#these men are straight up deranged though. its so hot | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

idontmeantosoundrudebut · 4 years ago

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Many of Horry - Chapter three: Sated hunger, sated madness

HELLO THERE! (that's fucking obi-wan Kenobi meme) it has been a hot minute but I have returned with the promised saucy goods and oh boy, its a mess. Both of ours boys are a mess, a hot mess, yes, very hot, very messy. BUT. Also very soft, very gentle, very romaaaance and its a bit of bad romance (insert lady gaga here plz). Snotlout has no marbles, boy's done lost them all, and Eret is just being British, idk tbh??? Should of added a "you know nothing, Jon snow" gag but that's a bit petty, though i may change my mind, I'm two-faced like that!

This is the boys doing the horizontal tango (add careless whisper saxophone here plz) with violence, soft moments, bickering, angst, scars, body-worshipping and all of the stuff that make weapons of mass destruction!

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Chapter summary - Ten months prior to Eret's leave, Snotlout a mad decision. Ten months prior to his leave, Eret took a mad man to bed.

Chapter warnings - SEX! SMUT! THE HORIZONTAL TANGO! THEY GOT AT IT LIKE RABBITS! Um, also scars, mental instability (Snotlout is kinda crazy in this fic) violence

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He's not even given the pleasure of a warning. No distant cursing, no dramatic door-knocking, no crass bragging. Nothing.

Snotlout just storms into his cabin and punches Eret in the face.

It sends him to the floor and he stays there for a second, hand rubbing at his aching jaw as he looks up at Snotlout, confused and angry. Snotlout's eyes, hauntingly pale in the firelight, are brimming with unspoken rage and his lips are curled back in a wrathful snarl, there is too much anger in him and its brimming at the surface.

After that, his immediate instinct is to stand back up and fight back. Which he does. He thrusts his hands against Snotlout's chest, pushing him back a few feet, and Eret is confused when that snarl flips into a crooked grin. He wants this, he wants a fight, and who is Eret to deny him that?

"If you wanted a scrap, Snotlout, you should've just asked," Eret rolls his shoulders, feeling confident and angry because how dare this short mad man come into his home and attack him? Unprovoked, mind.

"Where'd be the fun in that?" Snotlout laughs and it raises goosebumps along his arms because there is something distinctively unhinged about that sound, it leaves an unnerved feeling in his gut. Men who laugh in the face of danger are the true animals, his father once said, for they have no fear. Even dragons cower at the prospect of death. Mad men howl for joy.

Snotlout charges forward with an arm reeled back, ready to throw a punch, and Eret ducks to the side as that closed fist falls through the empty space, leaving Snotlout staggering forward. But that mad smile doesn't falter as he expected it to and the look that Snotlout gives him from beneath his lashes triggers his flight or fight. It's the face of a rabid animal, of a mad wolf, of a deranged dragon, of something so deluded it doesn't even know what it's doing.

But despite this, Eret stands his ground and fights because he's ran away from things his whole life. Not anymore. He will fight Snotlout, he will fight this mad man.

He heaves in a heavy breath, holds it, then lurches forward with a closed fist. Snotlout doesn't dodge, or move, or even blink and there is something terribly wrong with that. A crunching sound fills the room as his fist hits Snotlout square in the face. Eret exhales harshly as he brings his hand up to brush the loose hair from his face, knuckles throbbing and heart thumping in his chest.

Snotlout takes a step back, head down and hand to face. By all rights, he should be on the floor, out for the night, Eret hit him as hard as he could. That too leaves a sickness in his gut. How can such a small body take such a huge punch? (Not that he's bragging, he's just aware of his own strength)

After a moment, Snotlout let's his hand falls to his side and it's wet with blood.

Then the dragon-rider looks up at him. Eret swallows firmly.

Rivers of blood pour from his nostrils and steadily flow over his lips and down his chin, thick droplets dripping from his jaw and some streak down his neck like exposed veins. He looks terrible with all that blood on him. Oh Gods.

But Snotlout, to his horror, smiles at him with all his teeth and they too are red, glistening, threatening. (It might be the trick of the firelight, but they look sharp)

He looks like a wolf, a wild animal that's just made a kill.

"Snotlout-" Eret starts, no longer angry but concerned because this isn't the Snotlout he knows (not that he knows him well), this isn't the prideful man who's bull-headed and overconfident, who's put-together and two dimensional. No, this is something else, something Eret is familiar with.

Many men went mad under Drago's tyranny.

Snotlout takes no notice of his name being spoken and throws a poorly aimed punch, his fist a good foot from his target. He staggers forward before righting himself, staring at Eret with wild eyes.

"Snotlout, enough now," He states firmly, forcing himself to stand taller to intimidate the shorter, but Snotlout just laughs through his wet teeth.

"What? Am I too much for the greatest dragon-trapper alive?" Snotlout mocks darkly as he opens his arms, almost inviting Eret to attack him.

And hot with the sudden rage of being mocked, of his dark past being bright to the light like its a joke, Eret takes that invitation eagerly.

He yells out as he tackles Snotlout to the floor, anchoring him down with his weight, and his vision blurs as he swings again and again and again till his hand feels close to breaking. Snotlout doesn't fight back. He pummels Snotlout's face as a great hatred unfurls in his chest, a hatred that does not belong to Snotlout, but to Drago.

To Drago. To his corrupted home. To himself. This hatred that's been festering within him belongs to all the things that have caused him to run away. All he's ever done is run, like a coward. Now, he will fight. When he looks beneath him, he sees Drago, he sees the men who murdered his father, he sees himself.

But when the fog clears, Eret is overwhelmed with regret and the first thing that goes through his head is oh Gods, I've killed him. Beneath him is Snotlout, not the men who made a coward of him. What have I done?

Eret pants and stares as he lowers his face closer to Snotlout's, who also pants. He's alive, thank Gods, I'm not a murderer. No, you are, you're still a murder, you're just like the men who killed him!

"Thanks,"

Eret shakes his head and really looks at Snotlout because what? Did- did he- did he just thank him? And then he catches the grin, this blissed out grin made of split lips and bloody teeth, Gods, he's been smiling the whole time. He can't find the words to answer back, he doesn't even know what he would say. (You're welcome)

The rider's face is red and shiny with blood and it makes his eyes so bright, so pale, so blue that he could drown in them. And in those eyes, in those cold waters, Eret sees a calmness that shouldn't be there after getting your face battered in. This is what he wanted, he let you do this, this wasn't a fight, he doesn't know what it was, but I wasn't a fight.

Then those eyes do something Eret wasn't expecting. They flicker down, down, to his lips. And they stare for a few moments before looking back into his, ghost-like and near-white. It leaves a familiar coiling feeling in his gut and he can't stop himself from doing the same, glimpsing a look at those red-shining lips that, suddenly, looks so kissable, even with all that blood.

He wonders is Snotlout came here for any other alternative motives.

Perhaps he asks this question through his eyes because Snotlout's eyebrows jump suggestively and he runs his tongue over his teeth, smearing that deep blood. It sends a hot flash straight to his cock and Eret swallows to quench the dryness in his throat.

"What do you want, Snotlout?" He asks lowly, hands on either side of the shorter's shoulders.

"I think you know, Eret," He responds stubbornly, his voice smug, and they feel so close, like there are no gaps between them. His heart feels like it's suffocating.

Eret does know, or he believes he does. He doesn't want to assume, doesn't want to make this situation worse than it already is.

"I want you to say it,"

It's a challenge and Snotlout's grin widens until there's too many teeth (just like Ruffnut's) and he raises his head till their noses touch, till their breaths warm each other. He licks his lips like a hungry beast and doesn't break eye contact, Eret can't believe how wildly blue they are. It's like looking at a frozen lake, the thick ice has cracked but not feel enough to break.

"I want you to fuck me,"

And that's it. It's out in the open. Eret is suddenly aware of the hardness pressing against his thigh and oh, how it just urges his own to grow in strength, and Snotlout know this too. He bites his bruised lip and blinks slowly. It has to be the prettiest thing he's ever seen. Never mind the blood, never mind the bruises, those eyes are otherworldly.

Slowly, Eret closes the gap between them and the kiss isn't rushed or violent, it's a hesitant movement. After a moment, Snotlout's breath hitches and reels back at the tender touch as if Eret has just smacked his across the face. He looks up at him and Eret swallows at the sudden insecurity that's swirling in those eyes, no longer angry or mad or confident, but unsure in the face of tenderness.

Eret waits for him to move and, sure enough, Snotlout again lifts his head, eyes fluttering closed as Eret meets him in the middle. Their lips slot together like they're meant to be and it fills Eret's heart with a warm feeling, like molten gold in his arteries. The irony taste of blood touches his taste buds as he swipes his tongue along Snotlout's busted lips, who lets out a quiet moan from the back of his throat. More, Eret hears.

It's goes on for a few minutes, this gentle dance, before Snotlout tries to speed it up. He tries to make it angry and obscene, tries to make it as dirty as their fight but Eret isn't having it. No, if they're going to do this, they're going to do this right.

Forcefully, he takes Snotlout's hands and slams them to the floor, above his head, in an almost bruising hold, staring down at him with a dark look.

"Calm down," He orders, his voice rough and heady, and Snotlout's entire body goes weak beneath him at the his commanding tone, "I know that you want a quick fuck, but we're not doing it like that, understand? Not while you're like this,"

Snotlout doesn't respond to him, but now he's almost hyper-focused on Eret and the way he's reacted to the solid orders and the firm hands immediately clicks an understanding in Eret. Snotlout, proud Snotlout who hates authority and instructions, needs to be told what to do.

A soft feeling spreads across his chest and Eret lowers his head till his mouth is next to Snotlout's ear.

"You need me to get you out of your head?" He whispers softly, absently rubbing his thumb over the throbbing pulse on his wrist, and Snotlout lightly nods his head, a shiver moving through his body.

"Fuck me-" Snotlout growls frustratedly, "-like you hate me,"

"No," is his firm answer and he lifts his head to be met with those eyes, bright and angry again at his denied request.

"What do you mean no? You- you bastard-"

Eret rucks his hips, grinding their clothed erections together, and Snotlout's cursing breaks into a breathy gasp as he thumps his head against the floor, tilting it with his eyes as they roll to the back of his skull. In his own pleasure, Eret grunts and admires the exposed throat before him, pale and mapped out with rosy streams of dried blood. Lowering his head, he runs his mouth along the arching curve of Snotlout's throat, his teeth travelling along the pulsing arteries like a threatening blade, Eret could rip out his throat right now and Snotlout would thank him for it. It is a powerful feeling.

He places a kiss, feather-light, on his Adam's apple before lifting himself, freeing one of his hands so he can bring it to Snotlout's chin. Again, they are face to face. Eret is delighted to see a flush fanning across his cheeks and a wanton look glossing his beautiful eyes. They really are beautiful, how has he never noticed them before? It's like he's just seen the moon in the sky for the first time. So pale, so haunting, so strange.

"I don't do hate fucking," He clarifies to Snotlout, voice purposeful and concise, and the response he gets is a forceful huff and an irritated eye roll, manageable enough. A smirk of his own stretches across his face as he tilts his head, eyes ablaze with mischief as he snarks; "I'm only into love making,"

A great laugh explodes from Snotlout's throat and it fills the cabin with a rich, balmy atmosphere that oozes deep into Eret's skin, into his bones, into his heart, it is not a sound he will easily forget. This isn't a sarcastic or mocking cackle, but a genuine laugh that Eret has only heard briefly in unshared moments. If thunder could laugh, it would be this.

"Shut the fuck up," Snotlout chuckles roughly, crinkled eyes looking up at him with mirth and Eret is aware of arms circling around his shoulders, bringing his face closer to Snotlout's.

"Shut the fuck up," He whispers again, voice silken and unchaste, and Eret is drawn into a shameless make out session that draws on till their lungs are aching from lack of breath.

They stare and pant like rabid dogs and there has never been a better feeling than this. This reckless desire, this violent delight, this bloody kiss, those brilliant eyes, that mad smile. No night has ever left him feeling so much. Eret notices that Snotlout is still covered in blood, blood that he spilt, and he rubs his thumb into the drying maroon crust beneath his nose.

"Get up," He says simply as he rises onto his feet and Snotlout makes a barely-audible whine when the hot weight on his lap disappears, gazing up at him from the floor with this lustful yet somehow also tired look in his eyes.

"Can't you just fuck me here?" He groans, sitting up onto his elbows and rolling his neck, and, Gods above, it's all about fucking with him, isn't it? Not that Eret can blame him, by the straining in his pants, he's just as eager as the shorter man.

"It's not love making if you're on the floor and covered blood," Eret retorts smartly, a grin tugging his lips as he offers his red-touched hand to Snotlout, "Now, get up and go clean your face,"

With a bemused snort, Snotlout takes his hand and is easily lifted to his feet. They don't let go of each other straight away and when he looks down at their hands, he sees that they are both flaking with dried blood. Snotlout's blood. It's a strange moment, almost like time has slowed, up until Snotlout's hand slips from his, dark blood-dust grating from their calloused fingers.

