But this was- it's hazy, but a different sort than usual, one that still feels too tangible to be a fabrication of his mind. The gleam in their eyes and drawn blades as the light from the doorway shone on them, the focus of their gazes as they landed on him. And he doesn't recognize any of them. If it was another delusion, it would at least have some kind of familiarity, right? Haunted by figments wearing the masks of his loved ones.

One comes closer, tilting his head up, and he feels their touch, their short fur brushing against his skin. They grimace before turning back to the rest. "This one's actually alive." they say, followed by overlapping murmurs and whispers. Could it really… He closes his eyes, and the view disappears while the voices remain the same. He reopens his eyes, and the scene remains unchanged. The person in front of him is looking at him again.

"Hey, you still with us?" they ask. Whether he was too weak to muster a response or his mind too hazed to even make anything of the question, he doesn't know. He just couldn't find it in himself to try, staring in their direction through unfocused eyes.

More murmurs sound out, then-

"We should put him out of his misery." a voice says, firm and louder than the rest.

"It'd be a mercy." he catches someone claim over the ensuing crowd of hushed but distressed-sounding voices.

It would, wouldn't it?

The first person sighs and lets go of his face, letting his head fall back down. The pain of such motions stretching his flesh is always there, but it had dulled over time, like a frostbitten limb that can no longer feel touch. That was one good thing the fatigue granted him.

"Alright, then you do it." he hears them say.

"I… but-"

"It was your idea." they retort.

"Fine, I'll do it. Move." a third voice interrupts, and soon his head is tilted up once more as something sharp presses against his throat. For just a moment, his body seizes, throat tightening as it remembers the crushing grip icicle-sharp hands. But the touch remains a single line, pressing into his flesh almost gently despite its sharpness. But this isn't punishment. This means death, doesn't it?

He's going to die.

The quickening of his heartbeat, the frantic pleas to be given another chance, the last of his strength summoned in his fear-fueled struggle against his confines, trying to escape the life-ending tool as survival instincts take over…

It doesn't come.

He finds himself closing his eyes instead, the discomfort of the object pressing into his exposed neck dissipating. Acceptance washes over him, so much lighter than the one forced upon him as he choked on his own breath, chest torn asunder by both heart-wrenching grief and suspension strain. This was on offer to end what he had accepted would last forever.

This is what he'd been hoping for, right? To stop feeling. He won't have to watch his body and mind slowly wither away to nothing. He'll never again have to utter declarations of love to her as she lacerated his very soul, rearranging the pieces to her liking. He won't be forced to spend time lamenting over a fate that will never change, thinking about what could have been, why she had him locked away and had so many lose their lives to her wrath and suffer, just so she could secure something he had already freely given her. At least this will be quicker and less painful than waiting for her winter frigid lips to take away his final breath.

He wants this.

But he won't let those be his final thoughts, not when he can use the last living moments granted to him on a memory of happiness, one that the present won't have time to taint this time. To picture his parents, his family and friends, the children he often saw playing in the square, the forest and its ever-present thrum within everything that resided in it. One last attempt at solace by keeping the memory of his lost home and loved ones alive for just a moment longer.

The pressure of the blade lifts slightly in preparation for the slash. Then, the sensation of his flesh being torn, blood whose meager salvaged warmth fades in unison with his life as it spills down his chest, breath abruptly cut off…

…it doesn't come either.

His sense of time might be a bit off, but surely it shouldn't take that long, right? Why were they hesitating? He barely wills the surrounding voices back into focus.

"…shouldn't be so hasty. Look at him, he could be worth something."

"Really? But look at-"

"…but I'll take what we can get."

Before he can process what they're talking about, two people start tampering with his chains, and shortly after, the shackles release their bruising hold on his arms only to immediately be replaced by ropes bound around his wrists and ankles.

As he's hoisted up into someone's arms, he briefly blacks out from the sharp pain the movement causes, regaining some awareness once the hold on him is adjusted. His vision stays blurred still, and he closes his eyes in an attempt to give himself one less sensation impacting him. At last, he finds one thing to cling to, familiar yet almost foreign, leaning into the faint warmth he feels from the body carrying him. That was one thing he knew without doubt he wanted.

It all would have pulled him under if the familiar creak of the cellar door didn't strike a realization, a fact that froze his blood and gripped his chest so tightly it overpowered everything else, finally breaking through to awaken a visceral dread screaming at him that he shouldn't be doing this. He can't see others. He can't lean into their touch, he can't partake in their relief, he can't leave without permission. Vanessa will be furious. With him, with them. She'll end them. She'll never trust him again- he'll never leave her sight again after this. It will never end. He won't be able to- He'll always be too aware of her presence- too aware!

He feels his heart pounding, his every vein as blood rushes to fuel his feeble struggles to escape his new captor's hold. With his limbs atrophied and restrained, they don't budge under his force. He tries to speak, to protest and implore to be left where he was, but his throat is too hoarse and his mind too deep in delirium to form words.

They don't understand. They're making it worse! They'll both suffer. They'll lose their lives while his life will become even more unbearable. He doesn't want this. He doesn't want these changes. They only bring a different kind of suffering. He just wanted to stop feeling. Please, just this once let him have what he wants.

He's forced to shut his eyes as a bright light glares into them to the point he can still feel it through his eyelids. Is it the sun? He's feeling sunlight again?

And the air still stings with its coldness, but no longer as stifling. The shock elicits ragged coughs from him, and the feeling akin to sharp ice crystals cutting his throat subsides. Is he outside the manor?

Only once they set him down in a darker place, and he can finally open his eyes to the blurry sight of an unfamiliar wood-paneled room, does the belated realization sink in.

He's leaving. Leaving the manor, Subcon, her. He's getting taken somewhere, somewhere else , somewhere she won't be able to touch him again.

As if the realization cut through the strings holding his body taut, he instantly falls limp where he'd been set down. He lies there in disbelief of his fate, barely managing a twitch of his limbs that simultaneously feel leaden yet like salt dissolving in water, like the rest of him had been detached from them yet he still knows of their existence.

His fading awareness is abruptly seized by hands gripping and pulling him up, pain shooting through his body.

"Drink." a distant-sounding voice says as he feels something press against his lips. Despite the suddenness and current lack of vision, he instinctively swallows the liquid that starts to flow into his mouth. Eating and drinking hasn't been a thing he had to be fully lucid for in quite some time. It's slightly sweetened and it burns his dry throat yet leaves a soothing feeling after passing through, and he finds it easier to breathe after the canteen is removed from his lips.

He slumps against the wall as the hands lift from his body, sliding back to lie on the floor with nothing to hold his body in place. He can't tell anymore if the people from before are still with him, the sounds of commotion around him blurring together and into the background.

A warmth blooms beside him, strong enough for the very air to carry it to him as it grazes him. During his time in the ice-sheened manor, in her frost-lined embrace, the cold had become an unchanging constant to him. Only now that there is warmth reminding his body of its absence does it begin to shiver in a plea for more. It permeates his skin and burns, painfully and pleasantly all at once, across his entire body's surface. It's so much, too much- but he needs more.

He feels a weight placed on him, light and soft compared to the cold stone floor. It molds around his body, trapping the warmth yet not constricting him.

The air carries an earthly scent and is not as stagnant, flowing like an almost imperceptible breeze. With every new shuddering breath, he feels less desperate for the next.

The multitudes of sensations drown each other out as they course through his body, evading his mind's delirious attempts to grasp at something from the swarm. He can't discern what any of it means. It's all too much at once.

But he's leaving- That's one thing he knows with ever-growing certainty.

Aching relief manages to breach the roiling surface of sensations, rippling into a hesitant acceptance. The shadows take the chance to reach out and whisper promises of temporary escape, of enveloping him to dull the inevitable around him. He lets himself sink back into their embrace, and the world dims in its intensity. That's good. As reassuring as some of these changes are, as much as he'd yearned to feel warm again, he still wants something familiar to cling to.

After all, there is comfort in familiarity.

#ahit the prince #ahit fanfiction #ahit oc #a hat in time #ahit nyakuza #ahit snatcher #ahit queen vanessa #tw suicidal ideation #my stuff #lindendragon

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chaos-caffeinated · 4 years ago

Text

Emotions can help you remember Part 3 (Sebastian Michaelis x reader)

Okay this is it, those words say everything you need to know, enjoy!

update: Oct/06/2020: To compensate for the part, I completed the story.

Like I said -did I even say it?- I am an overachiever...and a sucker for plot

Not requested (Tagging @naniky)

NSFW/T - 18+

Smut, lemon

One more thing: Do not forget I am not the only author, my brother and I share this blog for the sole reason of creating content together as well as maintaining an easy access to our stories. Just look under #caffeine for more stories from him, the media he does, previous works, requests/commissions/, and what he is willing to write and not write.

Okay, NOW onto the story: Enjoy!

I wrote this part incredibly long that I just had to make another part, which will be uploaded in the next hour (October 31, 1pm). If you would like to be reminded, just click on the button on the top right corner (if mobile) and select “get notified”.

“Though it’s good, it’s not fluent enough. Again.” Sebastian ordered, his facial expression was laced with the strictness of his voice. His eyebrows were knitted behind his delicate oval glasses that were chained for easy access. He held a short whip that caught your attention each time he smack it onto his hand, sometimes wondering to ask him if it hurt to whip himself.

Flinching from the sound, you involuntarily let out a whimper before gazing at the text before you, “Ce soir, je serai donné à l’obscurité, je n’ai que moi-même au prince des ténèbres. Oh Crow permettent à mon corps d’aider dans votre plaisir que votre vie s’est propagée avec la douleur que l’humanité comme elle l’a-a...a...^1” You felt burned out, your voice no longer being able to read off the text that Sebastian had you reading, emphasizing the importance of pronunciations.

Sebastian, on the other hand, was enjoying the moment you were casting yourself off to him, simply smiling behind his façade of strict teacher. Once you finished your speech you would his for the night, but he flinched when you stuttered towards the end, his attention towards you made him realized you looked tired, “Sebastian...I’m sorry, but I...I am so tired...French is not my strength, I am so sorry.” You gazed downwards, too ashamed to even look at him in the eye. You felt the constraining corset shift underneath as you crossed your arms, disappointed at yourself.

Before he could sigh subtly, his brain had racked up the idea to try something. He smirked widely, his eyes glinting the mischief with the intertwined lust.

“It is unfortunate, Miss. (L/N), but you have four days before the ball, and I’m sure you want Miss. Hopkins to be delighted upon your return without a language barrier, right?...”

“...Y-yes.” You confirmed, saddening at the fact that you may potentially be upsetting her.

“Well then, I hope you realize I have a couple tricks under my sleeve, however, some may deem it as unorthodox because of its-” he used the thin stick in his hand to whip the desk, his free hand placed on the mahogany desk leaning over slightly, hovering over your body. Your head whipped upwards where you immediately came face to face with the handsome butler/tutor, to which your cheeks were tinted with a slight pink hue from the closeness between you.

“Physicality.” He finished with a smirk, “Of course I need your permission, but time waits for no one my lady.” He adds as he rose the tip of baton from in-between your collarbones up to your chin with a light tap. You subconsciously tipped your head back lightly in response to the baton to which he responded with a subtle smirk. When you heard his sultry voice, you almost swore to hearing a purr at the end.

Entranced by his proximity, you gulped subtly and let out your respond:

“Yes....Sebastian.”

“Then we shall start immediately.” And he closed in by pressing his lips against your lips, one second secure and passion, the next dominant and rough. You let out a soft meek as you were trying to push against him, but he was strong. You sensed he wanted more, hence why he was rough enough to lean you back.

He removed himself, smirking and revealing the fang as he lick his lips lightly, “I hope you are ready, Miss. (L/N), for I am not lenient.” And he stood up, “Stand.” He commanded, raising the baton to visually represent his command as you obeyed.

You watched as he made his way behind the desk, but you looked ahead as you were afraid of anything sudden.

He made his way to where you sat and the chair scraped along the floor.

“Sit.” He ordered, and you sat down to an unfamiliar seat when you realized the firmness and slight shift underneath. You blushed as you realized you sat on his lap.

You trembled softly as you felt as he placed his hands on your hips as he adjusted both of you, “You will read and translate the words I point, if you fail, I will punish you accordingly. Ready?”

You nodded, “Yes, S-Sebastian.”

With a smug look, he pointed at a word of ease to get you comfortable. This went on for a couple dozens of words before he began to challenge you: adding feathery touches to your back, causing you to flinch.

“And this one?...” He leant by your ear, his voice having a slight rasp as he ushered.

While his gloved finger lightly traced your back, your body shivering from the touch, your voice faltered from it, “Uhm...eh...p-plaisir^2...”

“A stutter, Miss. (L/N)? When the ball is in session, I’m sure you’ll have someone like this as well. You can’t be distracted with this simple touch.” He took his forefinger and traced down your spine, making your cheeks blush again from the vulnerability.

“...S-so what’s my punishment, then?...”

“You want to be punished? Hm~...I’ll speak two paragraphs in French and you’ll translate them.”

Groaning as you had trouble listening and understanding, you took a deep breath and sighed, “Fine...”

“Good. Now...Dès que je t’ai posé les yeux, j’ai étré enchanté par ta beauté. J’avais espéré que vous travaillions pour Mlle Hopkins, et vous avez fait votre preuves devant elle ainsi que le jeune maître; talentueux et belle, je te voulais. Je vous ai dans mes mains, votre cœur bat vite, votre corps est à la chasse d’eau- Je sais que vous me voulez tout aussi bien, et à tout moment vous vacillez dans vos leçons Français, je vais m’assurer que vous souvenez de mes mains, mon corps, ma voix. Vous ne m’oublierez jamais aussi bien que la belle langue de Français.^3“

You couldn’t concentrate while he was caressing your back. Images flashed in your mind and you were shy to even have them possessed into your brain. You were fantasizing about being fondled, his hands caressing in other places, to have your own hands running through his raven locks. You wanted it all. However, when he spoke you understood some wording, his distinct pronunciation brought the sense of familiarity which gave you the confidence to translate his message, making you blush in the process as you processed the message.

The more you spoke, the more Sebastian grew with anticipation. As you finished, he had held your hip, without moving his digits and whispered into his ears, “Good, now for a reward. (Y/N). Tell me, are you in any way against of my teachings?”

“...N-no...” you shyly confessed, “Please...keep it going...I do believe it’s helping me.”

His smirk widen, enough to reveal the fangs, “Good.” He whispered, “Then from now on...nous parlons dans Français ^4.”

(From this point on, it will all be english, I promise. I just thought this was fun)

You let out a gasp when he rose his hands, groping your breasts as his lips grazed on the back of your shoulders; he let out whispers you were able to catch, only to respond with the same whispered voice. Each word he spoke out you would be given a kiss from his soft, yet rough lips onto your warm flesh. His hands lingered over your breasts, his fingers rubbing your clothed-areolas triggering them to harden.

“Tell me how are you feeling, (Y/N). Describe it.” He pulled back his hands as he teasingly, irritatingly, slowly removed your dress to expose your soft skin to his greedy mouth and hands. He removed his gloves to expose his black nails and the Faustian contract that linked his current master and him as property as he was currently ready to devour a mortal body in front of him, “Tell me, (Y/N)...what do you want me to do to you?”

“I...I feel like...my skin is on fire, like I want more just to get rid of it, but...but I like it...I like the feeling of your hands on me...I never want it to stop... I know I want more, I want to feel you everywhere...” You let out shaky breaths as you tried to muffled your moans in, your chest heaving as you gazed down to see his right hand placed on your abdomen area and you gently grabbed it, leading it back to your breast. His touch alone was driving you wild, craving for more as you tried so hard to hold back; believing that you were strong only to fall back.

Sebastian hummed in response, "Then so be it." Where his hands were located, he easily held you down while bucking his hips, earning a few mewls from you, and your head lulling back as your chest arched forward. You hated how your body betrayed your logical side, falling into the temptation that you thought you had handled, but it was only destroyed from his presence, from his words, from his eyes.

He bunched up the skirt so your clothed womanhood would be pressed against his clothed bulge, your moaning raised slightly to place your hands on the top of the desk, immediately interrupting the craze. You were panting, you were blushing, you were craving for more of his hot touches that got your body to get tingles, “...It is overwhelming...how is it that your so good to get me so desperate like this?...You are like the devil everyone warns to stay away from...” You attempted to take control of your body again, but you felt something pressed against you as you not only felt a hand on your hip, but another placed in front by your hand.

Sebastian was even more entranced, while you felt he was responsible for your craze, he blamed you for his craze towards you. Other people would feel guilt while in the bliss of pleasure, others feel a sense of betrayal for their partners, others feel used when the Head Butler of Phantomhive seemed to be intriguing enough to have his attention, but when there isn’t a direct order from Ciel to gather information, to get them to cooperate, he feels a sense of ferality since his interest is purely internal. His plans were to make you his; you can be feisty, you can be yourself, he was most amazed that a simple being such as yourself can manage to stir a demon with their core motivations. He just wanted you, but there were instances where he believed he was doing this because he was to be yours, and that did not sit well with him, which is why he would do everything to get you to submit to him first.

When Sebastian stood up, the chair sliding back, he pressed against you, "Are you scared of me?" He whispered into your ear, "Because I can assure you that even the devil can open your eyes to reality...” He taunts as he raised his hand to caress your exposed arm with his fingertips then grazing them with his black nails before placing on top of yours, interlacing with your fingers.

You whined desperately, turning your head slightly to glance at Sebastian who was smirking. Once again your flesh burned with passion as you feel him start discard your undergarments, the idea that you two were getting closer and closer to bond was filling you up with anticipation, with more shivers down your back. What surprised you was to see each piece of your dress in front of you as he asked you what they were called: he wanted you to continue to learn despite the situation you two were in.

"What is this?" He asks as he takes off each material. You grunted as he was testing your French by having you name every single material. Each time he removed something he would ask you and it was getting annoying. It was torture, hell, trying so hard not rip anything apart to get closer to become one.

After what felt like an eternity of hell of torture, you were naked in front of him. You realized how vulnerable you were in the position, offering yourself to the Head Butler of the Phantomhives and that made you cower slightly. Trembling, you tried to close up when you felt two soft hands placed on your back.

"Such a magnificent body you have, it's no wonder why everybody else wants you. Beauty like this deserves to be shown off...,but at this moment, and moments like these...you are mine alone." He whispered to you only, his ushered tone had a growl towards the end, like a predator growling in victory towards its prey. His fingers trailed up your back to the nape of your neck and held it in place as the other groped your breast.

You wondered when he had the opportunity to unbuckle his pants, but you shivered once you felt the head of his cock rubbing against your clit, a wanton moan releasing as your body pressed against him almost out of instinct.

"Mmm, desperate for more?~" Sebastian teased as he smirked devilishly, holding you in place as he rejected to further your pleasure.

"Please....please, Sebastian." You begged, tearing up, "Please..." you panted as you swayed your hips in an attempt to tempt him further.

Sebastian smirked and remained like that only to hear and see you move less and less. You tried waiting patiently, tried, but you simply closed your eyes and imagined the scenarios that made you blush. As you imagine him, your thoughts were quickly interrupted as he guided you to bend over the desk as he held your hips, "Distracted yet again, Miss. (L/N), my my. You are one persistent student, aren't you?" He snapped his hips towards, his cock rubbing against your entrance which startled you, "Patience 'will get you anywhere and everywhere', my dear." He reminds you before he proceeded to enter.

As you stiffened from the pressure of his member stretching you, you let out a strained moan as your hands gripped the edge of the table. Even Sebastian groaned subtly as you tightened around him and he calmly rubbed your back in a soft manner, "...W-was...Was this your first time?" He caught his breath as he eased the thrusting by removing himself until the hilt.

