#updates will be posted to ao3 for now n then the extras n art will be posted here

[rookclan]

Check out the newest update here!

I will be writing up moon updates with illustrations dropped in every so often! This is a new format so I do appreciate any feedback or comments. Thank you!

[asimplearchivist]

𝑪𝑯. 𝑽𝑰𝑰 — 𝑵𝑬𝑽𝑬𝑹 𝑾𝑨𝑵𝑻 𝑶𝑵𝑪𝑬.

𝐂𝐇. 𝐕𝐈𝐈 𝐨𝐟 𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐈 𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐃 𝐇𝐄𝐑.

[𝓪𝓼𝓲𝓶𝓹𝓵𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓬𝓱𝓲𝓿𝓲𝓼𝓽'𝓼 𝓶𝓪𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽] [ 𝐒𝐏𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐄 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ] AO3 | SPOTIFY | PINTEREST summary 🕷️ ⤏ to prove a point, you take advantage of miguel’s lack of spider-sense. pairing 🕷️ miguel o’hara/spider!reader word count 🕷️ 4.9k a/n 🕷️ [gif credit] ⤏ surprise update! sorry for the wait, my life has been busy lately, and the ending of this chapter finally clicked into place. finally some fucking levity—am I right, guys? ⤏ this was inspired partly by this post and this art edit on insta! 🕷️ MASTERPOST 🕷️ 🕷️ PREVIOUS CHAPTER ⤎ 🕷️ ⤏ NEXT CHAPTER [TBA] 🕷️

You…were uncertain how you ended up in this situation to begin with.

It had started innocently enough. Peter B. had made an off-handed remark about needing to hit the gym while inhaling a burger as tall as the breadth of his hand from the cafeteria like a ravenous vacuum. Jess had called him out on his bullshit, as she was oft wont to do—she didn’t cut anyone extra slack when it came to business or their personal wellbeing, after all—and she pointed out that he’d been saying that for weeks at this point. You’d offered some defense on Peter’s behalf, citing all the time he was spending helping MJ with preparing for the baby, and he’d eaten up your support like candy—until you’d teased him about being grateful for the excuse to hide his growing dadbod. Such a man was he that, in order to avoid having his ego bruised, he challenged you to meet him in the Society’s sprawling recreation center afterwards.

That’s how you got there, anyway. Peter wasn’t out of shape, necessarily—not out of practice, either, by any means—but he was puffing a bit as he lingered in the corner of the sparring ring with his forearms bracketing his head. You danced back and forth lightly on the balls of your feet, mirroring his defense, your mask concealing your face and thus your eyes like his. You were prone to giving away your inner thoughts, and thus you had always been utterly shit at poker because of it, so you were grateful to have that advantage, at least. Plus relying on your spider-sense to determine your opponent’s next move kept it honed and sharp.

The lenses of Peter’s mask narrowed as he eased to the side for more maneuvering room, shoulders hunched and stance narrowed to make himself as small of a target as possible. You took an experimental lunge towards him to see how he’d react—a twist towards his left with your lead leg. You feigned in that direction with a quick strike before sweeping under his reciprocal swing and landing a firm smack with your open palm against his ribcage.

“Nicely played,” Peter huffed, shuffling quickly back to put a full pace between himself and you. “You’re quick, I’ll give you that.”

“This is just my warmup,” you joked, then surged forward.

A quick volley of jabs had him inching back, contorting this way and that to block you. Then he swept out one of his arms while striking you in the diaphragm with the other. The blow knocked the wind from your lungs in a guttural whoosh. You folded, staggering back and holding up a hand.

“Play nice, you two,” Jess chided from the sidelines. She already seemed to have had enough of your shenanigans if her turning and walking away with a smirk towards her usual haunt of the yoga/pilates/body weight corner was any indication. “I’d rather not have to explain any wayward injuries to the big boss, if that means all the same to you.”

“Weren’t expecting that one, were you?” Peter teased. “Sorry if I hit you too hard.”

You waved the same hand and shook your head with a breathless laugh. After a long moment, you were able to straighten back up and return to your original stance. “Now you’ve asked for it,” you rasped.

You and Peter worked up a sweat exchanging hits and parries. The longer that time dragged on, the larger of a crowd gathered together to watch. A veritable sea of shiny, rounded lenses watched as the pair of you—now warmed up, limber and loose, and thrumming with anticipation—locked into a precarious dance of striking and dodging. Peter’s playfulness bled into his fight style—trying to stay within his own reach while keeping out of yours, laughing.

You’d used to enjoy this sort of exchange, you remembered; once you’d worked through the early days of finding your footing apprehending petty thieves, the give and take of banter and fists in equal measure had become almost second nature. It had delighted you to get under the crooks’ skins, and it had the added benefit of throwing them off their rhythm so you could work your magic before the cops arrived on the scene.