"Um, there's a wash basin in my room," Eret states, trying to dislodge his heart from his throat as he leads Snotlout to where his room is, their shoulders brushing as they walk through the doorway.

The copper basin resides on top of the dresser besides his bed and he refills it with clean water everyday, a thing of habit his mum drilled into him as a child.

It's quickly tainted from a shimmering clear to a murky pink as Snotlout splashes water on his face, the diluted blood from his nose and lips slipping through his fingers into the dish. Eret averts his eyes from that glistening skin and concentrates on scrubbing the dusty blood from his hand, the skin of his middle knuckle has split slightly and stings against his rubbing hand. All he can here is the tranquil movement of water and the echoey beat of his heart.

Briefly, he looks to the Rider beside him and notices that there's still blood on his neck, neighbouring with the gold-glinting streams of water droplets. With a face no longer shining with blood and madness, but with water and calmness, Snotlout looks like something from a soft dream and it leaves Eret's mouth dry and pulse running. He swallows, unsure what to do other than stare.

But the longer he stares, the more that calmness shifts in a restlessness that's writhing deep within, barely controlled, barely holding back. He should just give Snotlout what he wants, a quick shag, in and out business as it were, but there was something about that madness in those eyes that tells Eret a swift fuck isn't what Snotlout needs. Sure, it's what he wants, but it's not what he needs.

"Here," He says as he brings a wet cloth to Snotlout's throat, who asks what he's doing through wide, almost angry eyes.

"You've got blood on your neck," Eret clarifies for him, sponging the rag along the fading lines lightly and he can see Snotlout's artery thumping rapidly against the wet skin, it does a strange thing to his gut.

Snotlout turns to face him, head up but tilted to the side with his lips pressed together in a frustrated sort of expression, like this gentle act is an annoying inconvenience. Eret finds it both amusing and terrifying how quickly Snotlout's moods change, from wrathful to deranged to seductive to... Embarrassed? Is that it? He has no idea, but it must be painful to feel so many things at once.

To be honest, he feels a bit light headed himself from the quick changes the atmosphere has taken in the last half hour. The tone in the air currently feels domestic-like, with a hint of apprehension.

"Fucking Hel, stop," Snotlout brutally bats Eret's hand away and looks up at him with a firm, determined face, "Stop with the- the- the foreplay and just-"

In a moment of great confidence, Eret mercilessly rams Snotlout against the dresser and takes hold of the hair on the back of his head, yanking unkindly until Snotlout's throat is completely bared and his eyes are locked with his. There are no gaps between them. Their heaving chests are pressed together so closely that they can feel each other's pounding hearts and Eret presses his leg firmly between Snotlout's legs. A poorly restrained groan comes forth as Snotlout melts like butter in his heated embrace.

"Just what? Fuck you?" Eret growls and those blue eyes glow like a prayer in the candlelight as he faintly nods against the force of Eret's hold, Adam's apple bobbing through a swallowed breath.

"Yeah? You want me to be bend you over, fuck you till I'm done and throw you out, hmm? That's what you want?"

A hotness sweeps along Eret as he watches the submissiveness in Snotlout's eyes grow, his mouth dropping open at those dirty words, at that foul desire.

"Yes, Eret- Fuck yes, do- fucking that," Snotlout drawls breathlessly, a moan colouring his voice as his hair is pulled, legs spreading so Eret can ruck his knee up higher.

And Eret concludes that this, this is the prettiest thing he's ever seen and the power that consumes him is addicting, because it is no simple task to get a Viking Warrior like Snotlout to beg. Proud, fire-blooded Snotlout who now leans against him trembling and begging like a desperate whore.

Eret grins, mean and sharp, as he brings his mouth close to Snotlout's, their lips touching in a open-mouthed kiss that has yet to start.

"Well, too bad," He says in a low voice, lips brushing with each word, and Snotlout stares up at him with begging eyes that almost made Eret reconsider his choice.

But he doesn't.

So, he removes his leg, releases the harsh grip on his hair and slightly backs up so Snotlout has more breathing room. But he keeps his face close, keeps their lips touching and swallows the complaint working on Snotlout's tongue with the vigor of a gentle man. It's one of those kisses that leave you light headed from the softness. Snotlout's hands are frozen in mid air like he's never touched a person before and Eret takes them, holds them, feels the tremors in them and wonders what's so terrifying about tenderness. It's a quiet kiss, a quiet kiss in the quiet night.

They part only slightly to catch a reprieve, lips still touching as they inhale the moment, as they wallow in the balmy warmth of this strange but comforting moment. To think that they were at each other's throats not so long ago. It beggers belief. With closed eyes, Eret trails his mouth along Snotlout's jaw and down his throat, kissing and sucking at the dewy skin with a gentle passion because this is all his tonight, all his to feast on, and he shall savour this taste.

"We'll do this slowly, okay?" Eret mumbles into the crook of his neck, a heavy pulse against his lips, "I am going to fuck you, Snotlout, but I'm gonna do it slowly-"

Eret brings his mouth up until it's right under Snotlout's ear, teeth nibbling at the sensitive flesh and making the Rider's body tremble excitedly.

"-I'm gonna make it feel so good for you," he whispers headily into his ear and his abdomen tightens at the pitched, needy keen that slips from Snotlout's mouth.

"Okay- okay, just- Damn you, Eret, you can fuck me slowly! Just get me to the bed quickly!" Snotlout rasps, caught between desperation and frustration, and Eret can't stop the laugh from bubbling out as he throws his head back.

It's Snotlout this time who goes in for the kiss and it's all teeth and tongue, all hunger and thirst, all the things that Eret associates with a starved man. Starved of touch and tenderness, Eret too feels the cramp of desire. It has been too long.

Thick fingers pull loose the strings of his scaled vest and Eret grins into the kiss, moving his hands from Snotlout's hips to the hem of his vest as he steps back so he can pull it over his head. Dropping it to the floor, he watches as Snotlout gazes with an open appreciation at his bare torso, tongue wetting his lips as he runs his hands down his muscular chest. It leaves Eret's heart thumping wildly and a hotness creeps along his face at the touch, an admiring almost worshipping touch that is so very foreign to him.

"You're... Hot," Snotlout drawls lowly, half-lidded eyes and calloused hands trailing from his pecs to his abs, fingers just brushing over the teasing trail of hair on his abdomen. It sends shivers down his spine.

"I know," He replies confidently, though he can’t quite hide the quiver in his voice.

He knows he's attractive and he is frequently reminded of it, which does not help his ego, but the few men he has been with have always been a bit hesitant in the face of that bold brand on his chest. They've always given it a weary look, kept their hands close and guarded lest they get burnt themselves, treated him as if he's something wounded. He knows he's handsome, but that scar turns that confidence into loathing because it's so ugly and wrong, so evil to him. It's tainted him, it's marked him, it's labelled him.

SLAVE BOY! COWARD BOY! HE RUNS AWAY, SELFISH BOY! MURDERER! TRAPPER! SLAVE! ALWAYS A SLAVE, FREEDOM IS A JOKE AND NO ONE IS LAUGHING!

But Snotlout seems unhindered by it, trailing his fingers along the outline of the furrowed, pink scar with a curious, admiring touch that leaves Eret breathless. He expected a cringe or a hesitant hand, but Snotlout almost seems drawn to his many scars, like a moth in a room of candles. Hands palming and fingers tracing the wicked lines along his toned stomach, his broad shoulders, his exposed collarbone.

He is a marked man. A slave to a greedy country, a slave to a mad man, a slave to violence. He is marked by each and every one of his masters and forever he will be reminded that freedom was a dish never served to him. It was a dish he stole. No longer is he a slave, but there is something missing in his freedom and he doesn’t know what.

"I thought you wanted to get a move on," Eret mumbles with an almost strained voice and Snotlout looks up at him, golden from candle-flames and still glistening from water, he looks like dew at dawn.

"I thought you wanted to slow down," Snotlout retorts back, hands rubbing up and down his chest, and he grins smartly up at him, "What? I'm allowed to touch you, aren't I?"

"Y-yeah, of course- I-"

Expelling a deep sigh, Eret ducks his head and ensnares Snotlout into a passionate kiss, no longer wanting to talk. Despite his charm, Eret finds words difficult at times and sometimes actions speak far more clearly in certain situations.

Snotlout doesn't seem to mind, the shorter gladly returning the kiss with just as much vigour.

There is something about kissing Snotlout that feels very filling, like eating your heart out after months of rationing on a ship. Perhaps he's been starving this whole time. Even after all these years a freedom, there's still a hole in his gut but it doesn't feel so empty right now, with Snotlout's hands on his chest, lips on his lips, heart on his heart.

Perhaps this is truly freedom.

"My turn," Eret whispers against his lips, delving his fingers beneath Snotlout's shirt and feeling the hot skin beneath.

"Wait," Snotlout breathes, taking hold of his wrists, and Eret looks down at him with an almost anxious look, afraid that he's going too fast with this, despite that being what Snotlout wanted.

Snotlout swallows thickly, eyes blue and uneasy as they flicker between Eret's face and his hands, half hidden beneath his vest. The skin there feels strange and oddly familiar though, he can't quite pinpoint what, but his fingers move briefly over raised marks.

"Just... don't ask questions or... Give me any pity, okay? Just... Ignore them,"

Them? Ignore what? And pity? Eret isn't a pitying man, he knows how weak it makes you feel, he'd be a hypocrite to do so. But why would Snotlout warrant any pity? He doesn't quite understand, but he does as he's told and doesn't ask any questions.

"Alright," he agrees with an honest voice and Snotlout then nods his head, lower lip caught between his teeth.

Eret takes hold of the hem of Snotlout's shirt and pulls it off, discarding it behind him before turning back to the Rider.

At first, he doesn't react at all. Not physically, anyway. But his mind screams-

Oh Gods, oh Gods, there's so much, they're everywhere, oh Gods, how is he alive? No one could survive this, he's a corpse, oh Gods he's been kissing a dead man because no one could possibly survive this!

Snotlout's entire torso is the home of hundreds, and by the Gods, he means hundreds, of ivory scars. They're all raised and twisted and cruel-looking, like crooked grins etched into his skin that mock and laugh. They shine against the candlelight and most of them are so overlapped, that they look like just one awfully huge scar. These are lashes, whip lashes, Eret is all too familiar with these scars for he has his own set on his back but nothing like this. Nothing like this graveyard that resides upon Snotlout's flesh.

Drago gave him fifteen lashes and a branding that day, as well as a thorough beating from his henchmen. Since then, Eret had been able to avoid punishment and failure out of pure dread of what would happen if he failed again. Perhaps this is what would've happened, perhaps he would've mauled and marred and... Marked.

He wants to ask who (what) did this to you? Why did they do this? When? How are you still alive? How are you still standing with the weight of the scars that mark you?

But he says none of these things because Snotlout asked him to and even if he'd been given permission to, his breath has been stolen from him anyways. He cannot simply ignore them, though. These hundred echoes of a hundred agonies, if scars could speak, they would be screaming. How are you not screaming? How are you still so brave?

Eret steps forth and Snotlout's eyes, hauntingly bright, stare at him with a hidden shame within them that Eret sees clearly. He nearly mistakes that shame for his own. Lowering his head, he kisses Snotlout's shoulder and licks along a nasty scar that bends over his shoulder to his back. He makes the mistake of opening his eyes and he sees that there are a hundred more vicious wounds defacing his back. He could be sick, he really could be, that's why he closes his eyes again.

"Eret," Snotlout gasps, blunt teeth biting down onto that raised line as hands map out and feel along the almost inhuman terrain of Snotlout's body.

Eret touches each scar with a great tenderness, devoting his hands to the gentle caresses along his chest and stomach, his sides and back. All scarred, all layered with the ghosts of torture because what else could this be? There's nothing worse than this, Eret thinks, death is kinder than this. He kisses the thick scars criss-crossed on Snotlout's chest and massages the sunken marring on his waist and sides with his hands, trying to get Snotlout to understand that he's here to touch him softly, gently, tenderly.

You will not be harmed here, he reassures with his lips against his scar-streaked collarbone, I will hold you right now and will only let you go if you ask me to, he promises with his hands pressed against his mauled spine.

"Eret, can we..." The request goes unsaid, but Eret understands and finally decides that Snotlout has waited long enough. They both have.

Wrapping his arms under his thighs, Eret easily lifts Snotlout off his feet and his heart grows with the shocked sound Snotlout makes as he circles his thick arms around his neck. Eret chuckles and Snotlout lets out a breathy laugh, cursing him quietly. After a few steps, he gently lies him onto the bed and crawls over him, their noses touching as Eret settles between his legs. Their clothed erections press against each other and they simultaneously groan, that hot want kindling again in their guts.