You involuntarily let out a breathy moan as he returned, thrusting in a steady pace. Each thrust felt more good and pleasurable than the last before you your hips pressed back against him. You even arched your back as you press back to feel his hips slap against you. The pace was increasing ever slightly, his breaths were audible as he let out breathy moans with your vocal ones. He had an immense grip on your hips that bruises were going to appear, but you didn’t mind. You would have to deal with that in the near future, at the moment you getting taken care of very good by the butler.

Sebastian let out a soft chuckle as he removed himself and proceeded to sit on the chair. You gasped and whined from frustration when you looked over your shoulder to see him sitting, his erection was resting against abdomen; the image alone was an unholy sight, for he had achieved his core motivation.

The way his hand rolled over to curl his finger into a “come hither” motion made you and your body responded by flowing with his hand. You turned around and watched as he accommodated his sitting position for you to sit on him once again. Facing forward, you rested your knees beside his thighs and remained uplifted as you stared into his enchanting crimson red eyes. His smirk widen -his bloody smirk- as he leaned forward to nip at your flesh. His arms entangled you in an embrace, but he held you down; he had successfully trapped you fully, he had you, not the other way around he thought you intended.

You took a deep breath as you felt him once more, but this time it felt different. The way he held you, the way he gazed into your eyes as your back arched and your head leaned back, mindlessly staring at the ceiling. He leaned forward once again only to lick at your mounds and made suckling motions over your harden nipples. His right arm wrapped around your waist and held you down as he thrusted into you unexpectedly with a steady speed.

Moaning and instinctively placing your hands through his raven locks, you tilted your head down only to look straight into his devilish eyes. He pulled away from your nipples as you tugged at his locks; his eyebrows twitched subtly as they furrowed slightly; lips were agape as he panted softly. There were sweat beads decorating his pale face as he let out soft moans, your blush darkening from the mysterious man himself,

“Are you e-enjoying the view, Miss. (L/N)?” He asked in his best attempt of a flustered tone, “You’ve gone back to your head once again, and just how would you feel good if trapped in there?” He bucked his hips which made you buck your hips in response. He pulled your body at an angle which trigger a hyper vocal activity, even your hand left his hair to cover your own mouth, closing your eyes to sense him intensely than before. There was an intense tingling sensation as your body took over control to reach their goal too.

As the speed and pressure built up, you had the courage to not only sit back up, but wrap your arms around his neck, curving forward so your mouth latched onto his neck, biting into it as he stiffened from the sudden move.

You had reached a point that you desperately wanted to increase the speed from how close you were, grinding against him; knowing him already, you were the one that had to obtain it instead of asking.

Sebastian was completely thrown off guard from the bite, his nails puncturing your skin as he stood up with you in his arms and laid you on the top of the desk, his hands gripping on your thighs, bruises would be appearing in a while, but he didn’t care as he aid in your goal, “A naughty girl indeed..” He panted, his eyes darkening, “Marking me in such a way is unforgivable...now I have no choice to reciprocate your feelings-”

Before you can even comprehend his intentions, you felt a sharp pain on your shoulders, your back arched forward as you cried out in pain, “S-sebastia-”

A hand covered your mouth, your voice muffled as he moaned as well into your shoulder.

As you came onto his girth member, he remained still as he tried to hold off, even his body shivered from the denial- the torture he put himself into when he purposely holds himself from pouring his pleasure into you. As your body shivered and bucked into the pleasure, you simply held onto him as you rode out your orgasm, the sensation of the building pressure continue to overwhelm, the feeling of pushing him off whilst holding him close was a dilemma.

As your eyes closed, you can feel him shift, you hear the rustling of clothes in a quick, yet slow manner. Instead of the clothes, you focused on yourself: your legs slightly shaking, your chest heaving as you breathed heavily, your cheeks burning, your body freezing from the sweat that had gone out to refresh you from the hot man in front of you.

Slowly, you opened your eyes to see him dressed up already. His deep red eyes maintained fixed on you as he fixed his tie, his smirk plastered on his facial features, “Miss. (L/N), I do believe the lesson over for now, I think it’s best for you to rest.” He offered his hand towards you while you just had come down from the high. You felt queasy, but it wasn’t it. No, you felt lighter, you felt fresh for some reason. Could the taboo act made you much bolder, could it have made you more experienced?

“...My dress.” You managed to croak out in English, your voice sounded hoarse and you blushed from embarrassment as your hand hovered over your mouth.

“Oh my...I think overstepped my boundaries a bit, my apologies my lady, I will prepare some tea to soothe your voice...We don’t want our lesson to go to waste.” He spoke in a matter-of-fact. You blushed as you averted your eyes from his as you nodded, “Y-yes...”

“Yes?” Sebastian’s eyebrow quirked slightly which you quickly corrected, “I mean, ‘Oui, monsieur’.”

When you saw him smile in a satisfied manner, you nearly sighed in relief, but you were now flustered and quiet from the ‘lesson’ that he performed to help you learn French. Without a doubt it left an impression you, an act of intimacy and vulnerabilities in a lovemaking surely stirred things up to help you remember words -events- more effectively.

While you were thinking, Sebastian helped you back in your dress, “I have to say, I didn’t know of such a strong bite from you, my lady. It was certainly an eye-opener.” He explained as he helped with a few items. When he got to the corset, he lifted you onto your feet and turned you around, “Hopefully you don’t forget about our time like...this” he whispered as he guided his hands across your abdomen which you instinctively let out a breathy moan, “Y-yes...I’m sure I’ll never forget about the event...” you stabled yourself as he pulled on the corset only to make you gasp from how tight he was pulling.

After a couple minutes, you both cleaned up the area and headed to your room to rest. Your voice felt raspy, nearly gone. When a surprise visit from Ciel caught your attention to ask about your lessons, Sebastian intervened for you, “I apologize young master, but realizing that Miss. (L/N) is tight on schedule for the ball, I had a trick under my sleeve to ensure she would capture the lesson, but...I believe I was too harsh on her.” He smirked lightly which you forced yourself to nod.

“...L-lost my voice a bit...” you confirmed, “But it’s not like a cup of tea won’t help.”

Ciel nodded slightly, glaring at Sebastian, “I’m sorry as well, I know Sebastian can be too rash with his studies, but if he does it again you can tell me. I’ll be in my office if needed- Sebastian, I want cake when you’re finished.” and he proceeded to walk to his study room.

“Yes, my lord.” Sebastian responded before guiding you to his bedroom.

“Couldn’t have been more obvious?”, You bit as you rested your hand on your neck.

Sebastian chuckled behind his fist as he arrived to the room, opening the door for you, “If you wanted me to, I could have.”

“You really have no shame, Mr. Michaelis, but please...I ask that you keep this our secret...I don’t want you to get in trouble as well as I...” You asked of him as you entered the room to sit on the bed.

Sebastian placed a hand over his chest as he leaned forward wit his eyes closed, “As you wish, I will keep it between us.” He stood up once again with his eyes open halfway.

You smiled small as you leaned against your hands behind you, “You’re so...intriguing Sebastian. One moment you are a shadow, the next...uhm, you are almost a beast, and right after that you are....back to a shadow- how?...” You sat up, “I’m...beyond tired- very tired- and you are still up and going to complete your duties.”

Unnecessary to withhold his smirk, his half-lid eyes glanced on your way, “Your observational skills never cease to overwhelm me, Miss. (L/N), however..” his voice got more stern as he got closer, “ I have mentioned before that if you look into someone, you might regret it later, so I advise you my lady to keep at bay..”

The closer he got, the more you look up to stare into his eyes, challenging him, “Temptation rises when provoked, so I suggest you stop provoking me, Mr. Michaelis. Because we...intertwined in a forbidden act, you opened the doors to temptation, my... I even have to take care of myself in order to walk through those doors again...”

The corners of his lips curved slightly, Sebastian took your statement into consideration, but as entertained as he was to continue this conversation, his duties in the manor made him realize he had to cut it short, “I do have a few ways to cure that, my lady.” he suggested, his tone completely changed from the previous ominous tone to the mischievous one he possessed earlier.

“Keep your tricks in your sleeve, please. I’m already exhausted from...your lesson there.” You huffed with a flustered face as you avoided eye contact once again. However, you failed to realize just how close he gotten. He reached out to your chin and pulled you close to him, “My lady, I have many tricks under my sleeve that I am not afraid to show you...four days is all I need.” He smirked darkly as he pulled away with a cheerful smile as he closed his eyes for the moment one again, “I will be right back with the tea as promised. In the meantime, please do relax and rest your voice...madam.” he added and proceeded to close the door behind him.

He left you speechless, knowing full well that his tricks were just promises ready to occur.

When Sebastian reached to the kitchen, he couldn’t help but rest against the door for a moment. After taking a deep breath, he chuckled darkly as he placed a hand over his face, “Sweet, sweet (Y/N), you drive me into a deep craze.” The hand hovered the side of the neck you bit him at. He was serious when he said you had a strong bite, and it wasn’t just that of muffling your moans. He strolled over to the counter and took out a knife to use as a mirror. He lowered his collar and managed to see a bruised bite-mark on his neck. His smirk widen and he clicked his tongue as he placed down the knife, “You’re a feisty one; I admire that.” He smiled darkly as he removed his coat to prepare the young lord his dessert.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~4 Days later~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The music was soft and inviting, a subtle siren in your head to set the atmosphere of the ball. It was a slow drag from the violins which gave you strength to take a deep breath and walk forward to the crowd whom were laughing.

Ciel was conversing with a man -the truth being the other way around-, commenting and opinionating of events that bore the young master to a tremendous level, but he remained to act as if he was in interest to the best of his ability to focus on capturing a special guest. When the nobleman excused himself after recognizing an acquaintance, Ciel called forward Sebastian who stood behind him, “Sebastian, keep an eye on Miss. (L/N) and anyone she is speaking with, there may be a chance that she’s talking with him at this moment-” as he gave him his order, Ciel spotted you with someone casually talking in French. He stood there slightly impressed at your proficiency and commented instead, “Miss. (L/N) has a lot of confidence with her French, she even looks different from before.”

Sebastian smiled with his eyes closed as he respond, “Thank you my lord, it took a little more effort due to the time restraint, but additional teachings were added to ensure proficiency.”

Ciel eyed him for a moment, “Additional teachings? It didn’t involve something like close proximity did it?” He asked with a near disgust that his demon butler would go that far, but not surprised if he revealed the information.

Placing a finger over his lips, Sebastian responded, “Miss. (L/N) has asked me not to disclose any information regarding our situation young lord, but that should already tell you.”

Ciel’s eyebrow twitched before releasing a sigh, “...Unfortunately, it did.”

When he turned back to look at you, he audibly gasped when he didn’t see you there anymore, “Sebastian, track her.” He ordered with a slight urgency in his voice,

Bowing his head, Sebastian replied, “yes, my lord.” and he walked from his master to find you.

While the dynamic duo were talking, you were having a conversation with someone that was visiting a friend. It became so casual and so friendly that the two of you had walked over to the table to take a few pieces of snacks.

His name was Jacque Arias, born into a family that dealt with the fabric industry in South France, you thought having a good friendship with him would help Miss. Hopkins with future business after you explained to him that you worked as a tailor for her.

As you took a drink from your glass, he spoke: “I am so relieved to finally have something to go to, if I had to stay in the office one more night I would have gone insane.”

“So you like parties to distract yourself from work?”

He nods, “Yes, and to meet lovely ladies that could potentially be my future wife, like yourself.” He smiled small with a slight tilt of his head.

You blushed from hearing this, stiffening slightly, “Searching for a wife? Me? Surely you gist, sir. I am merely just a tailor intern.” You explain to him, ‘At least for the time being, I like having those small arguments with Sebastian,’ you admitted in thought.

He reached forward to your hand only to caress, "A beautiful intern no less-...it maybe my imagination, but perhaps the party has tire me out. Shall we go somewhere more...silent? Somewhere we can be more intimate?"

You were ready to say no, already losing the interest of a business partner potential. If he wanted to marry you, for some reason you felt it was your choice to choose, and you wanted to choose someone that perhaps wasn't necessarily available to be taken, and you responded, "I don't want to offend you, but-"

He took your hand in his and lightly started guiding you out, "Then let's enjoy nature together." He suggested, "I...I don't-" You glanced around to see the mysterious man himself offering glasses to the guests, but he also glanced at your way. You noticed the faint smirk before he tilted his head forward, 'Go.' You felt him say before he went back to attend with the rest of the guests.

Almost feeling your body going light, you then followed the man ahead of you with a light smile.

It was chilly, your skin shivered to make some warmth, "Are you cold? I'll call up my carriage." He offered as he took off her coat, "In the meantime, here." He placed the coat over your shoulders, "I'll be right back." And he walked with a rushed speed.

You were surprised to see his nice side as he was going to get the carriage. You were suddenly curious about taking his offer, but you wanted to reject by the interaction at the table. Giving him the second chance to see him truly, you decided to wait outside than inside where it was warm.

Waiting patiently for a couple minutes, you felt your body shiver once again, but you subconsciously glanced around. You felt like someone was staring at you- stalking you. It felt uneasy for you, your hands tightening the coat around your body while you made your way back to the manor so you would at least be with someone before you spotted someone in pitch black. You almost called out his name until your eyes widen at the revelation.

While the ball was still in place and everyone was blissful at the moment, with the earl holding in his disinterest in people and balls overall, Sebastian kept a close connection with you. He immediately recognized the man you were with and knowing how humans seemed to be believe they were mated with one intense session, he just had to play the role of the silent lover, granting the permission for you to be with the next chaperone,

The atmosphere was filled with a wave of chattering, the laughter whether genuine or filled with arrogance, Sebastian could listen to all with depth. He listened to the piece played by the string quartet and multi-task with his butler duties. Suddenly, he heard a change in the quartet, a new piece was to be played and he listened.

The violins and violoncello were stroked rapidly in the next piece that it threw people off guard. They were not expected such an allegro tempo from the players: notes raised, dropped, the moments of silence, the notes raising a subtle anxiety from the audience even Sebastian felt it. He felt the anxiety, he felt -for a moment- his heart beating faster and faster and he turned to glance at the young master only for him to just watch the quartet as well. In that instant, he heard your panting with his demonic ears, it was the only thing that stand out from the silent crowd and the musicians ahead of him.

He strolled to the head of the family and bent over at his height only to whisper by his ear to prohibit eavesdropping. While Ciel watched ahead, his full attention was for the demon.

“Sebastian, I order you to find him and bring both of them back here after the ball.” He ordered with the ushered tone as the butler replied: “Yes, my lord.” before smirking at the slight liberation in his current state.

Previous Part/ Final Part

~Translations~

1: Tonight I will be given to the darkness, I have but myself to the prince of darkness. Oh Crow allow my body to help in your pleasure as your life has been done with the pain that humanity as it (cut out: brought/ apporté.)

2:Pleasure

3: “Good Now...”The moment I laid my eyes on you, I was enchanted by your beauty. I had hoped you worked for Miss. Hopkins, and you proved yourself in front of her as well as the young master; talented and beautiful, I wanted you.

I have you in my hands, your heart is beating fast, your body is flushing- I know you want me just as well, and at any moment you falter in your French lessons, I will make sure you remember my hands, my body, my voice. You will never forget me as well as the beautiful language of French is in your possession.”

4. we will speak in French

A/N: Tell me why I spent over 45 minutes searching the music sheet for the Diabolic Waltz and Danse Macabre (Can you blame me? It’s amazing work.) only to confirm or learn from parts where in the music because I am an overachiever and I go all out when I attempt to describe the music without being “the music played louder” come on, I didn’t spend two years in the marching band and be discriminated for being a woman and a semester in Music Appreciation in college for NOTHING- TEMPO, FORTE (Brother save me, this is my call for you to save me, this has gone way too far even for my own sake).

P.S. I am saying it again: Do not forget about my brother, Caffeine, he makes exclusive and waaaaay better stories than I. Just look under #caffeine for more of his content as well as a list of the media he covers for any requests/commissions.

#black butler #sebastian michaelis #sebastian michaelis x reader #sebastian michaelis smut #sebastian michaelis nsft #kuroshitusji #sebastian michaelis x reader smut #chaos

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boop-le-snoot · 4 years ago

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for @cryptidcasanova - so, this very much got out of hand and I decided to put this under a spoiler because of the content. You requested mob!Sam, to which I give you a mafia power couple.

I really liked this concept and I might continue it at some point. Kinda like the reader getting off to gory shit.

Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence, violence/blood/torture kink, mob!au, vague references to prostitution. Reader is a Mafia matron and Sam is her right hand man. 1k words.

"Darlin', darlin', you shoulda seen the look on 'is face," Sam drawls, the slightest southern twang to his words.

Steve and Bucky smirk next to him but remain quiet, letting their friend and partner in crime get his due. It's not often that the trio allows themselves to get messy, but when it happens, the reasons are far-reaching.

You attempt to feign insouciance but all it does is make Sam's lips stretch in a toothy, shiny grin. "I can see that he's been... Removed," your eyes slide over the crimson splatters on his bespoke three-piece, the wet footprints leading to your sitting room. Bucky's huff tells you all you could ever need to know.

You make a vague gesture towards a small door on the left. "Help yourselves, gentlemen. The bar is stocked, the lounge is prepared for you and your... Guests, should you be expecting any," your delicately trimmed eyebrow rises, seeing Steve nearly bounce on his heels, enthralled by the prospect of having a night full of bourbon, Cuban cigars and expensive women - all on your tab.

You can't help the snort that leaves your mouth when you dismiss them, the blonde rushing to the door with the grace of a moose, his brunette partner shaking his head in fond amusement. Sam looks away as they depart, hiding his own giddiness in the collar of his suit jacket- unsuccessfully so. As soon as the door clicks shut, Sam's face darkens.

You light up another cigarette. The filter is stained rose with your lipstick, your fingers have had the same pink tint to them from chain-smoking all these hours your boys were on the job. The ash falls onto the carpet as you stand up, making way to the man watching you with mischievous amusement.

Talking doesn't seem like the right choice, the silence too pregnant, the words too unsaid. The skirt of your dress reveals most of your leg- Sam's hand immediately rushes to caress the bare skin as your lips eagerly claim his, tasting gunmetal, spiced tobacco and gin. Sam's fingers are moist, sticky, and you moan at the revelation, bodily pushing him towards the massive leather couch in the back of your office.

"You haven't locked the door," he points out but relents to your wishes, falling onto the couch with his legs spread, massive, mouth-watering thighs on display, hugged nicely by tight cashmere trousers.

"I don't give a damn," you breathe, climbing into his lap, dress and heels and all, ash falling around you like nuclear fallout. You put the cigarette out right on the wall, watching the ember of it dim. "Tell me," you begin, feeling the start of his own arousal under your hips.

Sam's hand cradles your face as a malicious smirk cralws onto his face, marring his usually cheerful features with hellish lust. A sinister, pregnant darkness finds a home in his eyes. "Found him just near the docks. It was quiet, he was alone," the void of his pupils stares back at you.

The tip of your tongue darts out of your mouth, tasting the blood of Sam's kill. Your core begins to overheat, needy whimpers surpassing the blank expression on your face.

"Captain took a swing at him. He dropped and we took him to the warehouse," Sam's fingers grip your hips, digging into the soft flesh with a delicious sting. The man allows you to taste his fingers, offering them to you almost tenderly. The blood tastes tangy and divine. "Sarge got real mad when he got word of what that weasel was doin' to your ladies," Sam's breathing grew laboured.

The twitching of his fingers stroked every nerve within your body, his bulge now prominent enough for you to be able to grind against in earnest. Each fluid glide rubbed the seam of your panties against your clit, the tough zipper of his dress pants a rough scratch for the tender flesh around your sopping entrance. With newly discovered vigor, you chased the feeling, followed the sparks traveling up your spine.

The man under you palmed the cheeks of your ass, guiding your hips into an easy rhythm, bucking his hips into it. The more you moved, the more breathless his voice grew. "You know Sarge's a gentl'man to boot. So he roughened him up a lil'."