With Snotlout beneath him, Eret feels that power again.

"I'm gonna make you feel so good," Eret promises headily against his mouth, hands fiddling with hem of Snotlout's trousers.

"You better get on with it then," Snotlout growls, baring his teeth before diving in for a violent kiss and Eret takes this as his final warning.

In an almost animalistic fashion, he tears Snotlout's trousers and underclothes off in one powerful tug and grins into the kiss at the surprised sound Snotlout makes in his throat. And that grin only grows when he wraps his hand around Snotlout's cock, the Rider breaking the kiss with a gasp as Eret skilfully pulls him apart. Bless him, he tries to hold it in with clenched teeth and pressed lips but the sounds still resonate through his throat and, though they are muffled, they are terribly pretty.

The sounds he pulls from him are almost enough for Eret to go over the edge himself to be honest, he's never heard such surrender in his life. But he made a promise to fuck Snotlout and he isn't going to let this opportunity pass him by because he can't control himself. With one last tug, Eret releases Snotlout and silences that arguing whine with an encouraging press of his fingers against his mouth, leathery pads brushing against the scabbed lips. Snotlout, quick to understand, opens his mouth and swallows two of Eret’s digits and its an image that he couldn’t have come up with even in his most wildest dreams. Yet here it is, here he is, atop a mad rival with his fingers delving down his throat as he makes the most lewd noises Eret has ever heard. Gods, he can feel those sounds.

After a steamy moment, Eret replaces his now-slick fingers with an open-mouthed kiss and brings his hand down to Snotlout’s entrance. His finger slips in nice and easy, causing Snotlout to groan lowly as pulls back from the kiss, spit on his lips while he tucks his head into Eret's throat, biting and kissing passionately.

"Good, yeah?" Eret murmurs with a wicked grin, adding another finger, and he can feel how hot Snotlout's skin gets as he nods into the crook of his neck.

He gasps, high-pitched and pretty, hips rising as Eret hooks his fingers inside him, teeth digging into his shoulder in an attempt to stop himself from voicing his pleasure.

And again, he is full of this incredible power as he pumps his fingers inside him, watching Snotlout sharply as he drops his head back down to the furs with a strangled moan. He pulls his lower lip with his teeth and squeezes his eyes shut, like the pleasure is bordering on agony. It's not enough, he needs more, and who is Eret to deny him that?

Once he's satisfied with how loose he is, Eret rises onto his knees and unties the strings of his trousers, pulling out his heavy cock with an apprehensive rumble in his chest. His blood bubbles like boiling water and he feels feral when he looks at Snotlout, sprawled below him with this vulnerability bared freely. He trusts you, he's baring his throat to you, Gods, he asking you to tear it out and you would, you will, you'd do it again and again only if he asked you to and he's laying here, asking!

Eret, hungry like a winter-born beast, takes hold of the back Snotlout's thighs and presses his muscled legs to his flushed chest, putting his weight on them at he leans over him. Snotlout's eyes are stunningly bright and he gazes deep into them, looking, searching, hunting. He's never wanted something so much in his life and by God's, if Snotlout lets him do this it just might kill him.

"Snotlout," he says his name softly, contrasting the hard grip on his thighs, the starved look in his eyes, the urgent press of his cock.

It's a question. Can I do this? Will you let me take your body, take your throat, take your heart? Can I touch you like you're a forgotten god who wasn't worshipped as you should've been? Can I do that? Will you let me?

And Snotlout sighs, deep and honest, like an answer. Yes, yes, yes. Forever yes.

With a blaze in his veins, Eret presses his hips forward and the overwhelming feeling of hot, wet, tight strikes him dumb for a few moments, black stars dancing in his eyes as he presses his forehead against Snotlout's. He vaguely registers his own drawn out moan as he stares, awe-struck, at the open-mouthed and closed-eyed expression on Snotlout's face. It is a look of pure, blinding bliss that looks so damn pretty on this irritating, fire-blooded Viking Warrior that has been Hel-bent on frustrating him beyond all belief. It is burned into his memory for all time and he begs that he'll remember it when he dies.

"Fuck," Eret gasps lowly, fingers flexing around the muscle on Snotlout's under thighs as he bottoms out, their hips connecting as if they've become one person.

In a moment of curiosity, he looks down and his panting breath is stolen once more as he sees Snotlout's thighs. Ripped and raised with scars. In a moment where he forgets everything else, he sits back and let's Snotlout's legs stretch out alongside his hips, fully revealing the extent of the scarring. Snotlout, still gasping from the fullness of Eret's cock buried inside him, has yet to realise what he has noticed.

Eret runs his hands up and down those marred thighs with a doting gentleness that he feels they've been starved of. He's never seen someone so damaged before, it looks like someone tore him apart and left him alone with nothing but a ball of string and a blunt needle, left him alone to sew himself whole again. Curling a hand around Snotlout's ankle, he lifts his leg till it's on his shoulder and kisses tenderly at the also scarred tissue of his calf, as if someone had repeatedly struck the back of his legs with a sharp-sided stick.

"Ere-" It's the beginning of a complaint, bitter and angry, but Eret easily cuts it off with a few shallow thrusts of his hips, still kissing his ankle and calf.

Snotlout tilts his head back, an almost shocked keen jumping from his throat as Eret rocks into him, still being gentle as not to cause any discomfort. Though, he can't lie, it's hard for him not pound violently into the gorgeous heat that's making his gut coil and spine shake. Snotlout wants it violent, wants it dirty and foul and angry, but Eret, as stated, doesn't do hate sex and no amount of surprised punches or provoking jeering will ever change that. He's a gentleman.

"Fuck- harder,"

Or he was a gentlemen, because there is something about Snotlout begging Eret to fuck him harder that brings out a ferocious thing from deep within. A gentleman, still, but there is something wild inside him that Snotlout has tapped into.

Eret covers Snotlout's body with his, knee to his chest and leg over his shoulder as he fucks deep and hard into him. It's like there’s nothing but this outrageous hunger churning in his gut and Snotlout is this gorgeous feast sprawled out just for him, like he's this deer with its neck open and Eret is this ravenous wolf.

And being this hungry dog, Eret takes his teeth to Snotlout's throat and feels the thrumming of blood beneath his tongue. Snotlout moans and writhes and pants, one hand balled in the furs and the other curled around his nape, tangled in his loose hair. The room is full of the sound of slapping skin and dirty moans and desperate breaths, the bed creaking slightly underneath it all. It is the sound of sex, of pleasure, of primal desire.

"So fucking good, Snotlout, so fucking good," Eret growls into Snotlout's hot skin as he fucks firm into the Rider, his muscles burning and skin glistening with sweat.

"Oh fuuuuck," Snotlout drawls out in a loud moan, eyes rolling and mouth snarling, and it takes Eret a moment to realise that he came, sudden and hard, between their bodies.

"Oh fuck, fuck, oh Gods, Eret," he babbles breathlessly, body shivering and flushed and limp as Eret continues to pound zealously into him, his own climax rushing him as he's enveloped in this unimaginable tightness.

"I'm gonna-" Snotlout doesn't give him time to finish, his strong hands clutching fiercely at the hair on the back of head and dragging his face down to his.

"Yeah, yeah, go on, give it to me, fuck, Eret, cum inside me you fucking bastard," Snotlout pants wantonly, lips pressed against his in a not-quite-kiss, bright, teary eyes gazing into his with this feral madness that, for the smallest second, scares Eret.

Briefly, he thinks, oh no, I've made a fool's mistake and put my dick in crazy.

But it snaps out of mind as his orgasm leaps upon him and all he can do is groan against Snotlout's open-mouthed grin, body trembling as he ruts through this mind-numbing climax. His body is on fire and Gods he's dying, living has never felt this good, nothing has ever felt this damn good.

It feels like hours, but it must have only been a few minutes, before the wildfire in his veins simmers down and Eret is half collapsed on top of Snotlout, elbows planted besides his head and chest pressed against his, their hearts singing to each other as they wallow in the afterglow.

He opens his eyes and stares, half in disbelief, half in awe, at the foreign expression on Snotlout’s face. Eret is used to the quirked grin during dinner or the irritated scowl that is commonly directed at him, the quiet sternness seen in serious moments or, though he has only seen it briefly, the unbridled bloodlust that breaks through on the battlefield. But the face below him now is neither of these, nor one of the recently discovered faces of Snotlout (madness, rage, lust, mad-lust, shame), it is something that Eret can only name as pure, unfiltered content and it suits him terribly well, especially with that bright flush on his cheeks and those shimmering tearstains streaking down the sides of his face. Perhaps, perhaps this is the prettiest thing; dream-like, gold-kissed, gently-touched.

Eret falls to the bed besides Snotlout with a satisfied exhale, feeling good and warm on both the inside and outside, like there is a candle kindled within him. He doesn’t trouble himself with the thoughts of tomorrow or of repercussions because he is simply far too tired for such thoughts, there’s no need to ruin a good moment while you’re having one. It’s the same kind of tired that you get after a big meal and he certainly has feasted tonight.

Lazily, he turns his head to Snotlout and there is this sudden, unspeakable feeling in his chest when he looks at him, eyes closed and lips parted, not asleep but just… resting, with no guard or façade protecting his features. Again, it’s Snotlout saying he trusts him and Eret has no idea how he earned that trust but he’s not a fool, he won’t throw that trust away. Perhaps this is Snotlout handing him an olive branch, saying in this crazy, sexy way of his that he doesn’t hate him, that they can be friends. Passionate friends are better than bitter rivals.

And Eret falls asleep like that, watching the steady movement of Snotlout’s chest, counting the wicked scars on his ribs, devouring the image of those split lips that Eret can still taste in the back of his mouth (blood, iron, lightning).

Later that night, Eret is woken by the sound of moving feet and ruffling clothes. The dream of cracked ice and calloused hands and a bleeding heart quickly slip from his memory like smoke through his hands but the sluggishness of sleep clings to him longingly, so much so that he struggles simply to open his eyes. When he does, it’s dark and shadowy, the candles all snuffed out, and he has difficultly trying to identify the source of those sounds. He pats his hand onto the other side of the bed, expecting to feel Snotlout’s body, but there are only disturbed furs laying there. Ah, he understands.

“Snotlout?” He slurs into the dark, sleep heavy on his mind, and the noises stop suddenly.

When his eyes finally adjust to the darkness, he’s met with the shadow-touched figure of Snotlout stood beside his bed, trousers on and tunic in hand, pale eyes watching him. He swears they were blue, they’ve always been blue, but right now, gods, they look like they’re white and glowing, like an animal’s eyes catching the moonlight, like two stars standing side by side. Eyes shouldn’t be so bright yet so haunted, they’re like ghost eyes.

“Are you a ghost?” He wants to ask, because he should be, with all those scars, he should be dead and maybe he did die but he’s lost, doesn’t know if he belongs in Valhalla or Hel because he’s got the heart of a warrior but the mind of a mad man.

“What you doing?” He asks instead, because Snotlout is no ghost, Eret has cradled his heart and held his body. You cannot touch ghosts, it’s a well-known fact.

“Go back to sleep, Eret,” Snotlout says and there is a faint softness in his voice that he almost misses, the biting tone his name is usually spat with now replaced with this indulgent whisper that sounds, not warm, but not cold either. Lukewarm.

“Where you going?” Eret murmurs back, rubbing the sleep-dust from his left eye as he watches the shorter tighten the strings of his trousers with the other.

“Home,” Snotlout replies back bluntly, that warmer voice iced down back to its cold familiar self, and Eret groans tiredly.

“It’s not even dawn, come back to bed,” He reasons, voice still deep and hoarse from sleep, his words barely coherent.

He hears Snotlout sigh frustratedly and vaguely sees the harsh rise and fall of his broad shoulders, eyes closed and face pinched in irritation. He’s reacting as if Eret’s just proposed the most outrageous offer to him and it rises the smallest amount of annoyance in him, but he’s far too tired to fully register the feeling, let alone act upon it, so instead he follows the negotiation route. Which will be poor due to his lethargic state, but he’s persuasive and has bargained tougher trades while drunk.

“Don’t be a git,” He murmurs, patting the empty space beside him, “Come. Sleep,”

“Shut up, sailor,” Snotlout grunts with no bite in his voice, just tiredness, “Shut up and go to sleep,”

With a sudden swell of courage and frustration, Eret leans across the bed and takes Snotlout’s hand into, his grip loose enough for Snotlout to pull from if he really wants to but tight enough to show he’s being sincere, even if he’s just half-asleep. Both of their hands are calloused from gruelling battles and hard labour and strenuous training and he can feel the rigid patches of old burn scars on Snotlout’s palm, a common marking found on this island where everyone rides a fire-breathing beast. Even Eret’s got his own collection.

“Snotlout,” His voice comes out soft and meaningful, “Come back to bed,”

And Snotlout stares down at him with those eyes, those moon-drowned eyes, and it’s a stern, searching look, the same look he makes when he’s trying to figure out if an enemy is either being truthful or deceptive and Eret has yet to see Snotlout’s perception (or gut) to be proven wrong. Even in this half-awoken state, Eret feels his skin crawl and there’s a coldness in his chest, like his soul is retracting from the stark, glacial stare, he feels like he’s being judged. Is this what it’s like to be judged by a ghost?

Snotlout closes his eyes (much to Eret’s relief) and expels a long sigh through his flaring nostrils, faintly resembling Hookfang when he blows smoke from his nose. When he opens his eyes again, they’re blue and Eret is far too tired to think about it. But his heart leaps gleefully when he feels Snotlout squeeze his hand and Eret squeezes back unconsciously.

“Budge,” Snotlout orders, jutting his chin towards him, but Eret, so full of pride that he past Snotlout’s cunning gaze and convinced him to come back to sleep, is already tugging the shorter onto the bed.

“Oi!” Snotlout tries to abject, but by the time he starts his head is already being pressed against the curve of the sailor’s neck and Eret has already wrapped his arms around his waist and side, both of them lying chest to chest, both of their hearts giggling together.

“Shut up, rider,” Eret grumbles sleepily, pressing his proud grin into the tasselled hair on Snotlout’s head, “Shut up and go to sleep,”

Soon Eret feels arms reluctantly swathing around his ribcage, as if their cradling the cage of his heart, and then a face nestling against his throat, it almost feels like a tender mouth ready to rip it out. Again, he hears Snotlout sigh and its neither tired nor irritated, it’s a content sigh, a gentle exhale. Eret lightly brushes his knuckles over the warm skin of Snotlout’s shoulder in an easing gesture, a voiceless lullaby, and despite his sleepiness, he does this even after Snotlout has fallen asleep.

Eret just lies there on this quiet night, feeling Snotlout’s heart beating against his, feeling very full, very whole, very free.

#snotlout whump #eret x snotlout #eret son of eret #eretlout #httyd fanfiction #httyd

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unknownunseenunheard · 6 years ago

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An Apology, by Timothy Zahn

There has been too much blood. Too much death. Too much destruction.

The time has come to set the record straight.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. I was supposed to be the answer to all the chaos spinning through the New Republic. Part of the solution, not part of the problem. Certainly not one of the chief perpetrators.

But you know what they say about the best-laid plans of Ranats and men.

It started out perfectly. I was chosen by Grand Admiral Thrawn to be the new heir to the Rebel leadership and to the new Jedi Order that he knew would arise at my hand. The confrontation at Mount Tantiss went off without a hitch, all the noise and smoke and confusion completely masking the fact that that crazy Jade woman nailed the wrong guy.

Or maybe she nailed the right guy. That was what she’d been ordered to do, you know.

Either way, that was it for Luke Skywalker, hero of the Rebellion. When Han and Leia and the others made their mad scramble out of there, I was the one they took along.

It went all right for awhile. Thrawn fed me instructions and orders, and I was able to handle things reasonably well.

Sure, there were adjustments to be made. My taste in food didn’t always fit Skywalker’s. Hot chocolate was the worst. I could choke it down when the situation called for it, but the stuff always seemed unnatural. But those were minor annoyances, and I got through them.

And like I said, the game started all right. But slowly, I could see things starting to go sideways. The Jedi Academy, for instance. Half the time I didn’t have the slightest idea what I was doing. Maybe the real Luke wouldn’t have, either. But he wasn’t the one on the scene. I was. Corran Horn helped out some, but I got the impression he was making it up as he went along just as much as I was.

Exar Kun knew, of course. He cackled nonstop about it when we were alone. But in the end we got through it.

Thrawn really wanted me to get a sample so that he could make his own Exaar Kun. He seemed very put out that without a body I couldn’t do that. He was miffed about Callista, too, for the same reason.

He was mollified, though, with the samples I later got him from Prince Xizor and Durga the Hutt. He still likes to play holochess with Xiizor, though the Falleen sulks a lot about not being allowed to go back to Black Sun. Why Thrawn keeps Duurga around I don’t know. Still, there’s a marsh behind the king’s palace, and Hutts do tend to keep down the frog population.

Life went on. The Black Fleet crisis was dealt with, and the Caamas Document thing, and a whole lot of other troubles.

But the strains were beginning to show. I was starting to get too old for all this, and even the Grand Admiral started wondering aloud if I needed to be replaced by a new model. I was thinking maybe that might not be a bad idea when I suddenly came to a new, horrific realization.

The goal was no longer peace and justice across the galaxy. That had been my goal, but not Thrawn’s. Maybe never had been.

His goal had become to collect a complete set of clones.

Where this insanity came from I have no idea. Maybe by that time it wasn’t even Thrawn pulling the strings anymore. Maybe he’d already been replaced by a Thraawn clone. Maybe we were even up to Thraaawn by now—the galaxy has been pretty hard on Grand Admirals over the years.

I first noticed it when the Vong came in and dropped that moon on Chewbacca. Thrawn (maybe Thraawn. Whoever.) had a Chewbaacca clone up and running practically before the dust settled.

He used to like pairing him up with Duurga for arm-wrestling. But after Chewbaacca pulled one of Duurga’s arms out of its socket, he stopped those bouts. He hasn’t let Chewbaacca anywhere near Duuurga since.

That was bad enough. But then Thraawn (Thraaawn. Whoever.) took it even further. He started making his clones, but then substituting them for people before they died, snatching the originals and taking them back to live at his secret fortress in the Patagonia system.

I’m serious. He started by putting in Anaakin for Anakin. When he got away with that, he went on to Maara, then Jaacen (we’re really sorry about Jaacen, by the way), then Gilaad Pellaeon, and literally dozens of others. Even now, there are clones running around all over the place, on both sides of whatever war we’re in at the moment. (After everything I’ve been through, I’ve started to lose track.) Nataasi Daala’s a clone, Jaagged Fell’s a clone, and I’m pretty sure Jaina is at least on Thraaaawn’s to-do list.

Some people take so many chances with their lives that they’re already up to their third or fourth clone. I’ve lost track as to whether it’s Boooba Fett or Booooba Fett inside that Mandalorian armor. (The armor’s probably on its second or third generation, too. Fett gets shot at a lot.)

The only ones I’m absolutely sure are still the originals are Han and Leia. I think.

It’s been a long, long road. And I, for one, am looking forward to ending my part of it. Luuuke is already in place, so if you want to interpret this message as simply a deranged bit of nonsense from some crazy old wizard, I’ll understand.

But whether you believe me or not, please believe that I’m deeply sorry for my part in this collector’s nightmare you’ve all been thrown into.

I go now to Patagonia, to the palace of the former pirate Roberts, and I will not be coming forth again.

Farewell, and may the Faarce be with you.

-Luuke Skywalker

#star wars #star wars legends #clones #an apology #luke skywalker #thrawn #mara jade #jacen solo #jaina solo #anakin solo #leia #han solo #chewbacca #the best defintion of how crazy the star wars books eventually got #i like legends #but the plot got way out of hand #i couldnt find this at first because the site it was on got deleted #but i managed to track it so im posting it for whoever else wants to read it #timothy zahn

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loretranscripts · 6 years ago

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Lore Episode 29: The Big Chill (Transcript) - 7th March 2016

tw: graphic violence

Disclaimer: This transcript is entirely non-profit and fan-made. All credit for this content goes to Aaron Mahnke, creator of Lore podcast. It is by a fan, for fans, and meant to make the content of the podcast more accessible to all. Also, there may be mistakes, despite rigorous re-reading on my part. Feel free to point them out, but please be nice!

Some places are more frightening than others. It’s hard to nail down a specific reason why, but even so, I can’t think of a single person who might disagree. Some places just have a way of getting under your skin. For some it’s the basement, for others it’s the local graveyard. I even know people who are afraid of certain colours. Fear, it seems, is a landmine that can be triggered by almost anything, and while history might be full of hauntingly tragic stories that span a variety of settings and climates, the most chilling ones – literally – are those that take place in the harsh environment of winter: the incident at Dyatlov Pass; the tragedy of the Donner party; even the sinking of the Titanic in 1912 took place in the freezing waters of the north Atlantic. Winter, it seems, is well equipped to end lives and create fear, and when I think of dangerous winters, I think of Maine, that area of New England on the northern frontier. If you love horror, you might equate Maine with Stephen King, but even though he’s tried hard over the last few decades to make us believe in Derry and Castle Rock and Salem’s Lot, the state has enough danger on its own. Maine is also home to nearly 3500 miles of coastline, more than even California, and that’s where the real action happens. The Maine coastline is littered with thousands of small islands, jagged rocks, ancient lighthouses and even older legends, and all in the cold north, where the sea is cruel and the weather can be deadly. It’s often there, in the places that are isolated and exposed, that odd things happen, things that seem born of the circumstances and climate, things that leave their mark on the people there – things that would never happen on the mainland. And if the stories are to be believed, that’s a good thing. I’m Aaron Mahnke, and this is Lore.

The coastline of Maine isn’t as neat and tidy as other states’. Don’t picture sandy beaches and warm waves that you can walk through; this is the cold north, the water is always chilly and the land tends to emerge from the waves as large, jagged rocks. Go ahead and pull up a map of Maine on your phone, I’ll wait. You’ll see what I mean right away – this place is dangerous, and because of that, ships have had a long history of difficulty when it comes to navigating the coast of Maine. Part of that is because of all the islands - they’re everywhere. According to the most recent count, there are over 4,600 of them, scattered along the coastal waters like fragments of a broken bottle. One such fragment is Seguin Island. It’s only three miles from the mainland, but it’s easy to understand how harsh winter weather could isolate anyone living there very quickly, and when you’re the keeper of the lighthouse there, that isolation comes with the job. The legend that’s been passed down for decades there is the story of a keeper from the mid-1800s. According to the tale, the keeper was newly married and, after moving to the island with his bride, they both began to struggle with the gulf between their lives there and the people on the coast. So, to give his wife something to do with her time – and maybe to get a bit of entertainment out of it for himself – the keeper ordered a piano for her. They say it was delivered during the autumn, just as the winter chill was creeping in. In the story, it had to be hoisted up the rock face, but that’s probably not true; Seguin is more like a green hill pretruding from the water than anything else but, hey, it adds to the drama, right? And that’s what these old stories provide –plenty of drama. When the piano arrived the keeper’s wife was elated, but buyer’s remorse quickly set in. You see, the piano only came with the sheet music for one song. With winter quickly rolling in from the north, shipping in more music was impossible, so she settled in and made the best of it. The legend says that she played that song non-stop, over and over, all throughout the winter. Somehow she was immune to the monotony of it all, but her husband, the man who had only been hoping for distraction and entertainment, took it hard. They say it drove him insane. In the end, the keeper took an axe and destroyed the piano, hacking it into nothing more than a pile of wood and wire, and then, still deranged from the repetitive tune, he turned the axe on his wife, nearly chopping her head off in the process. The tragic story always ends with the keeper’s suicide, but most know it all to be fiction. At least, that’s the general opinion, but even today, there are some who claim that if you happen to find yourself on a boat in the waters between the island and the mainland, you can still hear the sound of piano music drifting across the waves.

Boon island is near the southern tip of Maine’s long coastline. It’s not a big island by any stretch of the imagination, perhaps 400 square yards in total, but there’s been a lighthouse there since 1811 due to the many shipwrecks that have plagued the island for as long as Europeans have sailed in those waters. The most well-known shipwreck on Boon Island occurred there in the winter of 1710 when the Nottingham Galley, a ship captained by John Deane, wrecked there on the rocks. All 14 crew members survived, but the ship was lost, stranding them without help or supplies in the cold winter. As the unfortunate sailors died, one by one, the survivors were forced to eat the dead or face starvation, and they did this for days, until fishermen finally discovered and rescued them. But that’s not the most memorable story from Boon Island, that honour falls to the tale of Katherine Bright, the wife of a former lighthouse keeper there in the 19th century. According to those who believe the story, the couple had only been on the island for a few months when Katherine’s husband slipped while trying to tie off their boat. He fell and hit his head on the rocks and then slid unconsciously into the water, where he drowned. At first, Katherine tried to take on the duties of keeping the light running herself, but after nearly a week, fishermen in York on the mainland watched the light flicker out and stay dark. When they travelled to the island to investigate, they found Katherine sitting on the tower’s stairs. She was cradling her dead husband’s corpse in her arms. Legend has it that Katherine was brought back to York along with her husband’s body, but it was too late for her. Just like the lighthouse they had left behind, she was now cold and dark. Some flames, it seems, can’t be relit.