"How," you'd leaned forward, letting your braless tits drag against Sam's bulky chest. The added friction to your nipples just made you feel emptier.

Thankfully, Sam knew you well. Your bodies were in sync, as much as your sick minds found pleasure in the things as abominable as the high of them was divine. It took all of a split second to unzip his pants and move the soaked fabric of your lacy panties to the side. His cock was impaling you, filling you to the brim, satisfying the ravenous hunger for lust and violence.

Sam wasn't gentle. It stung and you hissed, the pleasure-pain grounding you in his arms.

"The weasel wouldn't stop runnin' 'is mouth, so I took Sarge's knife," Sam's story continued but all you could hear was the rush in your ears, the life blood that meant nothing unless it was on your fingers. Sam's teeth closed around your neck in a sharp sting as you moaned into his neck, his cock hitting the special spongy spot inside of you over and over. "And I gutted him like the pig he is," hot breath tickled your ear.

"Fuck," you mouthed wetly, feeling your gut start to quiver. "How'd it feel?"

Sam picked up the pace, holding onto you, shoving his cock within you as deeply as possible. The waves kept coming, overwhelming you, drowning you in the sea of hot-white bliss, your cunt clenching around his thick, pulsating cock, dripping down onto his balls and making a mess of his designer suit.

"Godly," Sam groaned, biting down into your flesh once more.

#sam wilson x reader smut #mob!sam wilson #mafia!sam wilson #dark!sam wilson #dark!sam wilson x dark!reader #tw violence #tw blood #tw blood kink #tw violence kink

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acidakerizo-47 · 5 months ago

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✨Welcome to my Tumblr blog u can call me Kyle!✨

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asking me for yor/other's own ocs request (I'm taking only commissions/trades with them sorry!!)

asking me for sharing anything, I don’t do that and I won’t do that

DNI: agressive anti-shippers/normies, toxicity/agression, unsolicited criticism, homophobic, transophobic, pedo, zoo, racism, sexism, DollEye/RN/TD fans. (also applies to my art)

thin ice: selfshippers oc x canon, Undertale fandom.

　　　🍒ABOUT ME🍒

my full nickname　DOCTOR KYLE MAXWELL　also this is a full name of my oc sona!

I'm already adult digital artist with medical education

pronounces he/him, INTJ, Demisexual and Panromantic, Single (not interested in new romance for now)

maybe PTSD and OCD (just for prevention)

mostly introvert and kindly person, I love and cute and creepy stuff (as u see my self-sona is really creepy)

my favourite Fandoms: Invader ZIM, OMORI, Sonic The Hedgehog, My Little Pony... and... I'll add later cuz i forgot lol but also I'm little creepypasta fan

my favourite ships: ZADR, Sunflower, Sonadow, TomTord, Soukoku (I'm supporter of "enemies to lovers" and "friends to lovers" dynamics only between characters who have reached the appropriate age canonical or via AU idea)

MY FANDOMS AU's:

• After Florpus | AF (soft ZADF>ZADR, soran_owl is co-author)

• After Florpus prologue | AFP (ZADE, canonical)

• Rose tinted chains | RTC/RC (PILOT ZADR, dark)

• 18+ Dib in Femboys BATTLE | DFB (ZADR/ZDMaGIR?, adult joke AU)

• Wingless Moth | WM (soft ZADF>ZADR, romantic drama)

🌻 @soran-owl - my beloved son 🌻

little friendly for talking but I'm not so active in this cus I had a traumatized experience (but I'm not rude or smth like this don't be scared)

MEET ME AS A CHARACTER:

main actual reference

another one (child version)

Some of the information about my sona as a character DOES NOT COINCIDE with me as a real person don't take it too seriously please.

*if you feeling uncomfortable from my conent or myself please don't follow me and ignore or block in better case I'll treat you with understanding. I don't want and I don't like any conflicts...

anyway u can ask me any question u worried about me and I'll try to answer!

maybe it's all or not all I'll add something later if it will be necessary, thank you for reading i love you and wish you great day!🌸

#info post #navigation #important #pinned info #hello tumblr #don't repost

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thepirateandhisson · 3 years ago

Text

CS Halloweek: close your eyes, take a breath, and you’re home

close your eyes, take a breath, and you’re home - @cshalloweek Day 2

Day 2 Prompts (October 26th):

Threats / black

clanking chains | prank | “we have to be quiet” | carved

SUMMARY: All Henry wanted to do was go to the Underworld, find his father, and bring him back to Storybrooke. Except things don't go to plan and now he's got a dead pirate helping him find a way home.

S2 Canon Divergence AU where Hook died in New York after stabbing Rumpelstiltskin.

RATING: T for language, violence.

WORD COUNT: 25,262 words

TAGS: Captain Cobra, Captain Swan, Halloween, CS Halloweek 2021, Underworld AU, Canon Divergence AU, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, no beta we die like killian jones

AO3

AUTHOR’S NOTE: hahahah this was originally supposed to be a cute captain cobra fic of like 3000 with a dash of captain swan but here we are

***

For being hell, the underworld, purgatory, or whatever his family wants to call it, the place is cold.

A red tint covers as far as the eye can see. And what he sees is a hopeless version of Storybrooke. Underbrooke, he jokes to himself. Where he grew so used to seeing Moe’s roses in the flowerbeds outside of his shop, instead dried up dirt from knocked over planters are in the doorway of an abandoned shop. The clock in the tower above the library lays dismantled in the middle of main street and there’s smoke coming from just about everywhere. Granny’s sign is broken, hanging six feet from the ground by a few frayed electrical wires. It reminds him of a story he heard once where a sword hung above a throne.

“Ooohhh…” a voice breathes out in glee. He jumps away and turns to face the person who snuck up on him, eyes wide.

A woman with wild blonde hair and glossed over eyes grins at him. Teeth shaped like fangs peer out from under her lip, twinkling at him even in the red haze, and he shivers. The thick wool coat he wears helps minutely to keep out Underbrooke’s cold but did nothing to stop the chill from the woman.

“You just smell delicious,” she says, practically giggling as she speaks. She inches forward, head stretched ahead of her body, and sniffs again even as he tries to move away. “And you’re alive!” This time there is no mistaking that he is in danger the longer he’s around the woman.

Despite her lack of eyesight, her sense of smell is keenly aware of his movements as she follows him as he tries to maneuver around her, her body turning to follow his every action.

“It’s been so long since I’ve had someone alive!” She licks her lips, mouth still open in a wide grin, and he pictures a napkin around her neck and fork and knife in her hands. “And what’s your name, dear?”

He swallows. The woman has him trapped. His back is against the broken fence of the diner – Granny is meticulous about how her dining institution looks and would be offended to know this is the state its in – and her arms are extended on either side. There’s no telling what her capabilities are. She’s already proven a stellar sense of smell, and he can’t afford to attribute that just to heightened senses from her loss of sight. For all he knows, she may be a werewolf.

“Henry,” he answers. His mind is thinking too fast to even care that his voice cracked. It’s been happening more and more over recent weeks and while he gets embarrassed if he’s around friends like Grace or his moms, he has grown used to it.

“Henry,” she repeats, her voice extending every letter of his name like it’s its own word. He almost mistakes her for a snake with the way she sticks her tongue between her teeth and bites. It’s then that he realizes he’s either going to actually die in Underbrooke or he can make a go for it.

He finally manages to get away from the broken fence around the diner, his backup snagging only slightly with a quick ripping sound barely heard over the woman’s cries and makes his way into the street. “Breathe into this for me, at least!” he hears her call behind him. Instead of looking back, he rushes forward.

The underworld is an odd place, he decides. The souls here have jobs and duties and go about their days like they lived in Storybrooke, not caring that the clocktower remains in the middle of the street or that everything seems to be smoking and no one actually needs to be doing anything that they’re doing. There’s a line for the singular telephone booth in town and everyone who walks up to it seems to be leaving messages or crying or just adding to the hopelessness of Underbrooke in general.

He takes a hurried glance at the people in line not wanting to stay around longer than he has too. Hopelessness, he quickly learns, is contagious in Underbrooke and hope is his ticket home. The usual places are devoid of anyone he knows, both a blessing and a curse. He’s lost more than a few good people over the years and while a part of him would love to see them again, he thinks it’s better they’re not here.

Well. He hopes one person is here.

His feet bring him to the playground by the ocean. The bench by the ramp to the sand is occupied by a person who lays across it with a leather duster over his face and a pile of black under his seat. He makes his way past the figure, past the swings and the jungle gym, to the sand where he and his dad sword fought.

The memory burns in his mind, both feeling like yesterday and like forever ago. He supposes both could be true, since he lost a year because of the Wicked Witch and his memories are all jumbled still.

He didn’t get a lot of time with his dad. Neal was as much a surprise to him as he had been to the man, one of Emma Swan’s best kept and closely guarded secrets. What little time they spent together consisted of Neal letting him steer the pirate ship they stole, sword fighting across Storybrooke, and…

Henry tilts his head to the side, stopping suddenly in the sand.

Try as he might, Henry can’t think of much else they did together. Was their relationship really that shallow, was time an enemy that stole his father from him before they could really dive deeper, or was the missing year and two sets of memories messing with his recall?

A weight settles in his stomach like when he eats too much food and feels sick instead of content. It isn’t right, he thinks. He just found his dad only to be pulled away without memory of it all and then to find him again right before he died. It isn’t fair.

He continues walking, eyes on the water and seeking the calming rhythm of crashing waves to ease his nerves, coming to the edge of the retaining wall. Except there are no waves. Even on the calmest of days in Storybrooke, the water still lapped at the shoreline or against the docks in the harbor gently. Yet, as he leans over and looks down, the water in Underbrooke is eerily still.

“I wouldn’t tempt fate, lad.”

Henry jumps again at the unknown voice, though this time he’s grateful that the person it came from has kept their distance.

“Who are y–”

As Henry turns to face the stranger, his foot slips on the edging of the wall and he suddenly finds himself falling back into the water.

The stranger is quick, a reaction time that Henry wishes he had when he played a few of his videogames, and with a jerk of the straps of the backpack over his shoulders, he is upright once more. There is another tug on his backpack straps and the stranger pulls him forward, away from the water and over to the swings.

“Wh – what just happened?” he asks. His mind is reeling and he chances a glance back at the water. Calm just moments before, it now rages like a storm and is unleashing hell against the retaining wall he just stood atop.

“That, lad, was you almost being lost to Acheron.”

Henry faces forward towards the man pulling him as far from the water as possible. He only sees the back of his head, covered with thick dark hair, and his arm extended back to Henry’s backpack strap. It’s only as he notices that it’s not a hand holding onto him and his backpack but a hook that he trips.

“A little further. Keep up.”

Henry stumbles as he tries to right his footing, the man not stopping to let him regain his balance. He watches as the stranger leans down and picks up a discarded leather duster from the bench without his pace faltering. The pile of black underneath the bench begins to move as they stride away from it.

The end of the street that they step onto is empty. Henry almost thinks that there’s not a soul in sight but he isn’t well-versed enough in the ways of Underbrooke to see if that’s ironic or not.

Growing up in a town full of fairytale characters, coming from a family full of them, and now being stuck in Underbrooke, Henry can only assume whose hook this belongs to.

“Captain Hook?” he asks hesitantly. He’s sure his gulp is audible as the man swiftly turns around to face him.

Disney’s Peter Pan got it wrong. Captain Hook didn’t walk around in a long red coat with a ridiculous feathered hat or sporting a long curly mustache.

There was leather – a lot of it. And his shirt was left mostly unbuttoned, giving Henry a glimpse at more chest hair than he ever wanted to see on another person in his entire life. Instead of the maniacal mustache from the animated feature, this Hook has a clean cut of facial hair along his jaw and over his lip. His eyes are narrowed at Henry, sizing him up as if he just asked to join his crew, and Henry realizes that his eyes are the same color blue he hoped Underbrooke’s waters would be.

“Aye, I see you’ve heard of me. Yet I have not heard of you.”

He contemplates for a moment. Henry has met his fair share of villains since his mom broke the curse. Some of them had a chance for redemption, others were a lost cause, but one thing they all had in common with the heroes was that their story tended to be different from the ones he grew up with. So while a part of him is cautious around Captain Hook, he supposes he owns the man something for not letting him fall in the water. No telling how he would have gotten out of that one.

“I’m Henry Mills.”

Captain Hook continues to scrutinize him in a way that makes Henry fidget. It’s as if he’s waiting Henry out, trying to see what else he’ll see under the gaze of a fearful pirate captain, eager to know all his secrets. And Henry realizes that’s exactly what the captain’s doing.

“What’s Acheron?” he asks suddenly. Captain Hook raises an eyebrow at him, appraising him for a moment longer before he settles his hand on the buckle of his pants.

“Acheron is the River of Lost Souls,” Captain Hook answers. Henry gapes and turns his head back to the water he almost fell in. Its raging is beginning to calm but what he finally sees is the water for what it is – a dark green color that is highlighted by spots of lighter hues dodging in-between one another, swimming around – some in desperation and some in hopelessness, but all looking for someone to end the loneliness and join them.

One more, the water seems to whisper to each other.

“A touch from Acheron and your soul is stuck forever. There are a multitude of damnations one can face here forever but that has to be the worst.”

He can’t help but ask, “Why?” The water is entrancing but not for the same reason as before. While it previously lured him with the promise of calm, now he wonders about the souls stuck there forever.

“They have no hope of escape or chance to move on. While being damned in this purgatory is hell in its own right, at least some of us have the… freedom to not be locked in one place.” As he speaks, Captain Hook gestures to the pile of black at his feet.

Only at his acknowledgement did it become obvious. The pile of black formed a shape before Henry’s very eyes. He begins to notice the curves and spaces within the pile, one of black iron that looks to weigh more than the man attached to it. A slight shake of Captain Hook’s foot allows a rattling to fill his ears for the first time.

A pile of chains.

Captain Hook puts his foot back on the ground, the shackle around his ankle shifting enough that Henry hears a quiet ring of the chains.

“Some of us are damned to carry the weight of our sins with us everywhere we go.” Henry isn’t able to recognize the tone in the captain’s voice – regret, maybe, or bitterness, he’s not sure. His eyes are still stuck on the pile at his feet and he wonders how he didn’t notice it sooner. “But what I’m curious about is how someone living has been placed in the Underworld.”

He blinks. He suddenly doesn’t remember the last time he blinked. Has he been doing it without notice the entirety of his time in Underbrooke or did the people here not have to do that? Did Underbrooke townies have to eat or drink or sleep? Was there a night in a place like Underbrooke?

“Lad?” Captain Hook asks. He’s snapping his fingers in Henry’s face a few times before he blinks himself back to focus. “Lad, you have to stay with me. You’re alive and you’re not supposed to be here. The longer you’re down here then the more you’ll forget about yourself. You need to leave before you’re stuck here.”

Henry jerks back. “No! No, I can’t leave!” He shakes his head at the captain.

“That was not a request but an order,” Captain Hook growls and comes closer to him. The man didn’t scare Henry before but the low timber of his voice and the fire in his eyes, so much like Hook has his own personal hell inside of himself, shrinks Henry back as he swallows. “You need to leave now.”

The thought of leaving – after everything he went through to just get here – churns Henry’s stomach. He isn’t leaving without his dad and Captain Hook or not, he’s dealt with worse villains he’s sure, his own mom included. He survived a sleeping curse and Peter Pan who was clearly the villain of that story.

Wait.

He thinks to himself that if Pan were the villain, Hook has to be the hero. It’s like Star Wars: there has to be a balance. If there is a hero then there is a villain and since none of his time in Neverland hinted at the Darlings actually existing, Hook was his only other option. Heroes always have a soft spot to help someone in need. If Hook knew what he came down to do, then he’d help him.

Captain Hook hasn’t moved away and his face is still pinched in a fierce scowl.

Henry takes a deep breath. “I’m looking for my dad. I need to save him.”

Hook’s chains are clanking with every step he takes. The raging waters of Acheron must have quietened some of the sound because it rings loudly in his ears as they make their way through the cemetery.

He’s glad that, at the very least, he was right about Hook being a hero. Hearing his tale of woe, of finding his father just to lose him and wanting to save him from his unjust fate, tugged at something in Hook. The only thing he hasn’t figured out yet is why, if Hook is actually the hero, he has a long run of clanking chains following his every move in Underbrooke.

The cemetery still holds the red haze the rest of Underbrooke does. He supposes it’s just how the Underworld works – devoid of color, joy, and hope to keep everyone here in a state of stillness.

As they walk, Henry notices some tombstones are pushed over while others are cracked and some are intact. “What do they mean? The different states?”

“Hm?” Hook hums for a moment. He turns back to Henry and sees his attention on the cracked tombstone of someone named Gaston. “Oh, that, aye. You see, a crack down the middle from the top means eternal damnation. There’s no hope of moving on to one place or another. That crack is irreparable and you’re stuck here.”

“Does your tombstone have it?” Henry asks before thinking. His eyes widen and he waits for a scolding from Captain Hook but the man looks amused and raises an eyebrow in his direction.

“Aye,” he says, “Mine does as well.” He motions with his hook for Henry to follow and he does. The jovial appearance Hook wears slowly disappears and despite trying to keep it going for Henry’s sake, he’s smart for 13, almost 14. He knows when adults are lying or keeping up a façade.

A few rows over and past a couple funnels that aired smoke from hell into the underworld, Hook brings Henry over to a tombstone.

“Killian Jones?” he asks. He turns up to Hook and finds the man’s eyebrows pinched. Try as he might, Hook’s pain is plain as day on his face when Henry glances at him.

“Aye, Killian Jones. While most people know me by my more colorful moniker, it was the name I was born with and thus the name I’ve shamed these chains to.”

“Will you always have them?” Henry asks.

“Aye.”

“Why?”

“I’ve not been a good man, Henry,” he admits. Hook stands there in apprehension, waiting for Henry to run away. But Henry’s mom is the Evil Queen. It’s kind of hard to beat that in terms of evil, though Rumple – his grandpa – may have surpassed her. If his family consists of some of the most evil people from the Enchanted Forest and he’s forgiven them, he doesn’t see why he can’t extend that same courtesy to Hook.

“Trust me, you’re not the worst,” he replies instead.

“Lad, I’ve spent three centuries on a mad quest for revenge that didn’t even work. Bloody hell, it was all for nothing. A man does not hold onto his anger and his desire to kill for three hundred years without others becoming collateral damage.”

Henry eyes him warily. He thinks it’s something he gained from Emma, or maybe it’s because he’s the Truest Believer, but he doesn’t think Hook is all that bad anymore. Evil doesn’t recognize it’s evil.

“If you really were still a bad guy, you wouldn’t have saved me. You wouldn’t be helping me or telling me all this right now,” Henry tells him. Hook stares at him for a moment before reverting back to his confident and unbothered posture. “Besides, my mom’s the Evil Queen.”

At that, Hook sputters. “What.”

Henry grins up at him. “Reformed now. She’s one of the good guys.” Or, she’s trying to be one. He knows it’s not easy for his mom either. Decades were spent wrapped in her plot for revenge and once she got it, it left her unsatisfied and angrier. But she’s trying her best to be good for him and he can appreciate that, even if she still slips every once and a while. He heard someone say it’s a journey, not a slope and the image makes sense in his head.

Behind Hook’s tombstone and over to the side a few is a pushed over one. “What does that mean?” he asks as he makes his way over.

Graham Humbert.

Henry staggers back a step before he rushes forward and kneels beside the fallen stone.

Graham was a good man. There was that awkward moment when he told Henry about kissing his mom – which he later found out to be both moms – but other than that, he only holds fond memories of the once huntsman. For a long time, Graham was his only friend and then the first one to believe him about the curse. When everyone else made it seem like he was crazy, and when Emma was still in denial, having Graham’s support meant more than he knew to vocalize. It inspired new hope in him that he could help Emma break the curse.

And then he died because Regina crushed his heart and it was the first major loss he felt in his life. Sometimes he wonders if he mourned Graham harder than he did his own dad and then feels silly. Who mourns someone else more than their own dad?

Yet, faced with Graham’s tombstone in Underbrooke, it doesn’t feel so silly. He had a few good moments with his dad but Graham was his friend. He spent more time with Graham, as limited as it was, than with his dad yet he was down here for only one of them. Grandpa Gold did say that it is with his author’s power that he’ll be able to bring his dad back. He warned that it’d only work on one soul to allow them to cross back over to the land of the living, but Henry is the author. Surely he could figure something out, right?

Hook’s hand lands on his shoulder in what he supposes is a comforting gesture but instead the weight adds to his heavy heart. Graham was a good man and he didn’t deserve to be damned to Underbrooke forever. He couldn’t tell his mom.

“Ease your heart, Henry,” Hook says. “The stone was pushed over intact. It means he’s moved on and is in a better place.”

Tears fill his eyes and Henry sighs. Hook pats his shoulder and the weight that sat inside him only moments ago has disappeared. He missed Graham. He was easygoing whenever he caught Henry sneaking out and they had a few lunches at Granny’s together but he deserved to move on to a better place and he was glad he had. He lifts his gaze from the stone.

“What do the other ones mean?” he asks. Standing up, he continues, “The ones that are standing but don’t have a crack. What does that mean?”

Hook pauses. “It means they have unfinished business. They are here in the underworld, as good as damned like the rest of us, unless they are able to solve their unfinished business.”

“Well, that’s easy then!” Henry says. “I’m my dad’s unfinished business! I can still save him!”

There’s a twitch at the corner of Hook’s mouth and he nods. “Aye, you still can. What was his name again?”

“Neal Cassidy,” Henry says as they resume their walk amongst the tombstones, glancing at the names etched across each one. “But I guess if it’s your birth name on it, it’ll say Baelfire.”

“What?”

Henry stops walking and looks to his right, expecting to see Hook but finds nothing. He looks behind him and sees Hook has paused a few steps back, face set in shock but eyes grim.

“Your father is Baelfire?”

He doesn’t know how to react to the news that Hook knew his dad. The pirate tells him of how he fell in love with his grandmother Milah, how she joined his crew to escape the life she felt trapped in, even if it meant leaving behind her son. Their walk resumes as Hook talks, his eyes far away as he speaks and his only hand clenching and unclenching every so often. Rumple, in a fit of rage and revenge against them both, crushed Milah’s heart and took his hand.

It isn’t any secret that his grandfather is an evil guy, perhaps the worst of them all, but to hear how he just ripped the heart of his once love out of her chest and crushed it without a second thought of remorse, well, he wonders if Belle knows the true story. She has always been nice to him and looks for the best in people as much as he does, but he’d hate the same fate to fall on her.

Hook shares how years later, he taught his dad to sail when he was a boy, how he believed that he would do right by Milah and raise Baelfire like she wanted to go back and do so much. And how Hook let his own thirst for avenging her and the rejection by Baelfire to fuel his actions.

“I let him go, Henry. I knew it was the best course of action if he were to leave my ship, the safest one for him, but it was still myself who offered him up to Pan on a silver platter, and he was stuck in that godforsaken place nearly as long as I was.”

“I hate Pan,” Henry mumbles. The grass in Underbrooke is as stuck in a perpetual state of near dead as everything else and when he kicks at it, dirt flies up in front of him. “He manipulated me into giving him my heart.”

There’s a look in Hook’s eyes again, that one he had by the water when he was trying to figure out something about Henry, and he doesn’t know what the pirate is looking for this time.

“The heart of the truest believer,” Hook whispers, more to himself than to Henry. He only nods. “I’ve heard of why he wanted you. Don’t take this the wrong way but I’m surprised you made it out of there alive.”

For what feels like the first time since he entered Underbrooke, Henry smiles. “My family saved me. They’re all heroes, or at least trying to be ones.”

Time in Underbrooke works differently, similar to Neverland, he assumes. He hasn’t been here for even a day yet Henry feels as if there’s been weeks of separation between him and his family. The chill of this nether realm hits his bones again and he sighs, pulling his coat tighter against his body. How much time passed back home? Are they even aware he’s left?

The tombstones become a bit of a blur for a while and their walk has to have extended into miles by now. At one point, Henry stops walking, catching Hook’s attention. The pirate turns to look at him, eyebrow raised and mouth open to ask a question but Henry curls his hands into fists, digs them into his pockets, beats him to it. “What are we looking for? We’ve been walking around here for hours!”

Hook scrutinizes him but Henry turns away. All he can see is tombstones and no exit in sight. What was he doing in here? He had school today and Grams gave him a project on the efficiency of homing pigeons during war and he spent weeks expanding the topic to go into their abilities of navigation and how they were used to pass secret messages and –

“Lad?” a voice calls to him.

Henry blinks.

Turning his head reveals that Hook moved to stand in front of him, both a hand and a hook on his shoulders but Henry feels neither for a moment. He blinks again.

“Huh?”

“You need to stay with me, lad, alright?” Hook says in a quiet voice. His stare is intense and Henry can’t look away, has no desire to break his focus.

“What’s going on?” he asks but his voice sounds far away, like it came from the tree line and not his own throat.

“Stay focused, Henry. Can you do that? You want to find your father. Neal. Baelfire. Remember that. Hold on to the reason why you’re here. Do not lose hope. Aye?”

Henry is numb but he nods. Hook looks him over again before shedding the leather duster from his shoulders and placing it over Henry’s. The jacket weighs more than he thought it would have and when he digs his hands into the pockets, he feels gold coins in one and a flask in another. It’s still warm from the pirate who gave it to him and Henry takes a moment to revel in it. It feels like it’s been ages since he was this warm.

His mind is still a little fuzzy because he doesn’t think that the pile of iron binds following Killian looks as long as it did before, but instead he focuses on the clanking chains around Killian’s ankle becoming a steady beat as they walk.

“What’s happening to me?” Henry asks. He doesn’t like not knowing things. He was the one who figured out Storybrooke was cursed, he was the one who brought his mom home and figured out who everyone’s Enchanted Forest counterparts were. He’s the author – he should know where this was going!

Underbrooke is not to be underestimated, he realizes, and he’s in way over his head.

His grandfather told him he would be fine, that once he found his father, he would be able to come home. All he had to do was write it so in the storybook, along with his father’s name, and he’d be able to come home. Memory loss and brain fog were never mentioned as a warning from his grandfather. He searches his mind and realizes that he wasn’t warned of Acheron either. How could his grandfather send him in so unprepared?

“You’re not supposed to be here,” Killian explains. “You’re still alive. Your soul belongs in the realm of the living and since you didn’t die, your soul didn’t enter the Underworld the way everyone else’s does. So you’re being pulled between realms. The longer you’re here, the harder the pull to the Underworld will be and soon enough, you won’t have enough life left to allow you to go back, however you plan to do that. Your memories will be gone because they didn’t pass with you and you’ll be left here forever, never knowing what your unfinished business is.”

Henry almost tells him that he’s the author, it’s supposed to be in his power to do that, but Killian stops at two pushed over tombstones.

Milah Stiltskin.

Killian’s hand reaches over to touch the fallen tombstone and there’s such a loving reverence in his touch that it reminds him of when Gramps cradles Grams’ cheek and he turns away.

“Milah’s unfinished business was with her son. She regretted leaving him and wanted to know he was alright.” Killian looks up from Milah’s tombstone and smiles sadly. “I’m glad to know she learned he did well for himself.”

His stomach lurches. This man clearly looked towards his dad as a son or a brother or just someone important and Henry didn’t know how to tell Killian the truth.

Yeah, my dad was fun when I met him. Ten years after I was born because he was too scared of facing his dad that he sent my mom to jail for his crimes and didn’t even know I existed because my mom had to give me up and she waited around for him for two years in Tallahassee but he never showed.

Not really something he wants to tell a guy still mourning his lost love.

“I’m sorry you didn’t get to say goodbye to her,” Henry manages. Killian stands and shakes his head.

“No, I did. We made our peace and I only hoped she would find her closure.”

“But you still love her. Why didn’t she stay for you?”

The blue of Killian’s eyes seems sharper and he doesn’t know how to interpret it. He nearly apologizes but the pirate doesn’t let him. “When you love someone, really love them, you want the best for them, whether that includes you or not.”

Henry finds his gaze stuck on the pile of chains by Killian’s feet, forever shackled to his ankle for the sins he committed while he was alive. “You didn’t want her stuck here forever. You wanted to give her her best chance,” he says.

“Aye.”

The tombstone beside Milah’s, the one also pushed over, has the name hidden by dirt. Henry walks around Killian and kneels beside it, curiosity drawing him closer.

Cool to the touch, Henry brushes away the dirt before snuggling back into the heavy duster over his shoulders. It chases some of the new chill away but unlike before, not all of it. He claps his hands together to get the dirt off his palms and finally looks at the name.

Baelfire Stiltskin.

No.

“Wh-what?” Henry asks. Underbrooke shakes beneath his knees and Henry feels his vision spinning around the name on the tombstone. The pushed over tombstone.

“No, no, no. This can’t be right,” he rambles. His head looks up to Killian, praying it’s a mistake or this Baelfire isn’t his dad. He has three John’s in his grade and two Danielle’s. There has to be another Baelfire then. His dad was in his arms when he died, when he jumped in front of Zelena’s magic to save him even if it meant his own demise. His dad used his last breaths to apologize that they didn’t have more time, that he regrets not being there for him, wishing things could have been different. Wouldn’t that mean he was here? Henry comes from a family of heroes – surely his dad would have known they’d come after him and waited, right?

How is he not enough to be his dad’s unfinished business?

Silence envelops him and Killian. They sit at his father’s tombstone for some time and the only sound that meets his ears is his own breathing as his eyes refuse to move from the tombstone.

Apologies, quiet and sincere, come from Killian but Henry doesn’t have the energy to respond.

Camelot had been a quiet place too, allowing him to think about the many ways they could rid his mom of the darkness she so selflessly took on. She had nearly gone insane during that time, always speaking to an unseen figure and restraining herself to the point of pain so she wouldn’t use magic and tempt herself to the darkness. But the darkness liked the pain. It prodded her until she was forced to use her magic to save one of their own and the power that came from that was too much.

True Love’s Kiss didn’t work because of this. So they spent months in meetings with Merlin’s tree and Arthur’s round table to dispel the darkness from his mom’s heart. It was after freeing Merlin from the tree that he first heard whispers of the Underworld.

Souls who have passed but have left behind unfinished business were trapped there and waiting to be freed. Merlin mentioned banishing the darkness to the Underworld since they couldn’t cure his mom of its curse. Ultimately, they were able to reunite the two halves of Excalibur, a feat that seemed impossible before, and the darkness was gone. Yet the Underworld stuck in his head.

After everything his father said to him as he died, Henry thought his father would wait for him in the Underworld. He would be the unfinished business. If anyone were to help him save his father, it would be Grandpa Gold – Rumpelstiltskin.

But Gold said he couldn’t abandon his future son like he did to Bae, and that they couldn’t bring back someone from the dead. Henry argued – he was the author and he should be able to bend the rules and write a new story. It went against what the sorcerer’s apprentice told him to do, but this was a minor situation. After this, he would go back to recording stories as they were. So he planned with Gold to come to the lake in the middle of Storybrooke, a gateway to the Underworld that could only be unlocked by someone who had been there and returned, and he called the ferry for him. Gold wished him luck as Henry met the boat in the lake, the moon reflecting off of the dark surface of the water.

All that hard work and his dad isn’t even here.

They wind up back on the bench Henry first saw Killian sprawled across. The two of them sit side by side, Killian’s chains clanking against one another whenever he shifts his foot, and they watch the uneasy waves of Acheron.

“How’d you die?” Henry asks.

“Bloody crocodile,” Killian says. He turns to Henry, a bitter grin on his lips. “Thought I finally defeated the Dark One, you see. Had my hook dripped in dreamshade and stabbed the crocodile right in the heart. When he pushed me away, his arm hit my hook. Sliced his wrist but also sliced my side.” The laugh that comes from his mouth is dark and full of anger. Henry assumes it can only be at Gold besting him. “Ironic, isn’t it? My life in piracy began with dreamshade only to end with it as well.”

“He was trying to protect me,” Henry admits to Killian. “My dad. He died saving me and I came down here to save him but he’s not even here.”

“Best time to get you home then, lad,” Killian says. There’s a sadness to his voice that wasn’t there before and Henry wonders if he sees his father every time he looks at his face. “How do you plan to do it?”

Henry hesitates.

Back in Storybrooke, everyone knew he became the author. They all knew he refused to change their stories, had locked away the pen in a secret place no one thought to look. But he didn’t know what would happen if people in Underbrooke knew who he was. Killian watched his face and sighed.

“There’s an apartment I know of. It’s abandoned and no one has stepped foot in it beside myself in the years I’ve been here.” Henry raises his eyebrows when Killian says this. “It’s private and safe, so you may keep your secrets, whatever they are.”

Where Killian leads him to, funnily enough, is the loft.

He doesn’t remember the last time he stepped into the loft. They only just recently returned from Camelot before he went on his mission to save his dad. In fact, he wonders if his bedroom upstairs is the same…

Henry rushes up the stairs and sees his bed covered in a white sheet. That’s weird, he thinks to himself. He’s only ever seen abandoned homes have their furniture covered in movies. Except, the loft isn’t abandoned. Grams and Gramps just made him pancakes this morning. He only just cleaned his plate and was looking forward to playing one of his videos. The name slips his mind now, something about duty or calling for someone, and he scratches at the side of his head as he tries to remember what console he played it on.

Did he always sleep upstairs in the loft? A part of his mind remembers another bedroom, in a large white house, but that can’t be right. He’s only ever lived in apartments, none of which had any green space for him to play in.

A shaking motion rattles him to his bones and he thinks it an earthquake. As he blinks away the fog that overtook his mind, he realizes that it’s Killian, his wrists on his shoulders, shaking him.

“Stay. Focused.”

Henry swallows and nods but Killian doesn’t remove his wrists.

When the fog comes over his mind, he doesn’t even know it’s happening and that thought alone terrifies him. What if he can’t break out of it? Does he remain in Underbrooke for the rest of his life, no idea how to get himself to cross over? Tears fill his eyes and he wishes he were home with his moms. This trip to the Underworld, this mission to save his father, wasn’t worth it.

“Listen to me, Henry, alright? I’m going to stay here. Whatever you need to do, your secret is safe with me. I will make sure you get home, got it? I promise.” The earnest look in Killian’s eyes reminds him of his moms when he was in Neverland, how they refused to let him lose hope and continued fighting to get to him.

“I’m the Author,” Henry whispers. Killian steps back in shock and stares at him.

Most of the people he encountered from the Enchanted Forest knew they were fairytale characters. Nearly all of them had their cursed memories from being in Storybrooke and, while they still believed they were of their own free will, recognized that someone had the power to pull their strings. He wasn’t sure how to explain this to Killian but the man only nods his head.

“My many centuries let me learn much about our realm.” He nods at Henry. “From what I can tell, you are much better than the last author.”

Henry shakes his head and shrugs his backpack onto the covered bed, sneezing at the dust that flies up. “Tell me about it. Anyone’s better than Isaac Heller at this point.”

The book he pulls from his backpack isn’t the one he’s grown so fond of. Instead it is a blank copy from the mansion on the outskirts of Storybrooke, a vast number of untouched copies available at his fingertips. Despite all the adventures in Storybrooke since the curse broke, he still hasn’t been added to the storybook. He figured for his own adventure, he’d need his own book.

The pen calls to his fingers and he soon clasps the magical item, pulling it from the depths of his bag. It glows as he holds it up and Killian stares from his spot in the room, one eyebrow raised and his mouth slightly ajar.

“Magnificent,” he whispers to himself. Proud, Henry straightens up.

He brings his bag, book, and pen downstairs to the table with Killian following behind him. Being in the loft is a solace similar to the way the leather duster is that still sits atop his shoulders. It’s not the same as actually being in the loft, but there’s an effort made to be comfortable and Henry reaches for it with all his being. Comfort, like warmth, is rare in Underbrooke.

Killian stands beside the table with his hand on his sword, eyes darting to the door and the windows as Henry opens to the first page, pristine and white without a single word. He glances at the pirate’s protective stance, the only man he’s met besides Gramps that’s kept his word, and bites his tongue as he writes.

Disappointed but now full of knowledge, a portal opened in the Underworld to bring Henry Mills home.

The words shine on the page and with a twinkle become solid black ink. Muscles tense in anticipation, Henry waits.

Yet nothing happens.

No whirling vertex appears like the one that stole him away to Neverland. No spinning hat like the one that took his mom and grandma. No door, no Narnia wardrobe, no Harry Potter portkey – heck, he’d even take a DeLorean if it gets him out of here. But there is absolutely nothing.

“Everything alright, lad?” Killian asks, only chancing a glance back at him before returning to inspecting the entryways. Who knew what would happen if the souls down here could sense his power?

“Uh, yeah! Just another minute!”

At the end of his adventure, a portal opened to bring the Author home to Storybrooke.

Only Henry’s breathing fills the silence of the loft and he is met with crushing disappointment as yet again, nothing happens. He falls to his seat, head in his hands, and desperately tries not to cry.

Grandpa Gold told him this was how he was to get home with Neal. That his Author powers would allow him to get home since they couldn’t use the ferry again. Did Grandpa Gold know it wouldn’t work?

No, he couldn’t have. This was a mission to save his son, he wouldn’t jeopardize that after spending years and traveling realms to save him.

But in the back of his mind, hollow words belonging to the prophecy that hung over Gold’s head rings in his ears. The words refuse to come to him and try as he might, nothing he did could bring back the memory of hearing what it was. When was it that he heard it again? Was it in Neverland when –

“Bloody hell.”

Henry looks up at Killian to see the pirate looking over the paper he wrote on. At the top, his writing begins to disappear and Henry cries out. He rushes forward to rewrite the sentences, hoping that maybe if they stay there, something will eventually happen. When he tries, his hand moves of its own accord and Henry gives into his abilities. He closes his eyes and lets his pen write.

Killian sucks in a breath next to him and as Henry finishes writing a short passage, he sees a picture begin to form on the next page. It’s his family, the one he left to go on this pointless mission, and they’re all together in this loft, home in Storybrooke, and trying to find where he went.

A sob catches in his throat and Henry slams the pen into the book before slamming it shut. Killian is hesitant before he wraps his arms around Henry’s shoulders but once he does, the waterworks don’t stop.

He cries. He cries for his family and for leaving them behind without saying goodbye. He cries because he is stuck in this godforsaken hellscape for the rest of eternity. He cries because he loved his father so much and risked everything to save him but his father didn’t love him enough to stay for him and God, is this what Mom felt like?!

He has no way to get home, no family in Underbrooke to stay with, and no idea what he is going to do next.

Thankfully, Killian has an idea.

It’s not one that will get him home but it’s one that brings back a spark of hope. As the truest believer, he knows hope is the most important thing he can hold onto right now and it seems Killian knows that too.

The pirate guides him to the line at the telephone booth. Still as long as when he last visited, whenever that had been, and the hopelessness threatens to burn out the flame of hope he’s lit inside. He tugs Killian’s duster tighter around his frame, the jacket doing more to keep out the emotions of Underbrooke and the chill than his wool coat even attempted.

“Excuse us,” Killian says gruffly. He isn’t afraid to flash his hook and, while it doesn’t get more than a disinterested glance, the line does back up a few paces. They cut to the front and once the woman leaves the telephone booth, they squeeze inside.

“What do I do?” Henry asks. Killian hands him the phone and looks over at the numbers, pressing the zero and then turning to him.

“When the operator picks up, tell them who you wish to speak to. It only works one way, so they can’t respond, but this will be the best way to communicate with your family for now.”