There’s been a lighthouse on the shore of Rockland, Maine, for nearly 200 years. It’s on an oddly-shaped hill, with two large depressions in the face of the rock that were said to remind the locals of an owl. So, when the light was built there in 1825 it was, of course, named Owls Head. Give any building long enough, mix in some tragedy and unexplainable phenomenon, and you can almost guarantee a few legends will be born. Owls Head is no exception. One of the oldest stories is a well-documented one from 1850. It tells of a horrible winter storm that ripped through the Penobscot Bay area on December 22nd of that year. At least five ships were driven aground by the harsh waves and chill wind. It was a destructive and fierce storm, and it would have been and understatement to say that it wasn’t a wise idea to be out that night – on land or at sea. A small ship had been anchored at Jameson Point that night. The captain had done the smart thing and gone ashore to weather the storm inside, but he left some people behind on the ship. Three, actually: first mate, Richard Ingraham, a sailor named Roger Elliot, and Lydia Dyer, a passenger. While those three poor souls tried to sleep that night on the schooner, the storm pushed the ship so hard that the cables snapped, setting the ship adrift across the bay. Now, it’s not exactly a straight shot south-east to get to Owls Head, it’s a path shaped more like a backwards “C” to get around the rocky coast, but the ship somehow managed to do it anyway. It passed the breakwater, drifted east and south, and finally rounded the rocky peninsula where Owls Head Light is perched, all before smashing against the rocks south of the light.

The three passengers survived the impact and, as the ship began to take on water, they scrambled up to the top deck – better the biting wind than the freezing water, they assumed – and then they waited, huddled there under a pile of blankets against the storm, just waiting for help. When the ship began to actually break apart in the waves, though, Elliot, the sailor, was the only one to make an escape from the wreckage. I can’t imagine how cold he must have been with the freezing wind and ocean spray lashing at him from the darkness, but standing on the rocks with his feet still ankle-deep in the waves, he happened to look up and see the lighthouse on the hill. If he was going to find help, that was his best option, so he began to climb. He was practically dead by the time he reached the lighthouse, but when he knocked, no one answered. A moment later, the keeper of the light rode up the path on a sleigh, having been out for supplies, and realised at once that Elliot needed help. He took him in, gave him hot rum and put him into a warm bed, but not before Elliot managed to whisper something about the others.

The keeper immediately called for help and gathered a group of about a dozen men. Together, they all travelled down to the shore, where they began to look for the wreck of the ship and the people who may still be alive onboard. When they found the remains of the schooner, the men began to carefully climb across the wreckage, looking for signs of the other passengers. It was treacherous work – the wood was encrusted in ice and each step swayed dangerously with the waves. When they finally found them, they were still on the portion of the deck where Elliot had left them, but they seemed to shiver whenever the light of the lantern washed over them. Climbing closer, the men discovered why: Ingraham and Dyer were both encased in a thick layer of ice, completely covering their bodies. They were frozen. Not taking any chances, the men somehow managed to pry the couple free from the deck of the ship and the entire block was transported back up the hill to the lighthouse. All that night, they worked fast and carefully. They placed the block in a tub of water and then slowly chipped away at the ice, and as it melted, they moved the limbs of each person in an attempt to get their blood flowing again, and somehow, against all logic and medical odds, it worked. It took them a very long time to recover, but Ingraham and Dyer soon opened their eyes. Ingraham was the first to speak, and it was said that he croaked the words “what is all this? Where are we?” Roger Elliot didn’t survive the aftermath of the shipwreck. Maybe it was the trauma of climbing up the hill to the lighthouse, soaked to the bone and exposed to the freezing winds of the storm. Perhaps it was an injury he sustained in the shipwreck itself, or on the climb to the lighthouse. Dyer and Ingraham faired better, though. They eventually recovered and even married each other. They settled down and raised a family together in the area, all thanks to the man who died to bring them help when all seemed lost.

Later stories from inside Owls Head lighthouse have been equally chilling. Although there are no other tragic events on record there, it’s clear from the first-hand accounts of those who have made Owls Head their home that something otherworldly has taken up residence there. The Andrews family was one of the first to report any sort of unusual activity on the property. I can’t find a record of their first names, but the keeper and his wife lived there along with her elderly father. According to their story, one night the couple was outside and looked up to see a light swirling in her father’s window. When they climbed the stairs, they found the older man shaking in his bed from fright. Some think he might have seen the old sailor, a common figure witnessed by many over the years. When John Norton was keeper in 1980, he claimed to have seen the same apparition. He had been sleeping, but when a noise woke him up, he opened his eyes to see the figure of an old sea captain standing over his bed, just… staring at him. The old sailor has been blamed for mysterious footprints that tend to appear in the snow, footprints that could be found on the walk toward the house. The prints never seem to have an origin point, and always end abruptly in the middle of the sidewalk. Others have claimed to feel cold spots in the house, while some have gone on record to swear that brass fixtures inside the lighthouse, fixtures that were usually tarnished and dark, would be found mysteriously polished. None of the keepers have been able to figure out who was doing the cleaning for them, though. There have been other stories as well, tales of a white lady who has been frequently seen in the kitchen, of doors slamming without anyone in the room, and of silverware that has been heard to rattle in the drawers. Despite this, though, most have said that they felt at peace with her there – more at peace, at least, than they are with the old, bearded sailor.

In the mid-1980s, Andy Germann and his wife, Denise, lived there while tending the light. They moved in and settled into life on the harsh coast of Maine. Andy divided his time between tending the light and a series of renovations to the old lighthouse, which left the yard outside rather chaotic and full of construction materials. One night after climbing into bed, the couple heard the sound of some of the building supplies outside falling over in the wind. Andy pulled on his pants and shoes and left the room to go take care of the mess before the wind made it worse. Denise watched him leave, and then rolled back over to sleep with the lamp still on. A short while later, she felt him climb back into bed. The mattress moved, as did the covers, and so she asked out loud how it had gone, if there had been any trouble or anything unusual, but Andy didn’t reply, so Denise rolled over. When she did, she found that Andy’s spot in bed was still empty. Well, almost. In the spot where he normally slept beside her, there was a deep depression in the sheets, as if an invisible body were laying right there beside her. Of course, it was just the dent where Andy had been sleeping moments before. At least, that’s what she told herself, but thinking back on it later, Denise admits that she has doubts. There were moments when she was laying there, staring at the impression in the sheets, that she could have sworn the shape was moving. Maybe she was too level-headed to get upset, or perhaps she was too tired to care. Whatever the reason, Denise simply told whoever it was to leave her alone, and then rolled over and fell back asleep. At breakfast the next morning, she wanted to tell Andy about the experience, thinking he would laugh it off and help her to explain it away, but before she could, he told her his own story. It turns out Andy had an unusual experience of his own the previous night. He explained how, as he had exited the room and stepped out into the dimly lit hallway, he saw what he could only describe as a faint cloud hovering close to the floor, and this cloud, he said, had been moving. According to Andy, when he walked down the hall, it moved right up to his feet and then passed on through him. That’s when Denise asked Andy where the cloud had been going. “Into the bedroom,” he told her. “Why?”

You don’t have to travel to a lighthouse to bump into tales of the unexplained or otherworldly. You can hear them from just about anyone you meet, from the neighbour down the street to your real estate agent, but lighthouses seem to have a reputation for the tragic, and maybe that’s understandable – these are, after all, houses built to help save lives in a dangerous setting. It might be safe to say that the well for these stories runs deeper than many place – but are they true? Like a lot of stories, it seems to depend on who you talk to. Keepers across the decades have had a mixed bag of experiences. Some see odd things, and some don’t. Maybe some people just connect to the stories more than others and go looking for hints and signs where there are none. One recent family described their time there as “normal”. They never saw ghosts, never watched objects move, and felt right at home the whole time they were there. Another family, though, acknowledged that something unusual seemed to be going on in the lighthouse. They would find lightbulbs partially unscrewed and the thermostat would constantly readjust itself – perhaps whatever it is that’s haunting the lighthouse is just very environmentally conscious. It’s easy to laugh off most of these stories, but we’ve never lived there, we’ve never heard or felt something that can’t be explained away, and like most samples of data, there’s always the outlier. Another family who lived at the lighthouse in the late 1980s claimed to have experienced their fair share of unusual activity, though. One night, while Gerard and Debby Graham were asleep, their three-year-old daughter, Claire, quietly opened her eyes and sat up in bed. She stared into the darkness for a moment, as if carefully listening to something, and then climbed out of her bed and left the room. Her little bare feet patted on the cold floor of the hallway as she made her way down towards her parents’ room. Inside, she slowly approached the side of their bed, and then tapped her father on the arm to wake him. When he did wake up, he asked Claire what was the matter. The little girl replied that she was supposed to tell him something. “Tell me what?” he father asked. “There’s a fog rolling in,” Claire replied, somehow sounding like someone infinitely older. “Sound the horn”. When he asked her who had told her this, the little girl looked at him seriously. “My friend,” she told him, “the old man with the beard.”

[Closing statements]

#lore podcast #aaron mahnke #podcast transcripts #maine #hauntings #transcripts #29

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sidpah · 6 years ago

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Cold War Souls

Blessedly alive, outside in the bright morning haze, a large field stretches green and full before me. Megaphone in hand, from a tall nail and glue stage, white flag waving behind, a voice peals out from my throat to a mass of half-clothed natives. I am paying my recompense…

“All these Cold War Souls, you, you, you! Selling yourselves for an empty political promise and a slice of stale bread! – The body is a market, the world an industrial stripmall – Poor panicked souls clinging to ghosts of pleasure, long extinct. Driven to scavenge, suckling rain pipes, forgetting every lake they pass, they dry up, crumble, sell themselves for air…” I am so inspired by Jerry Greenestreet’s vibrancy I co-opt his whole patina…

“Oh, but to be sovereign. To be steadfast. To be dreaming of daybreak… To be willing to walk through the desert all alone, all open and pliable and fragile. This heavy armor crumbling into sand; will for survival forsaken in peace. To enter the tunnel and not think about the mountain or ocean that’s swallowing you whole… Saints and Patriarchs cling, cling, cling to tradition, while Saviors and Soldiers burn for their collective faith. (But who trusts a man with a Russian automatic beaded on your eyebrow? Who trusts a man cutting a D for Damnation into your chest with his short scepter?) Their pockets are overflowing but their arms are too short to reach their own spoils… Sages and Heretics stand fast behind one opinion, but a Martyr knows that only one is all it ever ever ever takes. Where the Piper plays, neither wonder nor mystery find nutrients to grow – Steel and granite anthems – Plowing eighteen miles an hour over cemetery fences – straight through mosque walls and footbaths, tiled fountains and the kneeling faithful – Surrounded by three hundred and sixty degrees of rocket-proof alloy the fires of Hell don’t seem so hot! Lies justified by injections of fluoride and testosterone – Drink up plenty Pride! Eat much Loyalty to make muscle strong! You’ve heard them on the streets, you’ve heard them on the radio waves, you’ve heard them in your fitful dreams! ‘What’s right is right, what’s left is mine, what’s black is burnt; I’ll hear no goddamned debates!’ Pilgrims chant, repeating the names of their god on ninety-nine clay beads, polished by friction of finger pads, friction of mind on mind, burning itself out until it relinquishes control and reveals the nature of their unified god – Everyone’s unified god – Tanks rain the melody of chaos, screeches of twisting steel and crumbling mortar – Singing along staves of fetid retribution: ‘Any line they lay out, you’ll suck it down whole’ those voices tell us without saying a goddamn word... They’re selling you nine pounds of ether bronzed with fool’s gold, and eleven soldiers waving a flag at half-mast to distract all the cameras as the carnage slips past – And the rockets slip past and caskets slips past and the gospel slips past and more Cold War Souls slip into the reinforced bear hug to slumber away that long winter with red skies and brown grass and a black halo dispersing above mountain peaks –”

“So let’s lean upon the leaders and judges! Let their rhetoric and lies be the wind for our sails! Let it push us to find ourselves a New Land far away from their covert wiretaps and black sites torturing children in the cursed name of liberty! We’ll draw upon our weakest moments and display them sans the obligatory shame… Sometimes it feels a disgrace just living off water and fruit… We’ll laugh, comparing scars, tracing the light outlines on each other’s limbs and forget how they’d ever come to be. We’re all the squeamish products of billions of manipulating fingers molding us in their own morbid self-image… So fuck being lazy! And I say fuck playing sane to continue the contrived cellophane ugliness of our suburbanite ideals…. Let’s listen for each cell in our skin to join together a roar like city streets revolting and turbines taking flight just to know there is life within us! And let’s realize as one that between feeling and craving exists the root of all our pain, and let’s cut it away like wheat from chaff!”

I’m not convinced they can understand a word I say, but I continue, too driven to wrap up my prelection…

“Why else do we bother to pretend someone’s listening? That they’re motivated and planning a movement we’re all awaiting, though secretly a little terrified it might actually come to fruition? – (change is too unpredictable to be comfortable) – Why pretend that divine inspiration is a communicable disease? And that epic shifts really happen by tiny imperceptible degrees?...”