Be it mother’s intuition or her powers as the Savior but Emma knew the moment that Henry disappeared. He didn’t disappear in the normal sense like kids do when they sneak out in the middle of the night.

No, Emma awoke in the middle of the night with a gasp and her heart clenching painfully tight in her chest like it had when Cora reached in to take it. An emptiness settled over her in a way that brought her back to being the hospital room with her ankle shackled to the bed and arms with no baby.

Three days later and the empty feeling continues to grow in her chest and she forgot what it felt like to breath without it being painful. Every second without her son is another crack and twist of her heart.

Storybrooke has been searched far and wide with both magical and non-magical means. The locator spell Regina cooked up yielded no results, neither did the one Gold did either. Her mind tugs at her whenever she’s with Gold though and she knows that he knows something. He refuses to move his point, no matter Emma’s methods, and it irks her that he could leave her son out alone and without a care for it. His own grandson.

Sleep eludes her and Emma finds herself staring up at the ceiling of the loft and feeling colder than she had since she was 16.

Mom…

Emma sits up in alarm. Her eyes search the upper room of the loft with no results. She swore she heard her son’s voice.

Mom…

Again, Emma looks to find nothing, both upstairs and downstairs. She settles herself under the covers again and believes herself to be going crazy. She’s been hoping to hear his voice so much that she is starting to drive herself insane.

Mom… Henry. I’m…

A tightness closes over her chest and Emma loses her breath. It is her son. He’s trying to communicate from wherever he is, which is certainly not Storybrooke, and Emma closes her eyes so she can focus solely on the voice in her ear. Magic comes to life at her fingertips as she works to strengthen their connection.

Mom, it’s Henry. I’m so sorry about everything. I was trying to find Dad and bring him back but he’s not here. I’m so sorry. I tried to write myself out of here but it didn’t work. I’m with Killian and he’s trying to help me but we don’t know what we’re doing or how to get me out of the Underworld.

Her breath leaves her throat in a loud gasping sob and Emma feels the tears streaming down her face.

“Hen – Henry,” she whimpers into the dark of her bedroom. Her magic tickles and Emma puts all of her power into her message. “Henry, kid, I love you. It’s going to be okay. I’m going to get you out of there. I love you. I’m coming.”

She waits in silence and listens but no other message comes through. Kicking the blankets off of her body, she rushes down the steps to her parents room, not giving a care in the world that little Leo just fell asleep.

“Mom, Dad, I heard him. I heard Henry,” Emma says in a rush. She’s shaking her parents awake and they blink up at her blearily. She repeats herself twice before it clicks in and then they shoot out of bed.

“Henry?!” David exclaims.

“Is he alright? Where is he?” Snow chimes in.

Reality crashes down on Emma. As wonderful as it was to hear her son’s voice, she doesn’t know where to go from there and tears well up at the thought. Her boy, her brave boy with more faith in his pinky than most people have in their bodies, stuck in purgatory. Alone. “The Underworld.”

Emma sits at the table in the loft, a cup of hot chocolate clasped tightly between her hands, and her stare set straight on the wooden top.

“What exactly was said?” Regina asks for what Emma swears is the millionth time. The response is robotic now. Emma played Henry’s message in her head so many times that she memorized the lilt of terror in his voice, the waver on some of his words, and the panic at the end. Her little boy was scared and alone in the Underworld and she had no idea how he got there or how to get him.

“Wait, did you say Killian?” her mom asks. Emma stutters, trailing off instead of finishing her repetition. When her gaze meets her mother’s, Mary Margaret is gone and Snow White has taken her place. There’s a fierce protectiveness to the way she clenches her jaw and Emma recognizes the glint of a hunter in her mother’s eyes.

“Yeah, that’s what Henry said.”

Regina throws up her hands, “Well that’s just great. Our son has made a friend with a doomed soul that we know nothing about.”

“That’s not exactly true,” Snow interrupts. Emma furrows her eyebrows. Killian must be someone her mom knows from the Enchanted –

It dawns on her then. The man who posed as a blacksmith who escaped Cora’s massacre and pleaded for help. Who she almost left tied to a tree until he told her –

“Killian Jones,” Emma groans.

“Is that supposed to mean something to me?”

Snow shares a look with Emma before answering Regina. “Captain Hook.”

Being in Underbrooke is like one never-ending day. There’s no night but there’s also no sun. The town, or whatever this place is, is lit up enough under the red haze that it constantly feels like midday. Henry thinks his time here would be going easier if he could separate it into days, kind of like Neverland, but he’s learned that nothing in life is easy.

After visiting the telephone booth, or haunting booth as one person called it, Killian ushered him back to the Underbrooke version of his family’s loft.

“Do you think she got it?”

“Regina? Aye, she’s got magic and if she –”

“I wasn’t talking about Regina,” Henry interrupts. He’s been in Storybrooke for so long that he forgets not everyone knows the details of his complicated and intertwined family history. “Regina adopted me when I was a baby.”

Killian huffs out a laugh. “I’m glad to hear that, lad.” He scratches behind his ear and Henry realizes that Captain Hook, the Captain Hook, is sheepish. “I was a bit frightened to hear that Regina and Baelfire were both your parents. I feared his stint on Neverland turned him dark.”

Henry nods and swallows back the idea that even if Neal wasn’t evil, per say, he still wasn’t as good of a man as the idea of him Killian put on a pedestal.

“If Regina is your… adoptive mother, then do you know who your birth mother is?”

“Yeah!” There’s a pep in Henry’s step as he pulls off the bedsheets over the furniture, turning his head away to avoid the dust. “My birth mom is Emma Swan. She’s the Sav–”

“Swan?” Killian asks. The catch in his voice is interesting, as is the grin that threatens to quirk up at the mere mention of her name. Henry eyes the pirate, not sure what he’s thinking of concerning his mom.

“Yeah. Do you know her?” He’s aware of the time his mom and Grams spent in the Enchanted Forest, and the fights in Storybrooke with Cora…

…and Hook.

How could he forget that Hook still was a villain? What did he think earlier? The rule of balance? But if Peter Pan and Captain Hook were both villains, then who was the hero in Neverland? And Captain Hook hasn’t seemed like a villain since meeting him in Underbrooke. Then again, he did have the pile of chains that followed him around with every step he made.

What did he hear of last of Hook in Storybrooke? Was it when he arrived on his ship with Cora? He struggles to remember even as he searches his mind for an answer and his fists clench the sheet in his hands.

Why was he holding this sheet? Was it his turn to do wash today? Ugh. He hated doing the wash. When he lived with Emma in New York, they always just shoved it into the machine but David likes to separate the whites from the colors and the –

Killian coughs and Henry blinks.

For all the tales he heard of Captain Hook, seeing him flustered and blushing was not one.

He observes Killian scratching at the back of his ear again and fights back a grin. Did Killian have a crush on his mom?

“Aye. We’ve had some… interactions, you can say.” He smirks slightly and gives Henry a teasing wink. “I think I left an impression.” Underneath the teasing, Killian’s eyes hold a fondness that makes Henry wonder what exactly went down between the pirate and his mom.

The bedsheet crumples in his hand as he thinks of his mom. Agitation crawls up his spine like a family of spiders reaching a perch, and he shivers. The urge is there, heavy in his chest, to go back down to the telephone booth, to hog the phone and keep talking until his voice is hoarse and then just breathe in and breathe out so his mom knows he’s alive. He figures if he waits long enough and tries hard enough, she’ll be able to get a message back.

“Do you think she heard me?” he asks. “Do you think my mom heard my message?”

“Do you believe she did?”

He has to. If he doesn’t believe she heard it then he doesn’t have a chance. Grams once said that believing in even the possibility of a happy ending is a powerful thing and right now, that’s all he has. Belief and hope and faith in himself and his family to save him.

“I do,” Henry answers resolutely.

Killian grins like Henry made the right choice and he’s proud of him. “Then I do too. Between the Savior and the heart of the Truest Believer? I doubt there’s anything you’ll fail at.”

Killian makes him share stories about his family and his life in Storybrooke. Maybe it’s not fair to say makes, but he heavily encourages it. Henry is tired and it hurts to talk but Killian asks for stories and he obliges.

After the first line of questioning from the man, he realizes what he’s doing. Killian is trying to make sure he doesn’t forget and to give him more time before his mom saves him. If he remembers, then there’s still a chance.

When Killian notices the beginnings of a brain fog overtaking his mind, he changes the subject, his line of questioning bringing Henry’s head back to a moment of clarity. Despite how much he talks, he doesn’t thirst for water and his mouth doesn’t dry. It concerns him for a moment but he reassures himself that he’s still alive, albeit in limbo, when his chest still rises steadily with his breathing and Killian’s does no such thing.

The storytelling isn’t one-sided, thankfully. He’s always been open and honest with the people he meets but being in Underbrooke has left him raw and vulnerable and he’s afraid he doesn’t have any more layers to pull back for their impromptu show-and-tell. Killian recognizes this and tells Henry of his time in the royal navy, of his turn to piracy, the different treasures he found. He also tells Henry of his mistakes, the things he regrets. How he wishes it didn’t take him making peace with Milah, breaking her already crushed heart with the truth of his life after her murder, to recognize how far off the path he’d fallen from being the man he once hoped to be.

“How come you have the chains?” Henry inquires after that particular story. Though he hasn’t had the chance to explore all of Underbrooke, he’s seen enough to know that Killian is the only person with a pile of chains following him.

Said chains jostle when Killian readjusts himself on the recliner in the living room of the loft. He rests his unshackled leg across the knee of his shackled one and plays with the rings on his hand. A ruby red jeweled ring hangs from his neck, the shiniest of them all and unlike two of the gawdy pieces that adorn his fingers.

“I made a deal with the devil,” Killian says.

“I thought this wasn’t hell.”

“It’s not,” Killian says. “But it might as well be for some of us. And Hades may not be the devil but he acts like one.”

He hesitates for only a moment before asking his next question. “What was the deal?”

Killian is a master at hiding his emotions – most of the time, at least. He guesses the man was a killer poker player without even needing to stack the deck. But his veneer cracks and Henry practically sees the bitterness that’s taken home in Killian’s expression.

“I was destined for Acheron when I came down here,” he reveals and Henry’s stomach drops. “My list of unfinished business is far longer than most that come down here and there are some things that I will never be able to complete… But I struck a deal with Hades. If I were to be stuck down here, then let it be with anything other than Acheron. A sailor’s love is the sea and a dangerous temptress she is. But I wouldn’t let her swallow me.”

“So you made a deal and he gave you the chains instead?”

“Not exactly. First, I was a chew toy for Cerberus.” Killian uses his hook to lift his shirt and despite the state of limbo, there are scars littering across his ribs and stomach that are fresher than the ones Henry sees curling around to his back. He drops the shirt back down after a moment. “Once Cerberus got bored, Hades figured he’d use me.”

“What did he do?”

“Replaced my hook with a chisel. When I didn’t carve the names of innocents to bring them to the Underworld, he gave me a carving all for myself.”

He isn’t sure if he wants to see it or not. Killian waits for his approval before using his hook once again, this time to roll up the sleeve of his right arm. There’s a jagged scar across his forearm and amongst it is the shape of a disarrayed heart. Redness lines the edges of the scarring and Killian hisses as his shirt sleeve brushes against it. If he looks carefully, Henry could mistake the scar for a tattoo.

His eyes fall to the chains, a tinny sound filling the apartment when they rub against each other from Killian’s movements. “How did you end up with the chains then?”

“Hades didn’t get the kind of reactions he wanted from me. Figured it would hurt me more to see the weight of the sins I can’t wash away.” Killian observes the chains and closes his eyes, taking a deep breath.

When he first saw Killian at the bench by the water, the chains were a threat of black without a form. They haunted Killian’s being like a shape in the shadows waiting to pounce. Then, they took up the entirety of the space beneath the bench. Now, in the light of the apartment, the large mass looks small settled in its pile by his feet. If his mind hadn’t been playing tricks on him all day, he’d think there were less links on the chain.

“Do you regret it?” Henry asks. His eyes are feeling heavy and he figures that days have gone by in Storybrooke. His body is feeling the exhaustion and although it doesn’t need food or drink, it wants sleep. But will he wake if he sleeps?

“Until very recently, yes.”

That catches his attention. He sits up from where he began slouching on the couch and meets Killian’s gaze straight on.

“I’ve lived three centuries, Henry. That’s more life than any man should live, but it was all I knew. After spending some time down here, I don’t think I’ve felt a lonelier existence in all that time. Acheron would be a terrible fate, yes, but worse so is being alone forever.”

“You don’t have anyone else down here besides Milah?” Though Milah moved on, surely Killian had family. He told Henry about his brother so his brother had to be down here too. “What about Liam?”

Killian’s smile is quick but sad. “I was able to reunite with him, and it was more than I could have ever hoped for. He would have stayed here with me, not allow himself to move on, but he deserved better.”

“You wanted him to have his best chance…”

“Aye.”

It always comes down to best chances. Henry almost finds himself sick of the idea. All anyone did when they were trying to give someone else their best chance is get hurt. Would it be better to not do that? But then he wouldn’t have both of his moms and all the family he gained in Storybrooke and maybe a little pain is worth it in the long run.

He lets out a yawn, his eyes fluttering closed, and tries to sit up again only to relax back into the cushions.

“Rest, lad,” Killian whispers. Henry can barely keep his eyes open but he feels something being draped over his body.

“I don’t want to,” he tries to fight back but his words are more of a mumble than a defiant roar. “I’m scared.”

“No need to worry,” Killian says. Iron links click and clack as the pirate moves about the room. When Henry feels the couch dip beside him, he knows its Killian. There’s a gentle press on his shoulder and Henry submits to it. His head falls onto a pillow and the hand on his shoulder doesn’t move. “Sleep, and I’ll protect you.”

“Is there a way to the Underworld?” Emma asks the moment Regina enters the loft.

“Yes,” Regina begins. “But we’re not doing it.”

“I think that should be up to us to decide,” Snow cuts in, David nodding his agreement at her side.

Regina rolls her eyes. Emma can practically hear the sarcasm in the action. “Well that’s all fine and dandy but I meant that we don’t have the means.”

David crosses his arms and Emma imagines this is what her father looked like in the Enchanted Forest. A united front with her mother as they planned to take back their kingdom from Regina. “What do you need?”

“The blood of someone who died and has come back to life.”

Emma perks up. “Yes, we can do it.”

“And how do you imagine we can? Do you have a vial of someone’s revived blood in the cabinet next to the cinnamon, Miss Swan?”

She ignores Regina’s remark and turns to David. Her pleading eyes asking for his understanding and she knows before she even utters her question that he will help. “Dad. You died. Back in the Enchanted Forest when Mom cast the Dark Curse until she shared her heart and brought you back to life.”

Realization dawns on both of her parents and Emma feels the hope in her chest begin to flutter.

“Will it work?” David’s eyes are focused over her shoulder and there’s such a desperation to his voice that makes Emma want to cry. She forgets sometimes, since she was only a baby when it happened, but her parents know what it feels like to lose a child and not be able to save them.

Their hopes, however, come crashing down with Regina’s minute shake of her head.

“I’m afraid not,” she reveals. Her words twist Emma’s heart. Henry is her son too and she wouldn’t be turning down an opportunity to save him, no matter the cost. Emma had been on the receiving end more times than she can count of how far Regina would go for Henry. “You died, yes, but to reach the Underworld, you need to have been there. You weren’t dead long enough for your soul to leave your body and enter Underworld. Your blood won’t work.”

Silence rains down on the group in heavy piles. Shoulders are tense and faces are downtrodden. The only other way for someone to go to the Underworld is if one of them died with unfinished business and she is really not in the mood to have to save two souls.

Her knowledge of the Underworld is limited and if she hadn’t been able to merge the two parts of Excalibur to get rid of the darkness, she would have run herself through with the sword and be damned there herself. Anything to get rid of the darkness and make sure no one else could become the Dark One.

The words, the title that Rumpelstiltskin proudly paraded around for centuries, are a key turning a lock. Her mind floods with the possibilities and her mouth doesn’t work fast enough to voice them all.

“Gold,” she manages.

“What?” Snow asks. Her hand drifts down to Emma’s shoulder, a comforting gesture through the confusion, she supposes, but Emma barely notices.

“Gold is the key. When he was dying, I took on the darkness. There has never been two people who were the Dark Ones alive at the same. He died and came back. We need Gold’s blood.”

When he sleeps, he dreams of nothing. The comforting hand on his shoulder is a tether keeping his soul grounded and calm. It doesn’t compare to when one of his mothers sits by his bedside when he’s sick but it’s a close second.

When he wakes, his senses come rushing back. First is the itchiness of the white bedsheet over his frame. The borrowed leather duster he wears still holds most of the warmth but he appreciates the gesture of the sheet. Next, he notices that the pillow his head rests on is situated on top of Killian’s knees and that the man hasn’t moved an inch since he fell asleep.

“Killian?” Henry calls, groggily. He slowly sits up and turns to him.

“What is it, lad?” Killian’s worry is familiar. His voice tilts down an octave and his words are rushed in the way his moms get when they think some new storybook villain has appeared in town and he gets involved.

“I need to find a storybook.”

He explains on the way to the author’s mansion that his writing isn’t taking when he tries in the new book. Although the book he brought is sharing the stories from Storybrooke, the last being his grandparents hovering over research books, his own stories aren’t translating across realms. “If I can get a storybook from Underbrooke, then maybe what I write in it will be able to get to my family. We have the telephone booth, but with this we can sort of get two-way communication.”

Killian stumbles behind him, his foot caught on a chain link, and calls out, “Underbrooke?”

The name slipped out. He honestly didn’t even mean to say it, but he’s been letting the name go around in his head this entire time that he didn’t even think.

Now that Killian questions it, Henry isn’t sure where Underbrooke came from. It sounds like a play on words and Henry repeats name under his breath. His eyebrows are pinched and his eyes drift far away as he tries to remember but nothing comes to him. Did he give this place that name or is it officially called Underbrooke?

“Underbrooke, huh?” he hears someone repeat next to him. The person’s face is a blur but Henry feels a blue-eyed gaze narrowed at him. The voice continues speaking, “Underbrooke – kind of like Storybrooke. That’s where you’re from, isn’t it Henry?”

Henry shakes his head and blinks hard. Killian’s face comes into focus and he’s become used to the expression on it to know his mind drifted off into the brain fog. “Sorry,” he apologizes but Killian waves him off.

The mansion dipped in the red haze brings about an unease that settles between his shoulder blades. A foreboding presence greets them at the door and for a moment, he worries that Isaac Heller has died and his unfinished business is revenge on Henry for taking his job. But the mansion is empty and the cobwebs prove its unuse.

He accesses the secret room with the empty storybooks the same way he did back home. Killian’s amazement and wonder at Henry’s ease makes him feel cool. The idea that anything he did could impress Captain Hook was definitely something he’d tell Violet and Grace when he got home.

Storybooks in Underbrooke are dark with worn leather that flakes off at the slightest hint of the wrong touch. Its pages are as black as the night sky and his pen trembles when he lifts it to write. The glow has returned and Henry feels the warmth in his fingertips. He imagines that warm tickle is what his moms must feel when they use their magic – their light magic.

He warned Killian as they walked up to the mansion when happens when he gives into the magic of the pen and writes but he can still see the apprehension in the man’s posture as Henry’s eyelids flutter shut and his hand whips across the page.

It’s a few minutes before he opens his eyes again but Killian is giving him that look like he’s never seen anything as cool as this and he grins at the man.

“What do we do now?” Killian asks.

Henry shrugs. “We wait.”

Gold is nowhere to be found. The location spells they’ve attempted only give dead ends from promising leads.

“It’s the residuals of his magic,” Regina told her. “He doesn’t have it anymore but the magic he cast while he did is still lingering. For God knows how long.”

Still, he was their key to getting Henry back so she resorted to her bail bonds tactics. Computer softly playing an old Fall Out Boy song in the background as she searches, she almost misses the flickering of pages. It’s as ‘Our Lawyer Made Us Change the Name of This Song So We Wouldn’t Get Sued’ fades into ‘The Kids Aren’t Alright’ that she hears the book.

Her head swivels fast and her eyes search for a boy with brown hair and the brightest smile in the world. Nothing but empty space meets her. She figures her mind must be playing tricks on her, her search for her son driving her to insanity already, but her magic tugs at her fingertips. It calls to her to go to the book, pulling at her gut. And Emma Swan always listens to her gut.

When she makes her way over to the countertop, Henry’s storybook is open but the tale the page tells isn’t one she’s heard before. The picture on the opposite side is still forming and at the shape of his head, Emma comes to tears. She knows. She already knows that her brilliant boy is finding a way to talk to her, to let her know what is happening to him.

The words appearing on the page tell her the story of how Henry contacted her from the telephone booth. Her blurry eyes lose track of her sentence but her fingers gently run down the side of his face drawn on the opposite page. Five days without her son feels like a lifetime. She gives herself a few more minutes admiring his drawing before sucking in a breath and steeling herself to return to her search for Gold. He would not slip through her fingers.

The storybooks quickly become a way to communicate and it exhausts the lad. Time passes differently for those stuck in the Underworld and what may have been just a few hours wherever he’s from has been stretched out in the timeless expanse of this hellscape.

In what’s quickly become a ritual, Killian covers Henry with a bedsheet and lets the boy get some uninterrupted rest after using so much magic with the pen.

Henry isn’t the first child he’s seen in the Underworld. He’s been unfortunate enough to see those poor souls, lost so young and not understanding where they are. If he had a heart, he supposes it’d have clenched up at the sight. Henry, however, is the first child in the Underworld who’s alive.

Or the first anyone who’s alive.

There had been rumors in the past of a couple separated by death until one made a deal with Hades to restore life to his lover. There are variations of how the tale ends, some romantically and others tragically, but the truth is buried as far deep as hope in this hopeless place.

Except for Henry.

With every breath Henry takes, he instills more hope in Killian than he’s had in centuries. The lad has loved ones – bloody powerful loved ones at that – fighting to get him home and he realizes that perhaps there is still a chance at salvation. Not for him, he thinks glumly as he looks at his sins physically manifested around his ankle, but for others.

He hates the chain.

He’s not sure if it is Hades doing or his guiltiness overwhelming his mind but he swears that every link on the chain has a name inscribed on it to remind him of a life he stole or an act he committed to remind him of how vile he was. There’s Jameson who he sliced through with his sword when he saw him hovering over the captain’s treasure. And there’s Franklin who he tied to the mast upside down before tossing him overboard for trying to take a woman while she was passed out (that one he feels was justified and isn’t miffed at having it around his ankle). There’s also Mikey who –

Killian’s eyebrows scrunch together and his eyes narrow as he inspects his chain. The link he dedicated to Mikey, the guy who he killed for stealing his rum, isn’t where it usually sits. He’s spent enough time in the Underworld to know the exact listing of every piece of his chain and who he dedicated it to that he’d know when one was missing.

Shaking his head, Killian wants to laugh at himself. He must be going crazy if he thought a link went missing. The weight around his ankle never changed and he hadn’t seen the man in over a century and a half. The ship for finding closure with that unfinished business has sailed.

He may not be able to wash his hands of his blood or free his ears of the clanking every time his chain moves, but he will do what he can to save Henry.

Bags are starting to form under the lad’s eyes and Killian wishes he could take over those writing responsibilities so he didn’t have to wear himself out all the time. But that’s not how magic works, especially powerful magic like that belonging to the Author. He learned his lesson early in his quest for revenge when he met the Apprentice.

When he checks outside the loft window, Killian groans quietly. The line for the telephone is dwindling but he balks at the idea of waking Henry from his peaceful slumber. When he wakes later, Killian will just cut the line again and threaten with his hook if anyone were to cause a problem.

Still…

His eyes turn to Henry’s sleeping form.

The Author’s pen in Killian’s hand acts like any other writing device. There’s no magical property to be felt or price to pay for what he creates. He simply writes Henry a note in case he wakes up, rips the page out with his hook, and leaves.

It feels smaller this time, he decides. Last time he was able to leave his chain out on the sidewalk, the hurry to get in contact with the lad’s family too important to care about whatever punishment may befall him if the wrong person tripped on it. But now he wants no distractions so he hauls the chain into the telephone booth with him and closes his eyes before picking up the receiver.

Killian is no stranger to speaking to himself. He lives – lived – on a magical ship at sea that really didn’t need a crew so when he required time for himself, he’d sail out to the North Sea by himself and anchor for a few weeks. Speaking to himself kept him sane on the water. Speaking in the telephone booth with no one to respond to makes him insane.

Once connected to who he wants to speak to, he licks his lips and opens his mouth.

Sssw…

Emma flicks her wrist out beside her ear. Her eyes are stuck on the page of an old tome, probably the fourth she’s inspected in the last hour alone, and the buzzing in her ear from whatever fly got into the loft is really pissing her off.

Sssw… Swan…

Her head jerks up. Hook?!

His voice rings in her ears the same way Henry’s did and she sits up straight, her back wrought with tension. All that followed Hook was trouble so if he is the one contacting her then something must have happened. She waits for his voice again and while doing so, she drags the storybook over to her and begins flicking through the pages, looking for some sort of sign that Henry is okay.

Swan… Bloody hell, I hope you can hear me through this blasted contraption. Love, your boy is okay for the most part. But I need to be honest with you. He can’t be down here much longer. I’m doing what I can to help him remember but the Underworld has a powerful pull and his lapses in memory are becoming more frequent. If he can’t remember then there’s no way to bring him back. Right now he’s exhausting himself writing in that damned book. I understand it’s helping you both communicate and your boy finds a comfort in it but we need to figure out something else because –

Emma swallows. Her hand writes his message furiously as he speaks and when he stops suddenly, she worries that their connection has been broken. All she understands from Henry’s stories is that there’s a telephone booth that allows the undead to communicate with the living. She pulls at her magic and lets the warmth fill her.

“Hook?” she asks hesitantly.

She’s not sure if he hears her but he resumes talking almost immediately.

Bloody hell, love, how could I forget?! Swan, I do hope you’re listening. If not, I’ll return later and say the same. I have another way for you to communicate with your boy and it’s a great deal better than that book.

Emma’s only been on the Jolly Roger once before, when they stole the ship from Hook back in New York. The ship hadn’t been happy then and they experienced rough seas all the way back to Storybrooke.

Yet the gangway beneath her feet pays no mind and Emma can feel the sadness in the enchanted wood of the ship before her. She’s not sure how but the Jolly knows her captain is gone and the idea that it has been in mourning, let alone in the harbor with no one allowed aboard through the magical enchants, for years tugs at her heartstrings. Before Henry came back into her life, she never would have paid mind to the feelings of a ship but magic has changed her.

Her own reaches out to the ship and she feels a gentle nudge in the way a cat bumps its head against its owner’s hand. Curiosity seeps into the wood of the ship and Emma takes a deep breath, looking around the harbor to ensure she’s alone, and whispers the password Hook whispered in the Underworld telephone. “Alice.”

The enchantments part and Emma steps through the gap. Magic wraps around her like curtains billowing in the wind, calming her racing heart. The Jolly knows she means no harm this time and the boards are welcoming and dry despite the heavy rain last night.

It takes her a few wrong turns before she finds the captain’s quarters. The room is neat and organized. The bed against one wall of the room is so nicely made that she bet she could bounce a quarter off of it. His desk has one lone piece of paper on it and while her curiosity begs her to read it, she instead focuses her task on finding what she needs.

“I need to speak quietly,” his voice said in her ear, volume just above a whisper. “There’s a necklace beneath my mattress. The charm on that necklace acts as a key. Use it to open the vault behind a painting of a cottage. In it you will find a small conch shell. You may need to wield that wonderful magic of yours, love, but you should be able to use it to speak to your lad.”

Emma finds the key with relative ease but the vault not so much. Hook has three pictures of cottages on the walls of his ship and the one that could actually hold the vault still has a fake panel over it. She swings the portrait out, slides out the fake panel, and inserts the charm into the lock.

His vault, like much of everything in his cabin, is neat. There are a few pieces of parchment paper, a drawing of a beautiful woman, a modest ring, a dirty rag, and a conch shell.

Magic tickles at her fingertips and Emma expects an electric shock when she touches the coral shell but all she feels is warmth. The shell is tiny in her grasp and it hums quietly pressing vibrations into her palms. Her eyes close as she cradles it and her mind thinks of Henry; how much she misses him and how much she loves him and how much she wants to bring him home.

She hesitates for a moment, not sure what to do, and then holds her palm close to her mouth and speaks.

“…Hook?” she asks no one.

“Swan?”

The conch shell glows in her hand. She stares in wide-eyed shock as his breathless voice repeats, “Swan? Is that you?”

The Jolly sways pleasantly on the harbor and Emma swears that it hears his voice by the soothing motions. A spark comes from her fingertips. Her lips are dry and her jaw drops open as she stares at the shell in shock. She fumbles through her words but manages to say, “Yeah, Hook. It’s me.”

“Bloody hell, love. Miss me?”

She huffs out a laugh, bittersweet to its core. The last time she saw Hook, they’d been in New York. Emma told him of Rumple’s idea to get back to Storybrooke so he can cure himself but Hook turned her down.

“I don’t trust that bloody crocodile. He’ll save his own skin and leave me to perish an even worse fate than this,” he spat. Black lines were visible under the tear in his shirt. She bit her lip worriedly. As much as Hook had been a pain in her ass, he wasn’t all bad. Seeing Neal reminded her of the pain that came with giving Henry up, the pain that came from Neal’s betrayal. If she faced the kind of heartbreak Hook did, she doubts she would have done much different before. But now she has Henry and she chooses to do better.

He was a lost soul, perhaps even a lost boy of Neverland, and his mission had been complete. She saw glimpses, in the Enchanted Forest, of the man he could be. The man he once was. He told her no lies while they were on the beanstalk and truly meant to betray Cora and be at their aid. He saved Aurora’s heart in the midst of their climatic battle and, once he shot Belle – not to kill, she reminds herself. The man had been alive for three hundred years and she was no fool to believe she beat him fairly at the portal or that he was anything but a perfect shot – he gave no trouble aside from an innuendo here and a flirty remark there.

“What can I do?” she asked him quietly. His blue eyes were light, pale, and his head lolled haphazardly to the side so he could meet her gaze. Distrust filled his eyes and his shoulders stiffened at her inquiry. Three hundred years alone just to die slowly amongst enemies, she realized. “Hook, you told me once to trust you and now I’m asking you to do the same for me. I’m not your enemy.”

He coughed and gave her a smile similar to the one he offered in the hospital a few days prior. Grim and bitter and knowing he had no positive outcome ahead. “Hasn’t seemed that way, love.”

“Yeah, well, a pirate hellbent on revenge makes things a little difficult.” His smiled sadly and looked beyond Emma to the open door of the building, his eyes on the New York harbor. Her eyes followed and she weighed her options. Neal and Henry were working together to get Gold good for the ride back on the pirate ship, one they’d take with or without the ship’s captain.

The sounds of grunting turned her attention back to Killian who was attempting to sit up, with great effort. Emma rushed to wrap his arm over her shoulders and her own around his waist. “Easy there, big guy.” She felt rather than saw his mouth open, ready for a comment, and she turned her head to glare. “Don’t. Now where are you going?”

“If I’m to die, I want the water to calm me.”

Emma struggled to bring Killian across the street and down the block to the harbor. It took a good fifteen minutes and for once she was grateful that New Yorkers didn’t question the oddities of other inhabitants. She found a bench that looked over the smooth waves and gently placed Killian down on it. He heaved out a sigh and took a deep breath.

“Smells disgusting,” he remarked.

She shrugged. “Welcome to New York.”

A bit of color returned to his blue eyes but not enough to settle her worry. The black lines began to extend to where his shirt opened, more buttons undone than done. He told her, back on the beanstalk, about this particular plant of Neverland and how it poisoned one’s system until it reached their heart. There was no cure for it, aside from a water on Neverland but once one drinks from it, their soul is chained to the island forever.

He had a haunted look in his eyes when he told her the story and she figured he learned most of it from first-hand experience. Judging by the proceeding dark lines on his chest, he didn’t have much time left. She wondered how badly it pained him to die the same way he saw someone else he cared about go.

“Go to your boy, Swan. Don’t let him worry,” his voice rasped.

“And leave you here to die alone?!”

Alone was cold and frightening. Alone was empty. Alone was hell.

She knew that well enough over her childhood and well into adulthood. It sucked. And while her and Hook weren’t on the best of terms, she couldn’t bear to leave him to die by himself.

“I’ve got the sea with me. That’s all I need,” he murmured. He lazily turned his gaze up to where she stood beside his bench. “Be with your lad. I’m okay.”

There was something in his voice. A resignation and a wistfulness. So she nodded and turned to walk away. But she paused. When they met, he told her his name. Killian Jones. She wondered when the last time it was that someone else actually uttered his given name and pondered the thought that, now with his revenge complete, he’d want to leave this world as himself instead of the moniker he held on for far too long. “Goodbye, Killian.”

He turned to her in surprise, his mouth dropping open. Awe filled his features along with a gratefulness she’d never seen before. “Another time, Emma.”

She left him at the bench, his eyes back on the water, and made to meet her son at the Jolly Roger.

Emma would be lying if she said she never thought of Hook after that. When Tamera followed Neal to Storybrooke and kidnapped Henry to Neverland, she wondered if things would have been easier with Hook guiding them. Neal, Rumple, and Regina constantly butted heads as her parents tried to keep the peace and Emma just wanted to find her son. Neal’s brilliant idea of squid ink on Pan worked, but they hadn’t been able to capture the shadow yet to leave. So they lost Henry again and found themselves making trips into the Dark Hallow for days, unable to see Pan’s shadow floating overhead.

By the time they were able to defeat Pan, they’d been gone from Storybrooke for almost two months. And they realized Pan hadn’t really been defeated, just switched bodies with Henry. It took them another couple days before they realized and by that time, Pan cast his dark curse.

When her parents found her and Henry nearly a year and a half later in New York, breaking their curse with a memory potion, Emma remembered the last time she was there and the pirate she helped say goodbye. She wondered what happened to him after they left and how differently some things would have played out if Hook had truly turned tide and accompanied them on each mission.

Would Neal still have died? Would Henry have still gone to the Underworld by himself to save his father if there had been someone else, someone who knew Rumple the best of them all, to stop him?

Emma’s always hated the butterfly effect but the whisperings of how different things could have been still echo in her ear.

She laughs softly, disbelievingly, and the conch shell rattles in her palm.

“Hook – thank you. For looking out for Henry and for the conch shells.”

His voice is tinny when he talks. It holds a quality that he’s speaking through a can, a faint echo wrapping each word. “The Underworld is a dreadful place. I’m glad I found him when I did.”

“Is he okay? You – you mentioned something about a lapse in memory?”

Her eyes focus on the glowing conch in her palm, the only lifeline she has to communicate with her son. Hook’s voice flows over her and she takes in every word with rapt attention. Blood pumps in her ears as she hears the state of her son’s wellbeing and a sob claws at her throat, desperate to come out. But Emma refuses to make a sound, worried that any interruption could sever the only tie she has.

“Have you figured out how to get him?” Hook asks.

“Yeah but… I’m not sure how feasible it is.”

“A pirate always finds a way, love,” he says and Emma sinks onto his bed, a small smile on her lips. His voice is a comfort to her as well as his ship and so is his blunt honesty of the situation. Fluffing the truth did nothing to cushion the pain, she’s learned. It only hardens the impact. She’s grateful that, despite their past, he is looking out for her son and working with her to get him home. It’s a glimpse of the man she saw on the beanstalk, cleaning her hand and wrapping it with his own scarf, flirting but always looking to her to establish their boundaries and where to go next. “What is it?”

“We need Gold.”

“Is there no way you can do it without the damned crocodile?”

A loose thread on his blanket pulls her attention and her fingers wind around it. It seems so unlike the Captain Hook she knows to have anything out of place and she wonders if he was in the navy back in the Enchanted Forest.

“Unfortunately, not that we know of,” she says with a sigh. “And he’s currently MIA so add that to the list.”

“Bloody hell.”

Her lips quirk up. “My thoughts exactly.” She pauses, swallows. “Can... Can I speak with Henry?” The conch glows in her palm yet she hears no sound. Whatever Hook began to say, he stopped himself. “What is it? Is he okay? Hook?”

“Aye, uh, sorry about that, Swan.” Hesitance colors his words and the worry in Emma’s chest spikes up again. “The lad’s resting right now. The book has really taken a lot out of him and I loathe to wake up. I can, if you desire to speak with him, but I believe it’s best he rests some more.”

It breaks Emma’s heart to agree but she will do whatever to takes for her son to be okay. Hook promises to use the conch the moment Henry wakes and tells Emma where to find a chain in his captain’s quarters to put the conch on.

Hook comes up with the idea of forming a stable environment for Henry. “Perhaps a routine will do well to keep Henry from those memory lapses,” he says after his suggestion. Emma agrees – anything that could help is something worth doing. So they settle on a plan which consists of Emma calling in for mealtimes, morning wakeups, and bedtimes. Of course she plans to speak with Henry in between, as will the rest of his family, but setting these plans in place is what matters most.

In all honesty, it feels a lot like what co-parenting with Neal would have been like if he were alive. Probably not as easy, she figures, because Neal didn’t think things through as well as she did.

For some reason, neither of them wants their call on the shell phone to end. Hook is with her son and can actually tell her the truth of what’s going on without finding a way around it to protect her. It’s a connection she can’t bear to break. She assumes Hook continues talking with her because it must have been years since he’s talked to another person – or at least one that’s an adult.

When they’ve run out of things to talk about without it seeming obvious they wish to continue speaking, they say goodbye. She isn’t brave enough to ask and he’s got a self-loathing streak as tall as the beanstalk that he probably doesn’t think himself worthy. It’s all little things that their prides won’t leave aside. So they bid farewell, Hook promising to say her name the moment Henry wakes, and Emma stares as the glow of the conch shell slowly fades until its gone.

Her magic feels the sadness that rolls off of the enchanted wood of the Jolly and she places one hand on the wall, hoping to offer a calm sympathy. She’s never worked her magic with other enchanted objects before and she focuses on doing her best.

Emma closes the vault, slides the fake panel back over it, and swings the portrait shut to cover its secret. She casts one last look around the cabin and her heart feels heavy. She regrets leaving Hook on that bench, especially after they found out that Gold’s potion did save him. But Hook wouldn’t have taken it and at least in New York, he died on his terms.

The thoughts of what could have been and how things would be different if he survived ring in her head and before it can overwhelm her, she heads up the stairs and back to the town.

Emma Swan lives up to her title of Savior. Killian knows this firsthand.

He doesn’t remember much about dying. He knows what caused his death, and he remembers the moments up until his last breath, but things get fuzzy in the last few seconds.

He does remember Emma’s kindness. A kindness he didn’t deserve but she still offered to him. She brought him to the water to let him leave in peace even after he declined her offers of help, offers to figure out how to save him. She let him die how he wanted and he would be eternally grateful.

The weight around Killian’s ankle feels lighter as he moves swiftly about the loft, eyes glancing up to Henry’s bed every so often to see if he’s awoken.

For the first time in centuries, there’s a bounce in his step that has nothing to do with revenge. He feels light. He has hope.

Hope, though, is a dangerous thing in the Underworld.

Hades’ presence is lurking around every corner, ready to strike. Nervous energy fills Killian’s bones. During his venture on the street earlier, he saw a daisy emerging from the cracks in the sidewalk and he paused long enough for a lost soul to bump into him. His stumbled forward and if he had a heart, it would’ve broken at the realization he stepped on the flower. But he figures it was for the best. If Hades caught wind of that, Henry would be in even greater danger.