I notice then, a man very much out of place. He wears a white short-sleeved button down linen/cotton blend it looks like from here, and cargo shorts, green like he’s on a Polynesian vacation. As I talk he seems to be looking uneasily around and he’s starting to give me the fantods because I realize that on more than one occasion it’s appeared that he’s been speaking covertly into a watch which means he’s either undercover or deranged and I’m not looking for competition on either front, so I decide to pack it up for real…

“We’ll recount our greatest defeats, caving in to Easy. When we daydream the long amatory lists of If Onlys and Someday I Wills, when they’ve all turned stale in our midlife sobriety and seen as feeble pipedreams that’ve smoldered down leaving us filled with cancer and emphysema, oxygen tanks slung across our bony shoulders… Let’s run far, far from all the men of promises and power stations, greedy congressmen and their football-headed gold-plated champagne sons, cold rubber sheets on the oily beds of prostitutes and the locust hands of the suffering wretched destitute. Let’s sit here and wait for humanity to slow itself down so we can reconvene with the world, or if she likes, let her wither fondly, adored by handful of children present at her bedside. Her last words reminding us there’s no purpose to life except learning the best way to go about dying…”

My message is garbled. I forget my original point. Why I am up here trying to incite a riot? It was all related to something…

“I give up! I see! I drip stagnancy and chemical noise! – I lack an inherent meaning,” I yell to the congregation. So why can’t I stop looking for assurances in the places where I should be cultivating uncertainty spontaneous and rippled with delight? I don’t expect a miracle will happen. I don’t expect to survive this ordeal… Still, I can’t say I’d mind a sign from some wise old dimensional porta-god… maybe one telling me this plight’s not just a big mistake… Giving me assurance that there’s no road to a distant blistering hell… Gentle reminders that there is a path up to a place where a mountain can still sit still and silent as a still and silent mountain – not erupting spark laughter, not carved out for rumble of tourist picnics and suicidal presence-junkies leaping from jagged cliff-nose… And that an unconcerned breath watched is still just a breath witnessed by the Universe – Inhale the sparks of divinity and exhale the bones that are left!...

“Let’s plant our fields and wait for the Sun to get tired or burn herself out like an enraged toddler crying herself to sleep. No more of our incessant struggle to unearth an ultimate, cerebral meaning to existence when there never was one back when we emerged from her crescent womb… What could we find to pacify our trembling minds except that it’s okay to lie down and collapse into Unity?… And that there is a greater peace in surrender than in revolution…”

A gunshot offstage… a hole above my ear… crowd noise drifting into the ocean… …there is no Moon at the bottom of the sea… she never thought to throw herself into the water… …thick green leaves protruding from the side of my head… drops of animal blood across my cheek… chanting, repetitious vowels in asymmetrical phrases… a low moaning chorus of throats all directed from the same worried mind… A pale distant song… gorgeous in its simplicity, yet I can’t follow more than a note without forgetting what came before… this way I can’t tell whether it’s a melody I’m hearing or a long droning hum… Kalday, Kalday… Just let me sleep here… just let me sleep…

#fiction #anarchy #anarchism #war #militarism #colonialism #rebellion #revolution

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ripplestitchskein · 8 years ago

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How to Become a Witch in Ten Easy Lessons - (5/5)-A CS Modern Fantasy AU - COMPLETE!

Rating: T for Teen

Word Count: Approx 7K

Summary: Emma Swan leads a quiet, solitary life, that is until a tragedy temporarily saddles her with three recently displaced orphans. Three recently displaced orphans who make quick work of discovering one of the reasons for her solitude and threaten to confirm the rumors swirling around town about her, unless she can do something to help them, something that will require the assistance of a mysterious Professor who isn’t quite what he seems either.

Read Part One Here!

Read Part Two Here!

Read Part Three Here!

Read Part Four Here!

On AO3 Here

______

“This is the worst idea you’ve ever had,” Emma called down to him from the deck of the ship, the children twined around the railing looking down at him excitedly. He stood knee deep in the water, his long coat floating on the surface, moving with the waves.

“You haven’t known me long,” he called back up to her. “I can assure you it’s not.”

“I really, really don’t like this plan,” she reminded him.

“I’m more than aware, but we have limited time and limited options, so can we please stop yelling and letting the whole bloody realm know what we’re up to?”

Emma sucked in a deep breath, trying to calm her rapidly firing nerves, ignore the twisting in her stomach that screamed that this was a terrible, terrible idea.

He smiled up at her reassuringly, giving her a small nod. From his hook dangled the unused oil lamp from the hold below, glinting gold in the sun, looking as if a genie would issue forth from it at any moment. It would honestly be the least weird thing that had happened to them lately.

Emma took another deep steadying breath, holding out her hands, closing her eyes for the words of the spell, holding the picture of what she wanted in her mind. She tried to push all thoughts of him drowning, dying, being eaten by a terrifying sea creature aside and focus on what she needed, the animal she had in mind, no better choice for the man before her.

The sharp spark of power roared through her blood, so much more potent and just more in this realm of magic. It emboldened her slightly, this could really work. No this would work, the alternative wasn’t an option.

Below her Killian closed his eyes, wincing slightly in trepidation as she began to speak the words aloud. An electric shock of energy issued forth, a billowing cloud of white blue smoke enveloping him, and when she blinked down at him again, Killian was no longer there, a huge navy shadow in the water instead, longer than Killian had ever been tall.

A huge, shimmering swordfish, its dorsal fin protruding from the water like a shark, swam in a large arcing circle by the ship where Killian had stood, building up momentum, and then it burst from the water in a shimmering spray, the lamp gleaming as bright as the droplets running down its flank, arcing in a smooth crescent before disappearing back into the bay.

He was telling her he was okay. He was letting her know it had worked. She could feel it, as she watched the massive shape pivot and swim away, out into the sea towards The Sands and The Kraken.

She let out a breath, her hands shaking, feeling sick and anxious as she watched him go. Roland reached up taking her hand in his own.

“He’ll be fine, swordfishes are awesome,” the boy said wisely.

“He’s very brave,” Grace observed, hiding a hand over her eyes to block the sun so she could see the fish better, growing smaller and smaller as the distance increased.

“Yes,” Emma whispered, almost breathless, heart soaring. Doing those gymnastics again. “Very brave.”

“Dead, is a word I would use,” said a clipped accented voice from behind them.

Emma whirled, shoving the children behind her as Arthur landed with a dull thud of boots on the deck. He was dressed bizarrely, a sickly yellow orange jumpsuit, covered in straps and copper rivets, obscured his form, a heavy helmet under one arm, a vicious looking harpoon gun under the other.

Behind him heavily armored soldiers began fanning out, swords drawn, surrounding them in a half moon formation that left them no option of escape except to leap over the rail into the sea.

Arthur grinned at her, all charm and white teeth, his eyes flashing dangerously.

Emma swallowed, clutching tightly at Roland’s trembling hand, her other going desperately to her waist, but her sword was in the cabin below, her gun a realm away.

“Take the children,” Arthur ordered, waving his hand almost boredly, still holding the helmet and gun under his arms. The guards moved forward en masse, a wall of plate armor and expressionless faces. Emma braced herself, putting her body between them and the children, ready to fight. But there were far too many, her fists ringing painfully which each blow against the metal, the force vibrating up her leg as she kicked at them.

Grace screamed as one of them grabbed her around the waist, hauling her up bodily, her legs bicycling in terror as she thrashed, trying to get free. Henry threw his book at the face of one of the guards, spinning it like a frisbee and ducked low under a reaching arm, trying to squirm away. There were still more waiting though, and they grabbed him by the ankle, dragging him painfully across the wooden deck back to the mass of soldiers.

One of the guards wrenched her to the side, an iron grip on her arm, and Roland leapt forward pulling away from her clutching hand. Emma tried to drag him back but her arms were yanked painfully behind her, her shoulders screaming in protest.

The tiny boy lurched fiercely forward, his teeth sinking into the flesh and fabric of a nearby leg, hanging on for a moment like a small feral dog. The man howled, trying to simultaneously grab the boy and shake him off. Roland let go, nimbly avoiding the grasping hands, until Arthur reached out, snagging the child by his borrowed vest, the tip of the harpoon dangerously close to his face, and shoved him forcefully into the chest of a waiting soldier. The man clamped his arms around the squirming boy with ease, locking him in place.

“Please, don’t,” Emma could barely breathe terror had seized her so tightly, she pulled against the tight grip of the men holding her, uselessly stamping her foot down on heavy metal clad boots.

“Take them to the beach,” Arthur said impassively. “Await my instructions.” They obeyed, obedient little lapdogs, dragging the children away, hissing and screeching, their feet scraping across the deck. They disappeared over the side with their captors, one after another. Her heart gave a painful snapping lurch with each one.

“Emma!” Henry cried out, his voice breaking with fear.

Emma’s eyes burned, rage and frustration twisting her face as she yanked, pulled and kicked, trying whatever she could to get back to them. There were too many, at least four large men, rock solid and immovable staying behind to hold her down. Arthur stared at her from across the deck, eyes wide and deranged, his lips tilted in an amused smile at her struggles. She wanted to rip his face off, tear him limb from limb, break each of his tooth straight white teeth one by one.

“Now, witch,” Arthur said lowly, slinking closer. “You are going to do everything I say, or one word from me and I’ll shut those little brats up forever.” He had leaned down her level, unfortunately just out of reach of her head, his breath hot and sickly sweet on her face.

“Please,” Emma tried again, a different tact this time, her voice desperate and broken. “Please, don’t hurt them.”

“That depends entirely on your cooperation,” Arthur warned reasonably. He looked speculatively up at the sails, surveying the ship with distaste.

“What do you want?” Emma could still hear the shrieking cries of the children on the beach as they struggled, growing fainter as they were taken further and further away. Panic swelled in her chest.

“Not much,” Arthur said. “I want this ship.”

“You can have it,” Emma said quickly, knowing in her heart Killian wouldn’t object, not really, not if it meant the children were safe. She may not know him well, but she knew that to her very bones, he would readily give up his home to save their lives.

“I’m not finished yet,” Arthur snapped. “And you. I need you to do whatever you did to move it before.”

Emma swallowed.

“Where do you want to go?” She asked, already knowing the answer.

“Why the same direction as your leather clad lover,” he motioned out into the bay with the harpoon. “I want to see The Beast.”

“But you said,” Emma swallowed some of the terror, straightening up, shoulders back. “You said it couldn’t be defeated.”

“And it can’t,” Arthur said cheerfully. He held up the odd helmet under his arm, a diving bell, the kind in old movies and museums. “But it can be distracted, and destroying this ship should serve well enough for that I think.”

“But why?” Emma shook her head confused. “Killian is getting the Sands right now. He’ll give them to you, I know he will.”

“You expect me to believe that? ‘We can’t let Arthur get his hands on them, no matter what’, “ Arthur echoed, his voice high pitched and mocking.

Emma reeled back at Henry’s words coming verbatim out of his mouth.

“How-?” She let the question trail off. He stepped forward, his hand reaching out, grabbing the seashell necklace around her throat, and pulling down with a hard snap. Her neck burned as it broke, the cord scraping her skin, and she stifled a cry, gritting her teeth.

“A little bit of mermaid magic,” his teeth flashed white as he looked at it. “Very useful, a reluctant gift from some visitors awhile back. Much like this suit. Pity their ship didn’t survive the trip, it would have been quite useful.” He glared at her, his eyes icy. “I heard every word.”

He leaned back into her face, sneering.

“And I know that you know who I am, and I also know that you know what the Sands can do, and I won’t give that thieving pirate scum the opportunity to use them against me.” He spat the words, his face ugly with disdain. Emma reared back trying to put some distance between them.

“But you have hostages,” Emma argued. “You have us right where you want us. He’ll negotiate.”

“And I should what, let you go? Let you turn the rest of my village against me?” He shook his head. “No. I don’t think so.” He pointed up at the sails, all business. “Move the ship.”

“No,” Emma glared at him defiantly, nostrils flaring.

“Move the ship or I will kill your children one by one, right in front of you. I was going to spare them, use the sands to ensure their silence, but if you insist” he said cheerfully and grinned. “We’ll start with the smallest I think, less mess if you change your mind.” He turned, half raising a hand to signal the waiting men on the beach.

“No! Wait!” Emma sagged. “Okay, okay I just need a second.”

“Tick, tock witch. No use stalling for time. I know you expect the pirate to return any moment,” he held up the harpoon gun, the tip glinting dangerously. “I have a little gift for him if he does. So if you want him to live you’ll be quick about it.”

She thought of Killian, vulnerable in his current form, unaware that anything was amiss, believing they had the upper hand, that they still held the element of surprise. The wicked edges of the spear would slice through him with no issue, unprotected and unaware, human or not. She let out a little noise of frustration.