So Killian sits by Henry’s side as the boy sleeps and waits.

“Henry?” Emma whispers.

Killian sits up, pulling the conch necklace from around his neck. “Swan. Is everything alright?”

“Hook?” she questions. “Sorry, it’s morning and I hadn’t heard from Henry so I worried…”

“Aye,” Killian says with a sigh. He runs his hand over his face and looks over at the sleeping boy. “Time moves differently here. It doesn’t feel as if much time has passed. I’ll wake your boy.”

He stands but pauses at her soft voice.

“Thank you, so much. I – I really appreciate it, Killian.”

Aside from Henry, the only other time someone used his name in the last three hundred years had been her, when he was dying. Though he has no breath in his lungs, he feels as if it gets caught in his throat. He swallows hard and gently shakes Henry awake.

“Lad, there’s someone who wants to speak with you.”

“Dad?” he replies sleepily. Killian’s face pinches and he gives the tired boy a sad smile.

“Sorry, no. But it is your mother.”

Henry sits up and blinks wildly, eyes darting around the loft. “Is she here?”

Killian sits beside him and offers the conch shell from his necklace. “Apologies, Henry. She’s working on how to get to you but in the meantime,” he says, lifting the conch to their eye level, “you can communicate with her whenever you want through this.”

“A shell phone!” he exclaims, grabbing the conch and cradling it carefully in his hands, eyes wide in wonder. Killian doesn’t understand a single thing Henry is saying but he nods blankly in agreement. “How do I talk to her?”

“Henry?” Emma’s voice calls out. The conch glows an orange that makes Henry gasp. Killian pushes the conch closer to Henry’s mouth as the boy scrabbles up on his knees and sobs in relief.

“Mom? Mom!”

“Oh, Henry,” Her voice has a watery quality and it doesn’t take much effort for him to realize she’s near tears. “I’m so sorry, kid. We’re working so hard to get you home.”

“I’m sorry I came here,” Henry sobs. Killian looks at the boy, the same one who had been facing the uncertainties of the Underworld with a bravery his bloodline would be proud of, and is reminded that he’s still just a kid wanting to go home. Henry settles back down on the bed with tears slowly trailing down his cheeks. Killian hesitates before wrapping an arm around his shoulders.

Henry practically collapses into his side but is careful not to jostle the conch. He holds it with such gentleness that Killian’s chest aches. It brings him back to the days when he was convinced his father didn’t actually sell them into servitude and that he’d come back. If he just left the candle lit and wished upon the blue star then he’d be back. Although it never happened for him, he prays to every deity he knows that the same fate is to not befall Henry.

There is little Killian can do to offer the lad and his mother privacy, especially when the boy hasn’t moved from his side, so he tunes their conversation out to the best of his abilities.

Although his ears perk up at the mention of the crocodile, he hears enough to know nothing’s changed on that front and focuses on what’s happening in this odd little town outside of the loft. The line at the telephone booth has doubled in size, the souls that use it for hauntings nowhere in sight. In fact, he can’t recall a time the line looked that long.

“That’s a lot of people,” Henry says beside him. Killian turns his head to see Henry clutching the conch as he peers down at the line.

“Everything alright with your mother?” he asks. Henry nods.

“She told me your plan while I’m stuck here. Grandpa Gold is still missing but she’s still looking for him.” The boy hesitates before holding out the conch to Killian. “My other mom is going to call around lunch.”

Killian looks at the small hand in front of him and takes the conch shell. He can see the boy deflate and instantly realizes the desperate need to hold onto whatever connection he has to his family. Sliding his hook under the string of the necklace attached to the conch, he slides it over Henry’s head. “Would hate for you to miss such important calls.”

They share a grin. Then Henry’s eyes slide back over to the line outside the window. His eyes rove over the people and Killian can practically see the wheels turning in his head.

“So the people here… they’re stuck in Underbrooke because they have unfinished business?”

“Aye.”

Henry turns back to Killian, one side of his mouth quirked up in a smirk. “Want to help them move on?”

“GOLD!”

Emma’s voice echoes around the pawn shop. Baubles cover every inch of counter space and there’s a thin layer of dust already accumulating atop them. The blinds are drawn closed and only the faint layers of sunlight can make it through the shadowy shop.

“I know you’re in here, Gold! Show yourself!” Her eyes dart to the dark corners of the shop but he doesn’t appear. Her magic flickers at her fingertips and she does her best to keep it under control. She needs Gold. Leroy and Doc were watching the shop and sent her a signal the second they spotted him enter through the back.

“Come out here and face me you coward!” One of the front windows cracks, her rage overcoming her as she yells and she takes a deep breath. The last thing she needs is to let her magic run wild and accidentally hurt Gold when he’s how they get Henry home.

“I do hope you plan on paying for that,” Gold says as he slowly emerges from the back of the shop, his cane aiding his movements.

When they went to Camelot to rid herself of the darkness, they left Gold in Storybrooke in his magic induced coma. They couldn’t risk him somehow funneling the dark magic back to himself. No longer a Dark One, he was a mere mortal. He could no longer hide behind his power or threaten others to do his bidding. It brought her a sick satisfaction for all of the three days he’d been awake when they returned until she learned what he helped Henry do.

“You!” she calls, voice rough and deep, so much anger wrapping around a single word.

“Yes. Me.” Gold stands with his hands on his cane and with an air of nonchalance that snaps Emma’s restraint. She rushes over to his, grabs the lapels of his suit jacket, and shoves him up against the wall. His cane clatters to the ground beside them.

“Why did you do that to Henry?” she hisses.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he answers. She shoves him against the wall again.

“Why did you let him go to the Underworld?!”

“He wanted to go, Miss Swan. My grandson missed his father and wanted to save him. Who am I to deny that?”

“You deny that when it’s a death sentence!” She pushes him back and lets him stumble to regain his footing, bending to grab his cane. “How could you do that to your own grandson? To Baelfire’s son?!”

Gold sneers, his teeth sharp and looking every bit the crocodile Killian nicknamed him to be. “Don’t you dare speak my son’s name. You have no right. He died because of you!”

“He died because of Zelena!” Emma glares at Gold, feeling hatred climb her throat and her fingertips tingle. “And now you’ve sent his son on a one-way ticket to the Underworld.”

Gold rolls his eyes. “He would have gone with or without my help. This was the safest way, Miss Swan.”

“The safest way would be not letting him go, damn it!” Her palm slams down on the counter beside her and the glass shatters. Blood begins pooling in her hand almost immediately but her focus remains on Gold. “You are going to help us get him back.”

“Quite the assumption, isn’t that?” he says in response. He flicks his head to the side to move hair out of his face and Emma seethes. “I believe you’re on your own with this.”

“Hell. No.”

“Ironic choice of words.”

She steps into his space and lowers her voice. Her tone is lethal and she watches without any glee as the man before her gulps. “You’re going to help us, Gold. You opened the portal the first time for Henry and you’ll open it again for us to bring him back.” He opens his mouth to retort but Emma grabs his jacket again and shoves him back against the wall with one hand, her other reaching for the pocketknife in her jacket. She flicks out a blade and holds it to his neck, watching Gold squirm slightly under her grip. “If I have to slit your throat and drain you of all your blood then I will if it means saving Henry. Do not tempt me, Gold.”

“Cut as deep as you like,” he spits at her. “But you can’t make me bleed. Only I can.” Emma gasps, stepping back and shaking her head. “Oh yes, you best believe it, Miss Swan. Call it a parting gift from my time as a Dark One. I needed some securities in place if I were to survive in a town full of heroes.”

Emma barely hears his words as black curls the edges of her vision. Her breathing is stuttered and she drops her pocketknife to the floor.

Their one chance. Their only chance. And Gold won’t help. She knew he took his heart out before letting go of the darkness, and that he set certain charms in place that would last at least a lifetime before wearing off. Magic wouldn’t work to convince him. He held all the power to save Henry, to save his grandson, and he wasn’t doing it.

“You may be mortal now,” she begins, shaking in anger from where she’s bent over in the shop catching her breath. “But you’re more monster now than you were before.”

“I have an unborn son, Miss Swan. I will not do anything that could jeopardize him losing me and if that means preventing the prophecy from taking place then so be it. I failed my first son once and I won’t fail with another.”

“Twice,” she corrects. Gold tilts his head in her direction and glares at her. “You failed Neal twice. Once when you abandoned him as a boy and again when you sent his son to be trapped in the Underworld alone.”

Gold rolls his shoulders to stand straight, gripping the cane so tight his knuckles turn white. “Your son wanted to be with him more than you. Now he has an eternity with Baelfire.”

The laugh Emma lets out is humorless and full of pain. “You don’t even know, do you?” she says. She walks back over to Gold and points a finger at him. The blood that dripped down it dries on her skin. “Neal moved on. He’s not in the Underworld. He wasn’t there when Henry arrived.”

“What.” By the way Gold blinks at her statement, Emma can tell she hit a nerve. She glares, lets her lips curl up in anger, and steps closer.

She hisses, “You weren’t worth Neal staying around. He has no unfinished business with you.” She gives him an empty, bitter smile. Tears glitter in Gold’s eye as he searches for words in his heartbreak, distraught that he’ll never see his first-born again, and she says, “You and I though? We have plenty of unfinished business.”

Gold does his best to blink back the tears and regain the collected exterior he always projected. He swallows and tilts his head the slightest bit up at her. “We are done here, Miss Swan. Leave me, Belle, and our son alone.”

He turns his back on Emma and disappears into the back of the shop. She drags her feet out the door and shakes her head at Leroy and Doc waiting outside the shop. The emotional toll of the revelation she’s been handed is enough to exhaust her but she can’t go back to the loft and the reminders of her son and the fact she can’t save him. And that’s how she finds herself on the dock, feet at the bottom of the gangway of a majestic ship, whispering a name.

Writing in the storybook for other people and helping them complete their unfinished business is a relief to Henry. The more he writes for others, the less he feels like he’s forgetting.

There are still moments though. When Henry talks to Stealthy and he mentions Snow White, he can’t remember why the name sounds so familiar. The dwarf talks of her notoriety in the Enchanted Forest and how she tried to help him and his brother escape the jail cells. His head itches as if it’s trying to fetch the information and can’t find it.

Killian stands next to him and he leans over, informing him that Snow White is his grandma. He tells him that she also goes by Mary Margaret and she used to be his schoolteacher and she’s the same age as his mother because she was locked in a curse for nearly three decades, and Henry nods his head as if it all makes sense.

He writes for Stealthy and lets him know what his unfinished business is, all the while trying to figure out the oddities in his head. A curse? Snow White? This is all stuff made out of fairytales. And then he looks down and sees a magic pen literally writing in a fairytale book and it makes him dizzy.

A hook – a hook – on his back brings him back to focus and he looks up, staring at the face of a pirate.

“Henry,” the pirate says. He bends down next to his chair and keeps his voice quiet. “I need you to take a deep breath. Close your eyes and don’t think about anything.”

He wants to yell and scream and ask how this stranger knows his name. He wants to know where he is and why everything looks so red and why is he sitting at a table in the middle of the street with a line of people in front of him and with a crash clocktower no one pays attention to and –

The hook presses slightly harder into his back and Henry sucks in a breath, closes his eyes, and clears his mind.

When he opens them again, Killian is knelt next to his chair, worried. He swallows, scared, but still needs to know. “Did it happen again?”

Killian nods. “Aye.”

“Am I running out of time?” he whispers. But Killian shakes his head and moves closer, keeping his voice low so only he can hear him.

“Your mother is doing everything she can to make sure she gets to you. I’ve yet to see her fail and she’s not about to start.”

The confidence and surety in Killian’s voice sends a wave of calm over his shoulders. He knows a lot at 13 but adults know more. Especially adults that have been alive for over three hundred years. Killian hasn’t shied away from telling Henry the consequences of an extended stay in Underbrooke and if Killian’s not worried about his mom saving him, then neither should he.

The rings on Killian’s fingers glimmer and for a moment, Henry swears sunlight has made its way to Underbrooke. However, a quick scan just shows more of the red haze he’s become accustomed to. He watches as Killian pushes aside the storybook he’s been writing in and pulls out his other one from his backpack. “Why don’t you check on how she’s doing?”

He nods and takes the storybook from Killian’s hands, the one from the world he belongs to, and flips through the pages. He stops when an image begins to appear on a blank page.

His mom is standing in Grandpa Gold’s pawn shop and she had him pressed against the wall with a knife to his throat. Chuckles echo in his ear and he turns his head to see Killian’s amusement at the drawing. The pirate raises his eyebrows, his smirking broadening, and shrugs. “Your mother is a formidable force, lad. Anyone who crosses her should be sorry.”

When Killian’s eyes go back to tracing the drawing in the book, he watches him. Killian always speaks of his mom with a fondness in his voice and like he’s amazed at everything she does. He’d bet that Killian probably thinks his mom could force the sun to shine just because she willed it.

His nose scrunches up as he turns back to the book. Yep. Captain Hook definitely has a crush on his mom.

“I can’t believe you have a crush on my mom,” he teases. Henry comes from a family of True Love – his mom is literally the product of it. One doesn’t live in Storybrooke and become the Author and not be a fan of happy endings, even if it feels weird to see it happening with his mom.

Killian coughs beside him and Henry takes a small bit of glee at unseating the captain once again. Even with the chains he drags around Underbrooke, Killian rarely looks unsettled. The pirate narrows his eyes at Henry but it doesn’t diminish the grin on his face. “I’m a big fan of your mother, of every part of her. Especially when she’s threatening the crocodile.”

“Mhmm,” Henry hums disbelievingly.

“I know my limits, lad,” Killian says, his voice suddenly serious. Henry meets his gaze and sees the pained expression on the man’s face. “I’m trapped here for eternity. No matter how I feel about anything, I won’t subject your mother to that truth. She doesn’t need that weight on her shoulders.”

Henry shrugs. “True Love conquers everything though.”

He watches as his words land and Killian shifts uncomfortably from where he still knelt beside him. There’s a look that crosses his features, dark and sorrowful and full of more hurt than Henry thought someone could hold and he realizes his mistake.

Maybe Milah was Killian’s happy ending. His True Love. And she moved on without him.

His mouth opens, an apology on the tip of his tongue, and Killian shakes his head. A small smile plays on his lips. “I don’t have a True Love, Henry.” His hand reaches out and taps the book. “Let’s put this away and see who else we can help, aye?”

“Killian?” a voice calls, faint. They look at each other, searching for who must be calling for him when the voice repeats itself and Henry looks down at the conch around his neck.

“I think my mom needs your help,” he says. He takes it off and hands it to Killian. “I’ll wait here.”

The Jolly Roger greets Emma like an old friend. She feels no resistance as she moves through the magical barrier and it rocks gently, soothingly, under her feet.

Killian’s cabin is the exact same as the first time she entered, the only exception being the wrinkles she left in his blanket. All she really wants to do is curl up in the comforter and cry but her son needs her and she needs to figure out a new way to get him home.

She stops resisting temptation and falls back on the bed, legs dangling over the edge, and takes out the conch shell. Her voice doesn’t even sound like her own when she calls out for him twice before his answers.

“Swan?”

A sob rips from her throat.

“I failed him.”

“Now that doesn’t sound like the Emma Swan I know.”

She groans, slamming her hand against the comforter. ��Killian. I’m not joking.” She sucks in a haggard breath and sniffles.

“Neither am I,” he says. “We checked the book. I saw you found Rumple.”

The snort she lets out is broken and frustrated. What luck that did her. “He won’t help.”

“What?” Disbelief colors Killian’s voice in a way that shocks her to her core. If there is one person in all the realms that hated Rumpelstiltskin the most, it was Captain Hook. “Not even for Baelfire’s son?” he asks.

“No,” she admits through tears. “He was told a prophecy once that a boy would reunite him with his son but that boy would also be his undoing, so he figured if he got rid of Henry, he wouldn’t have to worry about the second half of the prophecy.” Killian breaks into a rant of words she’s never heard before and she can only assume it consists of various curses.

“He may look a man but there is nothing human left in him,” Killian growls. The conch in her hand grows so brightly and shakes in her palm so violently that she fears it might break.

“Killian – Killian,” she says, but he doesn’t seem to hear her and she watches helplessly as the conch cracks. “Killian!” He finally pauses and all Emma hears is his deep breathing, the conch glowing in time with each exhale. “You need to calm down or the conch is going to break.”

“Apologies, Swan. I’d hope the coward would have been brave enough to help for the sake of his grandson.”

“Yeah, well you’re not the only one.” She breathes deep in an effort to calm herself. Any heightened emotions might be enough to break the conch and she has no idea if there’s any way to fix it if it comes to that. Her cheeks are sticky from where her tears tracked down and she wipes at them hastily with the sleeve of her sweater. “There’s no way to get to Henry now.”

“Come on, Swan. Isn’t your mother the epitome of hope? Even your boy has more hope than you right now.”

The breath that leaves her lips comes out sounding like a huff of laughter. “Yeah, well it skipped a generation.”

“I find that hard to believe,” he murmurs. “I saw you at the lake when Cora tried to take your heart. It’s in there, deep down.” She hums noncommittedly. They’ve spent days searching for a way into the Underworld and their own answers pointed back to Gold. Without the ability to get his help, or even force it from him, Henry was stuck there. Tears burn at the back of her eyelids again and she breaths out shakily, willing herself to remain calm.

Killian’s voice breaks through her thoughts and for a moment, she forgot he was on the other end of the conch. “What was it that Rumpelstiltskin was supposed to do?”

“We need his blood to open the portal to the Underworld. Only someone who’s died and come back to life can open it and he’s the only one who’s done that. His protections from when he was the Dark One are still in place and there’s no way to get it from him.”

“Wait, did you say you need his blood?”

Her eyebrows furrow and she wonders why he’s so shocked at that detail. Blood is a common ingredient for dark magic and for someone who’s chased down a way to kill Gold for centuries, he should know that.

“Yeah…” she answers, confused.

“Bloody hell, love,” Killian exclaims. The elation in his voice only confuses her more. Her eyes stare at the glowing conch in her hand.

“Why are you so happy? Did you not hear what else I said?”

“No, no, no, no,” Killian says. She can hear the smile in his voice and honestly ponders the thought that he’s gone mad. “You don’t need the crocodile. I have what you need.”

“Uh, in case you forgot, you’re dead in the Underworld. Unless you can open the portal from your end –”

“No, I can’t. But I have – had – what you need. You’ll need to go to my ship.”

The Jolly rocks in the water and Emma sits up in the bed, one hand pressing against the wall to steady herself. She imagines this is a ship’s equivalent of a dog wagging their tail. “Uh – I’m… I’m already on it.”

Silence follows her statement. It weighs on them like a thousand unspoken words and she knows he wants to say whatever statement is at the tip of his tongue but he holds back.

“You are?” he chokes out in disbelief. She rolls her eyes and stands from the bed.

“So what do you have on here that’ll help?” Regina’s words slip into her mind and she really hopes Killian doesn’t have a cabinet full of vials containing the blood of his enemies.

“You’ll have to go into my vault. You still have the key, yes?”

“Got it right here,” she says, her hand reaching up to the chain she never took off of her neck. Her fingers pull the necklace off and once she reveals the hidden safe, she slides the key into place and opens it. “What am I looking for?”

“There should be a bloody rag there.”

“I see it.” She searches his room for something to grab it with and comes across a short scarf.

“Aye. That’s what you’ll use.”

She frowns as she carefully picks up the rag, dark red staining the beige cloth. It reminds her of a potato sack. “Not that I’m not grateful but you happened to keep a bloody rag of Gold’s because…?”

His answer is short and anger peaks out from underneath his words. “Because that’s the rag I wiped my hook with after I stabbed the crocodile when he crushed Milah’s heart in front of me.”