“Fine. Let me go,” she barked at her captors. They looked to the king who nodded his assent and then she was free, four swords pointed squarely at her.

“Get on with it,” he gestured impatiently.

Emma raised a trembling hand, her fingers clenching. She could still hear the kids yelling for her from the beach, broken cries of her name and desperate angry pleas to let them go. She closed her eyes, one tear streaking down her cheek, and began to speak the words.

_____ )

It was less intense this time, her heart not in it, but the golden glow flew from her fingertips regardless, enveloping the ship from top to bottom in a trickle of magic, everything glowing and shimmering. The guards gasped, stepping back a bit in awe and Arthur grinned a manic grin.

The ship creaked and groaned as it slid across the sand, tilting sharply to the side, water crashing around the hull as it plunged from the beach back into the sea. Emma took a breath still chanting, fingers warm and prickling from the intensity of her magic, the ship turning as she willed, pointing out into the ocean once again. Ropes twisted of their own accord, and the sails filled with air, snapping backwards as the wind picked up. The ship moved faster.

One by one the guards leapt from the sides, faces fearful, splashing into the sea with fearful cries, a pre-planned abandon ship before they got to close to the monster. She hoped they drowned.

It was just her and Arthur then, her eyes burning with hate, his with glee as he pointed the harpoon squarely at her chest. She moved to turn her focus, turn her magic on him, the ropes lifting to her command, but he tutted.

“If I do not return my men are under strict orders to kill them,” Arthur yelled casually over the the whipping wind. “Make one move against me Emma and they’re as good as dead.”

He motioned back up to the sails, and Emma kept going, closing her eyes as they came closer and closer to where the crystal clear water became darker, a thin line of gradient blue marking the point of no return.

“Stop! Stop!” Arthur commanded. She lowered her hands, trembling with effort and unchecked anger. She clenched her fists. The sails dropped, hanging limp and useless, the ropes landing with dull thuds on the deck.

The ship rocked and swayed in ominous silence, creaking and groaning on the sea.

Arthur peered over the railing into the black waters below.

They were silent, and still.

Emma’s heart thudded painfully in her chest, marking the seconds of silence, stretching out tense and cold as they bobbed uselessly along.

“Perhaps The Beast is busy enjoying a pirate sized meal,” Arthur speculated cheerfully, donning his helmet, checking the thick rubber tubes from the metal tanks in his back, his eyes never leaving her, the harpoon pointed at her with deadly intent.

No sooner had the words left his mouth than the ship gave a massive lurch, pitching them both to the deck. Emma’s hands slapped painfully on the wood. Arthur rolled, barely catching himself, and staggered to his feet.

“Right on time,” she heard him declare in a hollow echo from inside the helmet just as the monster gave a deafening shriek. The sound tore through the air, her stomach jolting in fear, a thousand tiny hairs rising on her neck and arms.

“This is where I leave you, Emma,” Arthur nodded to her as the ship lurched again, his rubber gloved hand grabbing onto the rail just in time to keep him from pitching into the deck. A slick dark tentacle rose into the air, towering above them, at least a hundred feet high. Arthur cried out as it slammed into the deck, just inches from him, wood splintering and spraying.

Emma fell backwards onto her ass, scrambling away as it whipped and probed, writhinglike a giant python. She looked frantically to Arthur. She couldn’t let him escape.

The shipped rocked again as Arthur climbed to his feet, readying himself to climb the rail but Emma was faster, the words coming easily, leaving her lips in a rush, adrenaline shooting through her as she chanted. The ship glowed gold again, tried to move, but the monster was stronger, four more humongous tentacles hugging it close, the wood cracking and snapping under the force of its grip.

A golden hued rope snaked out, lashing itself around Arthur’s leg, holding him in place. He cursed and kicked at it, trying to reach the railing. Emma moved her hand again, another rope surging down, grabbing him by the arm. The harpoon dropped uselessly onto the deck, skittering close. She couldn’t afford to grab it though, she had to keep trying to free the ship, had to stop Arthur. She kept chanting, her teeth chattering as cold sea water rained down on them from above. Another rope lashed him to the rail, holding him in place, yet another coming forward to twine with the first. The ship just knew what to do, even as it broke apart it helped her. Arthur screamed at her, voice muffled and distorted by the metal helmet, red faced and enraged in the small grated window of the dome.

The Beast shrieked again, that unnatural cry that set her teeth on edge, twisting tentacles swinging wildly. One struck the mast and to her horror it snapped cleanly in two, as easy as breaking a twig. Emma barely got out of the way as the massive column crashed onto the deck, the planks buckling and breaking under the force. Her concentration shattered, the golden glow fading as she stumbled over the words, trying to remain upright, her magic petering out.

She was going to die.

The noise and roar of the breaking ship, the shrieks of the beast, and the raining water was deafening as she tried to reach the rail, if she could get herself overboard, get into the water perhaps she could make it to shore.

It was a long shot but it was her only shot.

She reached out as the world tilted, the deck caving in the middle, a smooth slide straight into the creature’s gaping mouth. She looked down in horror at several rings of teeth and slime rotating below her. She shrieked, her feet scrambling against the deck and braced herself against gravity, her fingers barely grasping a rung of the rail as the ship crumbled and fell apart around her.

Across the deck she could see Arthur’s orange yellow form struggling against the knotted ropes, helmet lost, hair matted to his reddened, terrified face. Emma turned away, pulling herself up with all the strength she possessed, the wood slick, her feet dangling as the deck rose higher and higher, the ship sinking lower and lower as the demon consumed, wood and sail and rope disappearing into its maw, folding the ship in half.

She closed her eyes again, her voice lost in the din as she desperately chanted, focusing her magic inward, her fingers too busy holding on for dear life to focus the spell. She had no idea if it would work, but she tried anyway, speaking faster and faster, stumbling over the syllables as her voice shook with terror, the sharp gnashing teeth getting closer and closer as the deck disappeared one gnash at a time.

She heard Arthur’s desperate terrified screams even over the noise, and blocked it out, speaking faster.

It started slowly, a buzzing in her limbs, a warm glow like trickling water moving over her body. She glowed gold, feeling weightless as she rose, her hands releasing the deck as her body lifted into the air.

It was working. She wanted to scream in delight.

Emma chanted faster, desperately, her body hanging suspended in the air, the ship a mass of unidentifiable blue and yellow boards now, Arthur gone. She closed her eyes and willed herself higher, willed herself closer to shore.

A whipping tentacle lashed out, flying through the air. It struck her squarely in the back, pain lancing through her and Emma fell like a rock, down, down into the water below.

_____

The sea was icy cold, a million needles jabbing at her skin as she swirled and tumbled in the churn. Her lungs burned, eyes wide in terror as she kicked her legs, trying to find which way was up. Everything was black fog, no light broke through here, and debris swirled in the water around her.

She stretched herself upwards, hands reaching, saying a silent prayer that this was up, that she was just a few moments away from breaking the surface. Red rimmed her eyes, her vision growing narrower and blacker as her mouth opened, body straining against the need to suck in air, knowing she’d only fill her lungs with sea water instead if she did. She made small desperate whimpers, kicking fiercely, fighting against the swirling water.

Something flashed in her periphery and she cried out, her scream nothing more than muted noise and bubbles as something dark and silvery streaked by her. The kraken.

She screamed again desperately, a gurgling cry, her legs working harder, arms flailing, trying to get away as her vision narrowed further, red and black taking over as her oxygen ran out, as her consciousness fled.

Something large and hard struck her side, sharp burning pain glancing across her ribs, but she barely registered it over the pain of not breathing, her senses dulling with each second that passed, and then she was rising, lifting, her arm draped across rough cold flesh and scales.

She surged through the water, the mass propelling her upwards, and then they broke the surface with a spray of salty water, and the shriek of her gasping air back into her burning lungs. She panted, and gulped in more and more precious oxygen, wrenching sobs of terror joining the tears streaking down her cheeks. Her side burned, cloudy muted red blood filling the water.

The shape circled again, pressing into her, gentler this time, still too hard but familiar and beautiful.

“Killian,” she sobbed out, recognizing him.

Across the water the monster shrieked.

The fish that was Killian swam away, turning in a wide arc, and gracelessly rammed into her side again, her arm reaching around to clutch a spiny fin, the scales cutting into her fingers and arm as he pulled her quick as he could through the water.

The monster shrieked, a surge of water as it moved pushing them faster forward, but the land grew closer and closer with every passing second. She glanced behind her, massive tentacles waved in the sky, a giant bulbous head sinking beneath the waves, nothing left of the beautiful ship but debris.

She wanted to apologize, to tell him she was sorry, but she was unsure if he would hear her, unsure if he would even understand as he swam them closer and closer to the shore.

The form under her shifted, seemed to melt away, rough scales shrinking, morphing, becoming warm flesh and leather. She released the fin, kicking herself away in the water, watching fascinated as pale sky blue smoke enveloped the creature, a man breaking the surface of the water with a gasp an instant later.

He clutched the golden lamp to his chest with his hook, legs kicking, his arm treading the water. He looked disoriented and afraid for an instant, hair plastered to his beautiful human face. She wanted to throw herself into his arms and sob, but there was no time. They had to get to shore, get away from the creature and back to the children.

“Emma?” He looked at her bewildered for a second, reaching out automatically.

“The kids,” she gasped out, straining to keep afloat, her legs moving constantly, treading the icy water. He nodded, teeth chattering and reached out, looping her arm over his shoulder. She wasn’t a weak swimmer, but Killian was better, a life at sea giving him an edge as he helped move them agonizingly slowly to shore.

The bay was silent behind them as they swam, the monster sated for now.

____

They skulked along the shore line, staying close to the line of the brush. Killian’s sword was out, the lamp safely in the pocket of his coat. Emma limped along beside him, a large rock in her hand, the only weapon she could find on such short notice, her other hand pressed to her burning side.

Killian cut his eyes to her, frowning, air hissing between his teeth.

“I’m so sorry love,” he whispered and reached out, his sword hand hovering over the wound. “I couldn’t gauge….” he trailed off, face pinched in anguish that he had hurt her. Emma forced a smile.

“It’s not your fault, you were trying to help me,” she said softly and grabbed his wrist, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “You saved me. It’s not very deep, just a scratch.”

He didn’t seem comforted by that, but there was no time to press further.

“There’s at least six of them,” Emma hissed as they crept closer. “Big guys, armor, swords. The whole deal.”

“Won’t be a problem,” his voice was low with murderous rage, teeth clenched. He was seething mad, his eyes glancing every so often to the wound at her side, her limping gait, her body one big bruise. “I’m going to kill him.” He breathed out.

“I think you’re a bit late,” Emma said. “The squid thing kind of ate him.” She thankfully hadn’t seen said eating, but she doubted she would forget the agonized screams over splintering wood any time soon.

“Good.” That pretty much summed up her feelings as well. They moved quickly along the shore, rounding the curve of the island, back to the same shore where the ship had been.

What awaited them was not at all what Emma was expecting. Instead of half a dozen guards and three terrified captive children she was met with the rapidly moving forms of Henry, Grace, and a struggling Roland, running towards them across the sand.

Behind them four men clanked and clanged, giving chase, their heavy armor slowing them down, their faces enraged.

“Emma!” Roland cried desperately, spotting her. He almost tripped and stumbled but Henry and Grace had firm holds on his arms, pulling him along.

Killian roared forward, his sword and hook out, veering around the children to come head on at the approaching guards.

Emma stopped briefly, running her free hand along their hair and faces, resolving to ask what happened later, and then followed him into the fray.

He moved like liquid lightning, his sodden coat billlowing out behind him, his face twisted in rage. His sword clanged, a booted foot kicking one guard into another, firmly planted in the plate armor of his chest. They fell in a tangle of bodies, another guard swinging wide to avenge them. He caught the sword with his hook, twisting his wrist. The sword flew, landing in the sand and Emma grabbed it, holding it before her.

Further up the beach two more guards limped in their direction. She swung the sword wide like a baseball bat, the flat connecting solidly with the metal chest of the fourth, pain vibrating up her arm from the force, her side burned but she pushed it away, focusing on the men before her.

Killian sent the pommel of his sword straight into a waiting guard’s temple, the man’s helmet buried in the sand where he had fallen, ducking just in time to avoid the swinging sword of the other. It was pretty amazing to watch, all grace and speed and confidence, her heart pounded, but there was no time to admire his form, she swung out again, wild uneducated strokes, one of the guards backing away at her crazy unpredictability.

“Emma, your magic!” Henry screamed from behind her.

“My magic,” she breathed, suddenly remembering, her arms feeling weak and rubbery. “Right. I have that.”

She closed her eyes briefly, metal clanging in her ear, panting breaths and angry grunts. Killian roared again. She opened her eyes, the words there again and spoke them in a rush, electricity zipping down her arm.