The silence that follows this time is heavy and suffocating and Emma regrets even opening her mouth. As much as she’s come to rely on Killian in this, and as much as she knows about his thirst for revenge, there’s still a plethora to uncover. She places the conch on the desk and gently folds the rag into a small square before wrapping it in the scarf.

When he speaks next, his tone is apologetic and she feels guilt build in her stomach.

“Cut the rag in half, that way you have one to get home.” He sighs quietly, the conch’s glow fading slowly. “I have to be honest, love, but I have no idea if it’ll work.”

“But it’s hope,” she offers.

“I knew you had it in you,” he says softly. She’s glad he’s not in front of her to see the way she rolls her eyes as her mouth turns up in smile.

She eyes the content of the vault, the drawing of the woman he spent centuries avenging. “I – I don’t know if it’s even possible but is there anything you want me to bring to you? Since I’ll be going to the Underworld anyway.”

The conch doesn’t glow. She wonders if he thought their conversation ended and left, and then she wonders how one even ends a connection on a shell phone. A sigh fills the quiet of the cabin and she goes to close the vault when he finally speaks.

“My mother’s ring,” he says quietly.

A glittering silver band with a small jewel sitting atop it catches her interest. It’s modest and so unlike the large gems she saw on the rings he wore. The jewel looks like a diamond but when she picks it up, it gleams like the entire rainbow is held inside of it, reminding her of the rainbow of colors that flushed Storybrooke when she broke the first curse. It’s beautiful.

She considers putting it on her finger but decides against it. No one in Storybrooke is able to keep a secret and the rumor mill would go crazy at the sight of a ring on any of her fingers. Plus, she doubts he wants Gold to see it, lest he knows it belongs to Killian and considers doing something nefarious to it. So she opens the chain that holds the vault key and slips the ring onto that, putting the necklace back on and tucking it under her sweater.

“I have it,” she says. “It’s safe. Is there anything else?” Her fingers play with the drawing of Milah and she goes to pick it up.

“That’s it, love. Thank you.”

Instead, she shuts the vault with the drawing in it, covers it up, and glances around the cabin, eyes settling on the wrapped cloth. “Thank you, Killian. I’ll go see Regina so we can get ready to open the portal. She’ll want to talk to Henry too.” She licks her lips and closes her eyes, cradling the conch to her chest. “We couldn’t do this without you.”

Henry doesn’t notice it until they’re walking down the streets of Underbrooke but Killian’s chains are quieter than they were before. The pile curls around his leg with every step but the pirate doesn’t pay any attention to them. He swears still that it has lessened too but Killian shoots that idea down.

“The weight of the chains is the same, lad,” he says as he directs them to the park. “I have far too many sins to be forgiven.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” Henry says. They pass a sprawling area of tombstones in every state and he studies them. “Does Hades have a tombstone?” he asks.

Killian looks back at the cemetery but continues their walk. “No, he doesn’t.”

“Why not?”

“If Hades had a tombstone, it would make him a soul in limbo. He wouldn’t be the ruler of the Underworld and he’d lose his magic.”

His eyes catch Killian’s hook before he gestures to it. “Hades gave you the chisel and wanted you to put names on tombstones. If other people can put names on tombstones, why hasn’t anyone tried that with his?”

Killian is silent. He opens the gate to the park and lets Henry through first before he follows. “It’s only ever been a rumored possibility. The only known way to defeat Hades is through the Olympian Crystal. However, if writing his name on a tombstone worked, the Underworld could be thrown into chaos. No one knows what happens to it without a ruler. And if it doesn’t work, whoever conspired against him would face a fate far worse than I did.”

“No one’s ever tried?”

“You need an object specially enchanted by Hades to mark a tombstone. He keeps those close to his chest, lest anyone try to use it for escape.”

They pass a playground, the lake right around the corner, and there’s kids playing there without a care. He frowns. For as long as he’s been in Underbrooke, he forgets it isn’t full of just adults. Maybe he should stick around and help them too.

Why shouldn’t he stick around? He can’t think of any reason to not. Afterall, he’s just like those kids – stuck in Underbrooke and without a family. Lost boys and girls need to stick together.

“Bloody hell,” Killian growls. Henry turns to him and sees a fierce glare marring his features. He follows his gaze and sees a figure standing in front of the lake just feet away. The very lake they were heading towards.

The figure stands straight, wearing a thick black coat with the collar upturned. His skin is a sickly pale color and his red hair looks dull, fading into the red haze that covers Underbrooke.

“You didn’t think you could plan an escape and I wouldn’t know, did you?” the figure asks, smug.

“Hades,” Killian hisses. He steps forward, his arm extended out in front of Henry. The hook at the end of his wrist is angled towards Hades. “He doesn’t belong here.”

“Ah, ah, ah,” Hades tuts, “I think I’m the judge of that – literally.” Henry chills at the grin that appears on Hades’ face and steps back, further behind Killian.

“Let him go home.”

Home? Henry’s eyes dart from the man standing protectively in front of him to the imposing figure by the water. Why are they talking about home? Isn’t this his home?

His head swivels, looking in every direction, searching for the kids at the playground. The other lost ones. The ones without a family. They were his home, weren’t they? Lost ones stick together. He doesn’t know anyone else. All alone in the world, he needed to go to other kids like him.

“Look at him,” Hades says. He’s smirking and his hair hints a blue color along its tips. “It’s too late.”

The man in front of him turns, eyes frantically searching his for something he doesn’t find. A hand and a hook rest on his shoulders. “Henry,” the man says, anxious. “I need you to focus. Close your eyes and take a breath. Henry, focus on me, aye?”

Henry watches the man in front of him, his mouth moving faster than he can comprehend the words. The man closes his eyes and mimics a deep breath, repeating himself and urging Henry to do the same. So he closes his eyes and does that.

His eyes open and Killian has his head ducked a few inches lower to meet his height. By the worried look on his face, Henry doesn’t even have to ask to know what happened. He can see Hades over Killian’s shoulder, cocky and taking great pleasure in the scene that just unfolded before him.

“You can stop this, Captain,” he offers. Killian stands and turns, keeping Henry completely behind his back. Henry grabs for the back of Killian’s shirt, needing something to steady himself as waves of dizziness pound at his temples.

A popping sound echoes in the quiet park and Henry feels a quick gust of wind blow his hair off his forehead. To the side is a large, white tombstone appears. Blank. A sizzling sound comes next and he looks down to see Killian’s hook glowing.

“Write his name,” Hades says. “End his suffering. Let him keep the memory of his family so one day he can move on.”

“I would never,” Killian spits out in response.

Hades pouts, Henry gasping as his hair transforms to a fiery blue flame. It is harsh and uncontrolled, whisps shooting an inch out from his head. For being fire, all it does is bring cold. The already chilled air of Underbrooke drops to freezing with Hades flames free.

Henry squeezes his eyes shut as Underbrooke swirls around him, his breathing shallow and harsh.

He wants to throw up and he’s not sure why. His hands are clutching the shirt of a stranger and the red grass that should be on the ground is spinning and there’s a man by the lake with blue flames for hair. None of it makes sense. Not the tombstone in the park and not the man in front of him having a hook for a hand.

“Oh look,” the blue haired man taunts. “It’s happening again. He’s so close.”

The man in front of him glances over his shoulder, face tight. “Henry. Close your eyes and breathe. CLOSE YOUR EYES AND BREATHE.”

“You won’t be able to save him, Captain.”

“I can damn well try, Hades.”

Hades laughs. His heart is racing and he doesn’t know how someone could be laughing when the tension in the park could be cut with a knife. Dread fills his body and he’s not sure how he anticipates it but he sees the blue haired man flick his wrist and then the captain protecting him is flown from his grasp and against a tree.

“KILLIAN!” he yells out on instinct. He isn’t sure where the name comes from or why he cares about the man Hades just tossed aside, but the sight makes his heart drop to his stomach as the man lays on the ground, unmoving.

“What’d you do to him?!” he cries.

Hades waves off his concern, stepping closer to him. “He was just getting in our way.” Henry backs up, stumbling and falling to the ground as Hades makes a chisel appear out of thin air. His hand waves and it floats, moving closer to the blank tombstone. “Since he doesn’t like obeying orders, I’ll have to do it myself.”

The chisel finishes writing out Henry Mills when a voice yells out weakly.

“NO!”

Henry slams his eyes shut at the shout and when he opens them, he sees Killian struggling to stand.

“I’ll make you a deal, Hades!”

“Oh!” Hades is amused as he turns to face Killian, and Henry’s eyes dart between the two men. He goes to step towards Killian, to offer him a shoulder to lean on and regain his strength, but Killian subtly shakes his head and eyes the lake. Henry swallows, not wanting to look away, but knowing he must. His footsteps are quiet and small, but he makes his way closer to the water. “What exactly makes you think you’re in a position to make deals, Hook?”

“I know you’ve regretted the one we’ve made since the moment I came here,” he sneers. “Now’s your chance. Take his name off the tombstone and let the lad go home to his family. Do that and you can toss me into Acheron!”

What.

“No! You can’t do that!” Henry cries out. He moves to rush to Killian but Hades holds out his hand and he is frozen. He’s helpless, forced to watch as Hades closes in on Killian waves his hands around.

The chain attached to Killian’s ankle climbs up his body. Iron links clank against one another as it curls around his body and moves to his neck. He wants to look away but his eyes remain stuck. The chain begins to work its way around Killian’s neck when it stops. It is extended as far as it can go.

“WHERE IS THE REST OF YOUR CHAIN?!” Hades hollers. He closes his fist and Henry sees Killian’s face turning red, his hands clutching at an invisible force around his neck. Hades turns to him next. “WHAT DID YOU DO TO THEM?!”

Henry shakes his head wildly. “I – I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

Hades whole body erupts in blue flames. He moves his wrist and Killian slams against the tombstone, down for the count again. Grass burns in Hades’ wake; blue flames sizzle it to the dirt and marks his pathway. “YOU! I should have tossed you into Acheron the moment you arrived here! You’re ruining the Underworld!”

Balls of blue flame appear in each of Hades’ palms and Henry ducks just in time for them to soar above his head. He runs and hides behind a tree, panting. Hades appears suddenly in front of him, hand grasping his arm, and Henry hisses as the blue flames burn a mark onto his arm.

“Spreading hope and helping people move on? You’ve unsettled the balance that I’ve created here!”

“All you’ve done is shifted the power in your favor. I did your job,” Henry hisses. His eyes widen as Hades growls. Cries rip from his throat as the burn on his arms extends.

A small pop echoes in his ear and Henry slams his mouth shut when he sees the vial in Hades’ hand.

“Do you know what this is, Henry?” Hades says, voice gruff and dark. “This is water from Acheron. And you’re going to drink it all.” Henry sucks in his lips, shaking his head side to side as Hades grabs his chin. “Open up or I’ll make you watch me toss Captain Hook in before you.”

The vial tips and Hades squeezes Henry’s chin hard, his mouth dropping open against his will. He still struggles in his grip but he knows he’s no match for a god. The water moves to the edge of the vial and he closes his eyes.

“HENRY!”

Instead of feeling soul-sucking water go tumbling down his throat, he feels a gust of wind flow over his body. It’s warm and comforting and wraps around him like a protective embrace. His eyes open to see Hades sprawled across the burnt grass, struggling to get up, and he gasps for breath. Turning the opposite way, he sees his mom, blonde hair looking like a halo, on the edge of the lake.

“MOM!” he cries out. Legs pumping faster than they ever have before, Henry rushes to his mom. He launches himself at her, wrapping his arms around her waist as she wraps hers around his shoulders. She cradles the back of his head like Gramps always does and he cries into her shoulder, relief flooding his body.

“Henry,” she weeps. Her chin rests on his head and he never wants to move from this spot. Warmth radiates from her and her clutches her tighter. He never should have gone to Underbrooke by himself.

“Well,” Hades says as he stands, his footsteps staggering. Henry and Emma keep their arms wrapped around each other as they turn to face him. “If it isn’t the savior. This’ll be a fine addition to my collection.”

“Never going to happen,” Emma hisses. She pushes Henry behind her and readies her palms, aiming at Hades once again. Closing her eyes, she braces herself and pushes her palms outward.

But nothing happens.

“Did you forget, Savior?” Hades taunts. His lips curl, condescending as he approaches them. “You’re in my dominion. You’ll play by my rules.”

A twitch of his fingers is all it takes for flames to shoot out of his hand and engulf his mom. She cries out in agony as it wraps around her feet and up to her torso. He cries with her, his hand reaching out but Hades’ magic doesn’t let him go any farther.

Then it stops.

Emma collapses to the ground, gasping for air, and Henry rushes to her side. He glances up at Hades to see the god confused before raising his hand and aiming it at the two of them. Much like with his mother’s magic, nothing happens.

“What do you know? The rumors are true,” Killian rasps by the tombstone. His chain is laying in a useless pile on the floor, unattached to his ankle, and dust from broken marble covers a thin layer above it.

Henry’s eyes look up from the pile to the tombstone to see his name crossed out. In the place of Henry Mills is Hades, written with the hook without any finesse or style, more a barely legible scrawl by a three-year-old than an actual word. But it works.

Hades yells. It’s a loud screech that has Henry covering his ears and sends the kids at the nearby playground run screaming. He watches as the god tries to teleport himself and roars when he is unable to. He pulls the chisel from his jacket pocket and stalks towards Killian.

Killian hastily stands, leaving the tombstone between himself and Hades’ oncoming warpath. Instead, he eyes his hook before lifting it and slamming it down to the top of the tombstone. A small crack appears and Hades’ footsteps stutter before he picks up his pace. Killian lifts his hook and slams it down again, the crack widening.

Emma stirs beside Henry and he checks over his mom. Unlike with him, Hades’ flames don’t seem to have left any marks on his mom. Her eyes search around the park, flittering over to where Killian stands, hammering his hook into the tombstone. “Killian…” she whimpers.

“Mom,” Henry cries, “we have to help him.”

He feels rather than sees his mom reaching out to her magic. Without Hades’ own to tamper with her power, her fingertips sizzle and spark. Sitting back on his heels, he notices his mom find the vial Hades threatened him with and call it to her hand. Firm in her grasp, she gets up and rushes to the two men.

With a final slam on the tombstone, it cracks in half. The sound that follows is deafening, like a black hole sucking everything into it and leaving nothing in its wake. His vision almost blacks out and when he blinks it back to focus, he catches Hades slam the chisel in his hand into Killian’s stomach.

Emma arrives a moment later, tossing the vial of Acheron’s water at Hades body. They watch as the god sizzles into the ground, smoke emitting from where he stood. Then Killian collapses.

“Come on, Henry, help me,” Emma urges as she leans down to wrap one of Killian’s arms around her neck.

“Mom,” Henry sobs, shaking his head. “We can’t.”

“Yes, we can,” she insists. “I have a way for us to go home and we can take Killian with us too!”

“No, Mom.” Emma stops trying as Henry kneels next to Killian, the man’s eyes closed and the chisel still embedded in his stomach. He didn’t know souls in Underbrooke could bleed. If they didn’t need to eat or drink, then why would they bleed? Tears flow freely down his cheeks as he keeps his gaze on him. “He has his name on a tombstone. And it’s cracked.”

Emma falls back on her butt, sitting opposite him. They’re both at a loss for words, Henry clutching to Killian’s hook. Her hands reach for the necklace under her sweater and pulls off the ring. She opens Killian’s hand, places the ring in his palm, and curls his fingers over it.

A flash of light fills their visions and Henry looks up to see a man draped in white, a glow surrounding his body.

“Zeus!” Henry calls. “Zeus, can you help him?”

Instead of answering, the god extends his arm and gestures to the lake. “Come now. You both don’t belong here and need to go home.”

“But what about Killian? We can’t just leave him here!” Emma pleads. Zeus gives them an understanding smile.

“My brother became out of control during his rule here. Killian’s helped to defeat him, just as you both have. I’ll ensure he finds peace. But you must go before it’s too late.”

Being back in Storybrooke is odd, Henry decides quickly. He’s grown used to the red haze that covered Underbrooke that seeing a multitude of colors is a shock to his eyes at first. He never realized how vibrant some things were.

His family welcomes him with open arms, plenty of kisses, and lots of food. Granny cooked enough for the whole town during their first family dinner after being reunited and Henry stuffed his stomach until he couldn’t breathe. Even though he felt sick after, he wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Killian crosses his mind often in the first few days back. A man who resigned himself to fate, destined to suffer for all eternity. A villain who doubted he could change his ways despite his actions proving otherwise. Killian Jones was a hero who gave his life to save Henry and he wouldn’t ever be able to repay all he did.

It’s on his way to the station to meet his mom for lunch that he thinks his eyes are playing tricks on him.

Henry’s barely spent time away from Emma unless he was with Regina. Being in Underbrooke, forgetting your family, and almost getting stuck there for eternity kind of leaves them not wanting to let each other out of their sights. Every day since coming back, he meets Emma outside of the station for lunch and they walk to Granny’s.

Except he’s halfway to the station when he spots a figure outside of Any Given Sundae that looks familiar.

He wears black jeans instead of leather and a button-up dress shirt instead of his billowy pirate gear, a new vest over it too. A more modern leather jacket hangs on his shoulders, dress shoes adorning his feet. For being a three-hundred-year-old pirate, he looks every bit the modern man.

“Killian?” Henry calls out in disbelief. Killian’s head shoots up, searching for the voice. His face lights up when he sees him across the street. Henry’s sure the grin on his face could split his lips from how far its stretched but he doesn’t care. He bounds into the street, narrowly avoiding a car driving by, and rushes at Killian. In the back of his mind, he can hear Emma calling his name in concern.

“Oof,” Killian huffs, stumbling back a step from the force of Henry’s hug, but he voices no complaints. Henry has his arms wrapped tightly against his waist and he closes his eyes.

“I can’t believe you’re here! How are you here?”

“Killian?” Emma asks in wonder. Henry looks up to see her eyes widen and her mouth drop open once she’s crossed the street, her footsteps slowing. She looks as if she can’t believe what’s happening which, if Henry’s honest, neither can he.

“Emma,” Killian says breathlessly, his mouth widening into a smile again. Henry’s eyes dart between the two before he steps back, his mom not even noticing. Killian’s hand reaches out for her but she’s quicker, grabbing his face and pulling him down for a kiss.

They clutch at each other like they’re drowning and the other person is their last chance for breath. Normally Henry isn’t one for public displays of affection by either of his moms, but he’ll let this one slide.

Emma and Killian eventually break apart but Emma plants kisses across his face, catching his cheeks and eyelids before pulling his mouth back to hers.

Henry coughs, eyes averting from the scene before him and only looks back when he hears soft laughter coming from both of them. “So how are you back?” he asks, grinning at Killian.

“Zeus, actually.”

“Really?” Emma questions with a grin.

“Yeah, believe it or not, he’s actually much better than his brother.” They all laugh and Henry embraces the moment. Just a few days ago, he never thought he’d get this again. “My actions in the Underworld absolved me of most of my sins and helping to defeat Hades seemed to forgive the rest. He offered me the opportunity to move on but,” he says, pausing. Killian wraps his hooked arm around Emma and reaches his hand into his pocket. Henry instantly spots the ring his mom put in Killian’s palm.

“But, someone brought me an object that belonged to me while I was alive and was left behind in the land of the living.” Killian grins at Emma, awe filling every inch of his face. It makes Henry smile too. He doesn’t recall anyone looking at his mom like that before. “I didn’t even know that could happen but Zeus said it allowed me the opportunity to bring my soul back.”

The to you is unsaid but understood as Killian moves his gaze between him and his mom.

He moves forward, wrapping his mom and Killian in a tight hug.

Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, he’s home.

#cs halloweek #cs halloweek 2021 #captain swan #captain cobra #the pirate and his son #like 18k of this is pure captain cobra #i couldn't help myself #underworld #underworld au #canon divergence #canon divergent au #ouat #once upon a time #cs fanfic #cs ff #my fics

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