There was another whirl of smoke, first one than the other, one by one, pinkish red clouds filling the air.

In an instant six chittering chattering monkeys appeared on the sand, one barely dodging the swing of Killian’s sword. He overbalanced at the unexpected change in his assailant, his sword dropping into the sand. He looked at them baffled for a moment as they scrambled away, shrieking down the beach in terror.

He turned to Emma, that ridiculous cheeky expression on his face again.

“Oh, were they cute too?”

Emma smiled weakly at him, rolling her eyes as she tried to keep herself upright.

It felt like all the energy had drained from her body, her side throbbed.

“I just like monkeys, I told you,” she said. Killian’s face dropped into concern, barely getting to her in time to catch her before she fell into the sand. She leaned against him, warm and solid, smelling of sweat and sea water, and breathed him in, not caring for a moment if she should.

“You were amazing,” Killian said softly, shifting to help her stand again, taking on more of her weight.

“So were you,” she smiled up at him, a bit breathlessly, his blue eyes shining. He glanced briefly at her lips, his face flickering with indecision when the kids’ exuberant cries carried up along the beach.

“Emma!”

“Killian!”

“Did you get it!”

“Did it work?”

“That was so cool! They just ran away.” One of them made mocking monkey noises and they skidded to a halt in front of the adults. Emma reluctantly pulled away from the warmth of his arms, steadying herself as the kids crowded around.

Killian shuffled to the side, awkward and unsure in the face of such an exuberant reunion, busying himself scanning for more guards.

One by one they circled them, Roland’s hands clutching her soaked dress, Grace and Henry bouncing around her excitedly.

“Did you get it?” Henry repeated, looking at him expectantly. Killian paused for a moment silent. Henry’s face fell a fraction before Killian withdrew the shining gold lamp from his coat, his face breaking into a grin.

“‘Course I did. Was there ever any doubt?” Before he could say another word three yelling and cheering children were upon him, tackling him bodily to the ground.

“This again,” he grunted from the sand, the lamp held aloft, smiling up at them despite himself.

“You did it, you did it!” Killian laughed, gently batting the children away, rising awkwardly to his feet.

“I’m so glad you’re alright,” Grace whispered to Emma, her eyes shining. The day was catching up to her Emma could see it on her face. Emma smiled.

“You too, I was so worried,”’she looked at the three of them her heart swelling, threatening to burst.

The rushed towards her, wrapping tiny arms around her waist, careful to avoid her burning ribs, Roland clutching at her leg. She pulled away slightly, looking down at them with a confused frown. “How did you guys get away, anyway?”

“The daggers!” Henry exclaimed. “We still had the daggers Killian gave us!”

“Roland hit one of them in the shin with the telescope,” Grace declared proudly.

“I poked one of them in the leg,” Henry said. “And Grace hit her guy in the face with hers.”

“I couldn’t get it out of the thing,” the girl blushed.

“You did great,” Emma said, resting a gentle hand on her head. She hugged them back to her again, three warm bodies filling her chest with something undefinable. When she opened her eyes Killian was grinning at her over their heads.

“Where’s the ship?” Roland asked, looking behind them, searching for it. Emma’s face fell, and she looked to Killian, the delighted smile fading as he remembered. Her heart broke at the expression on his face, pure unadulterated anguish for a brief instant, his eyes shining in the sun. He looked away, his jaw clenching, a muscle fluttering in his cheek.

“Killian,” she untangled herself from the kids, all of them deflating when they realized the implication.

He turned back to her, his face stretched in an unnatural grin, his teeth straining his lips. His eyes were unnaturally wide, red rimmed and unable to completely hide his emotions.

“I’m just glad you’re alright,” he said finally after a moment, the sincerity outweighing everything else.

“But your ship,” she said helplessly.

“Is just a ship,” he said firmly.

“But it was your home,” she wanted to bury herself in the sand. She wanted to wrap him in her arms and let him weep against her neck. She wanted to press her hand along his brow, stroke down his jaw, and let him mourn. But he waved it off, turning away again, his back ramrod straight and tense, his eyes stuck hard on the sea.

“We should go,” he said finally, his voice steady but hoarse. “Before more of them come.”

Emma let out a breath and nodded, wanting to cry.

“Henry?” She looked at the boy. “The bean.”

Henry’s face fell further, his eyes going wide with fear.

“Henry?” She tried again. Dread filled her chest.

“It was in my pants,” he motioned down to his borrowed clothes. “My pants were on the ship. I forgot it when I changed.” He looked like he might cry. “Killian told me to keep my dagger but I forgot about the bean.”

“Well we had more,” Emma said. “A whole bag.”

Henry sucked in a breath looking like he was going to cry.

“I hid them in a trunk in the hold,” he whispered. Emma’s stomach sank.

“We can’t get back,” she whispered, mostly to herself. “Without the beans we’re stuck here.”

“No. We’re not.”

Killian reached into his pocket, pulling out a small black pouch, his finger probing inside it for a moment, and then he dropped it into the sand, holding up one shimmering clear bean between his fingers.

“What? How?” Emma’s jaw dropped.

“When I gave you the dagger,” he looked at Henry apologetically. “I took it from your pocket. Pirate.” He shrugged, seemingly embarrassed.

Henry patted his leg as if the bean should still be there, bewildered.

“You had that the whole time?” Emma accused. His face morphed to shame and he nodded, casting his eyes down.

“Aye.”

“You could have left all this time?” She said incredulous. “You didn’t have to do any of this?”

He looked up in shock at her words but Emma was already moving, crossing the beach in quick running strides, ignoring the pain in her back and her side to crash into him. He grunted on impact, his clenched fist going around her waist automatically to steady her, the flat of his hook at her hip as she grabbed into the thick leather lapels of his coat and yanked him into her space, pressing her lips to his.

He gasped into her mouth, shocked and frozen for a brief moment before he was kissing her back, his mouth hot, his arms clutching. She kissed him with all she had, everything that she had pushed below the surface, her fingers moving, snaking around his neck, tangling into damp hair, tongue teasing his bottom lip. He hoisted her up a bit, leaning her back, gathering her to him just as desperately, pressed together from chest to toes. A small moan into her mouth vibrated against her lips, tugged at a place behind her bellybutton, heat trailing down her spine, all that fear and adrenaline surging between them.

“Gross,” Roland said from behind them.

Emma broke the kiss off with a laugh, pressing her face, flushed red with embarrassment into his neck, shaking.

“You could have gone home,” she whispered into his neck, mouth pressing up along his jaw, stubble rough on her lips as she spoke the words. His arms squeezed her tighter.

“No. I couldn’t,” he whispered back, his cheek pressing against her temple, closed fist moving to her hair.

Emma pulled back, looking into his face, his blue eyes blown black, raw and open, barely rimmed in blue.

“Come with us,” she said softly. “Back to Storybrooke.”

“I don’t have much of a choice,” he laughed nervously, leaning back to show her the single bean.

“Stay with us,” she amended, her hand finally getting its chance to smooth along the plane of his jaw, all the sincerity in the world in her eyes. “All of us.”

He swallowed, disbelieving, blinking away the shock, the lust in his eyes replaced with a spark of hope at her words. When he spoke again it was choked and strained with emotion.

“Aye.”

_____

“Are we ready?” Emma looked at gathered children. All of them nodded with excitement, their faces dirt smudged and exhausted, but happy. She smiled down at them, and looked behind her to the man still kneeling by the shoreline. She frowned, worried.

“Killian?” She motioned for the children to wait, and turned, walking down to join him. “Are you ready?”

“Aye, love.” He forced a smile, and stood up. She looked down to his hand, a wooden disc, roughly the size of a silver dollar flipped between his fingers. A piece of his ship. Several more bits of debris were coming in with the tide, left behind as the waves rolled back out to the sea.

“Oh,” she breathed out. “Do you…need a minute? To say goodbye to her?”

He shook his head, smiling sadly down at the sand.

“No,” he said, his voice hitched a bit and he gulped. He shoved the little disc into his pocket, sucking in a steadying breath. Emma reached out, awkwardly taking his hand in her own, lacing their fingers together.

“She was a beautiful ship,” she said.

“Aye. Best ship in all the realms,” he repeated his description from earlier, looking out over the water.

“I’m so sorry Killian,” Emma whispered.

“Don’t be,” he cast the sad smile to her, his hand squeezing. “Come on, love.” He turned them, swinging their arms slightly as they began the journey back to the waiting children.

“Let’s go home.”

Her heart stuttered at the simple word, so much more now than it had been before.

“Okay.” She took out the bean, looking at the three eager faces, at the man beside her, and smiled as she tossed it onto the sand.

_____

The New Storybrooke Orphanage was the fastest building erected in the history of the state. Possibly the country, no one could be sure. An anonymous donor swept in and closed the site on a Friday, construction cones and orange and white striped barricades keeping the town far away from grounds.

Permits miraculously were found in files no one had touched, drawn up, approved and signed in record time. An unknown construction crew had descended on the site and completed in days what would have taken weeks or months. It was a town wide miracle. One no one could seem to figure out.

The town buzzed with the news, wondering who the mysterious donor could be, the only new face in town the dashing Professor Jones of postal service infamy, the name from so many odd little packages, here now in the flesh, the rumored long distance boyfriend of the reclusive Sheriff’s deputy, the boyfriend who now inhabited her house though no moving vans had ever been seen.

He certainly didn’t look like any professor they had seen before, dark, brooding and favoring black leather. The timing of his arrival was suspect though, his financial status unknown, so assumptions were made, and Granny refused to take his money in the diner despite his bewildered protests.

The displaced orphans moved into the building on a Thursday, everything new and gleaming. There were mountains of presents on each of their beds, Christmas in July, new clothes in their bureaus, and a celebration in their honor. Mayor Mills cut the ribbon, still unsure how any of it had happened without her office knowing about it, but the paperwork was all in order and she was unwilling to look a gift horse in the mouth. New orphanages were good for re-elections.

All of the children returned to their brand new beautiful home, save three, who seemed to be placed in the temporary custody of the same reclusive Sheriff’s Deputy ridiculously easily, no questions asked.

The little blue house with the tower, once so empty and lonely was suddenly filled with noise and life, with love and laughter and cuddles in the morning, scruff on her neck, and warm lips pressed against her hair. Emma Swan was almost as happy as she could ever be.

Almost.

Killian kept the little brown disc in his sock drawer, now filled with brand new socks. He looked at it every morning as he dressed, taking it out, rubbing it between his thumb and forefinger. Every morning she watched him, heart in her throat, apologetic kisses on his cheek, and every morning he closed the drawer, smiled at her, sometimes tugging her back into bed, and went about his day.

Until one day the little brown disc was missing, four mischievous pairs of eyes looking up at his inquiry at the breakfast table, eights pairs of hands in various sizes pushing and pulling him through the streets of town down to the harbor, one pair wrapped around his eyes.

A kiss pressed to his neck, a small hand tugged on his hook, and when the hands were taken away his ship greeted him, large as life, gleaming and new, bobbing in its brand new slip at the dock. No one in the town thought to wonder where it had come from. Mysteries were commonplace these days.

Everyday Emma placed the same pair of calls.

One to the social worker to update her on the status of the children. The other to a lawyer.

Everyday she smiled at her three charges, her heart aching as the voices on the other end told her the same thing.

Single. Unwed. Criminal record. Mysterious, foreign live-in boyfriend.

“It doesn’t look good Ms. Swan.”

“Three children of those ages is a lot of responsibility Ms. Swan.”

“I’ve never seen such a thing approved before Ms. Swan.”

She had them send the applications anyway.

As she signed her name, the ink still wet she sprinkled a tiny bit of fine red sand into the black scrawl, blowing to make it dry, smiling as she handed the thick packet to gossipy Happy at the post office.

It was the fastest adoption proceedings in the history of the state. Possibly the country, no one could be sure.

FIN

Notes:

I had such a blast writing this fun little fairy tale. I wanted to both honor @phiralovesloki ‘s dream because I love and adore her and also play with a Bedknobs and Broomsticks esque story that didn’t copy the original but took the concept: Three orphaned children on an adventure with a reclusive wanna be witch and the charlatan that sold her magic and put an OUAT spin on it. If you haven’t watched the film I highly recommend it and you might see the nods to the story within.

Thanks to @scapeartist and @kat2609 for the support that got me writing again.

All my love and thanks to Liz @caprelloidea who flailed and beta’d and made me feel like this was the greatest story in the world, and HUGE HEAPS OF LOVE to Phira. Like all I have to give. I hope you liked your present, you mean a lot to me and you’ve supported me since my very first little story in this fandom and it has always meant the world.

I finished a multi-chapter fic ya’ll! Now to finish the rest of them…

#cs ff #cs au #cs mc #captain swan #cs fanfic #how to become a witch in ten easy lessons #my writing #my fanfic

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