Nevermind the fact that it had served as an integral outlet while you’d struggled through the brunt of your grief; you’d had no other way to expel all the negative emotions you kept under lock and key while enduring the major upheavals of moving out of your old condo and away from all of the memories buried there, buying the building that would become your new home and business with the money Alchemax had (reluctantly) paid for your husband’s policy, and keeping up appearances around your friends and family…who had mostly faded to the wayside by now due to your insistence on closing yourself off from their pitying expressions and unintentionally condescending words of empty, meaningless comfort. Only Maya had stayed, as stalwart and stubborn as she was, and you were grateful now that she had been able to see through your bravado, even if you’d protested it vehemently for a long time.

You’d had to accept that your life would never be the same, no matter what. There wasn’t any way that you could turn back time nor change anything that brought you to this point in your life. While it had seemed an insurmountable wall for a considerable amount of time (several years, in fact), you now found solace in the fact that you had learned new joys you wouldn’t have been able to experience had none of that happened. You would still trade your position as Spider-Woman 2099 to get your husband back in a heartbeat, but…it was easier to bear the load.

Discovering kinship with others in such a fantastical entity as the Spider Society helped in many ways. And meeting another version of your husband, no matter how complicated, gave you an unexpected sort of peace, as well—even if he was prickly and gruff and…and…wearing virtually nothing in an entirely public setting, holy mother of—

Some of the Spiders had shifted, the taller ones letting some shorter ones approach the front of the group. Miguel was in the middle of a set of glute drives, the bars loaded to the clamped ends with forty-five pound disc weights. The machine was set at the end of a row focused on lower body workouts, adjacent to the wrestling mat, and it provided the ideal angle of observation for his reclined position. His profile, terse and tense as he measured his breath through his gritted teeth, remained as regal as always. Even with his face darkened with the exertion, sweat dotting his forehead and clinging thin strands of his unkempt hair to his skin, he seemed barely put-upon. He had full control of the bar and his movements, measured and mighty, without a sign nor sound of strain. He had the machine completely maxed out and still wasn’t struggling, not even in the slightest.

You should have stayed focused. Peter was closing in—visibly, at that—and you’d dropped your guard in your shock.

…But the fact that Miguel’s—

Your opponent clocked you in the cheek, sending you careening to the floor in a boneless heap upon the mat with a startled yelp.

“Oh, shit!” the older man exclaimed, kneeling quickly at your side to help you back up. “Are you okay? I thought you were going to miss that one!”

You blinked rapidly, vision swimming as you struggled to regain your bearings for a few seconds. Your neck felt funny, loose and weak, but you seemed okay otherwise. Once most of the dark spots dissipated from your eyesight, you realized that there were three identical silhouettes of the notoriously intimidating leader of the Spider Society standing at the edge of the mat with his massively bulky arms folded over his partially exposed chest as he frowned down at you. You dug the heels of your palms into your eyes to fully clear them with a shaky breath.

“You allowed yourself to get distracted,” the veritable athleisure-wear model surmised.

“Miguel! Come on, you scared off our audience!” Peter complained. “I was going to win that betting pool to pay my bills!”

“Half of their currencies wouldn’t be compatible for the exchange system.” Miguel tilted his head once you lifted your gaze once more. “He didn’t give you a concussion, did he?”

Coming from anyone else, such a question would have indicated concern for the recipient. Coming from Miguel, however, it sounded more like an interrogation for an insurance claim. Of course, you suspected that workplace accidents were no easy affair with which to contend in a place like this, so you didn’t exactly blame him for his resigned, stern tone.

“No. Just shook me up a bit.” You hobbled back to your feet and mock-saluted him. “All good, jefe.”

Miguel rolled his eyes with a quiet grunt of disapproval. “You shouldn’t let yourself be prone to unnecessary injuries. I thought you had a Spider-Sense.”

“I do, but it doesn’t always trip in cases like this,” you protested. You were thankful both for your mask concealing the heat blooming under your cheeks out of embarrassment and for the fact that your exertions would disguise the shortness of breath that looking at him was giving you. “And are you really telling me not to have any accidents?”

The tank top he wore was baggy and loose; the kind that gaped around his arms and ended up showing off some of his sides and the edges of his torso in the process. His shorts were mid-thigh, clingy in the legs but not overtly so. It was doing wonders for his figure, and if he hadn’t voluntarily walked out onto the sprawling floor packed full of specialized gym equipment, mats, and free weights you would almost feel guilty for looking at him. (You still did, just a little. Had you blinked in the last minute or so? You couldn’t remember.) He had a sheen of light perspiration all over, dampening his clothes. His musculature was more pronounced than normal—that pump was phenomenal, indubitably. You tried, dutifully, to ignore it all.

“Minimizing them would be optimal,” he responded dryly. “Do you know just how big of a pain in the ass it is to file all the paperwork involved?”

You gave him a flat look. “Do you know how silly it is to try to avoid them happening with one of the most accident-prone groups of heroes in the multiverse?”

“She has a point,” Peter agreed wryly.

Miguel scoffed. “It would help if you weren’t so slow.”

Your brows rose. “Me? Slow? Remind me who, exactly, manages to consistently outpace most of the other Spiders?”

Miguel didn’t look impressed. “You were dancing around like a performance fighter.”

“Have you ever heard of a relaxed spar?” you retorted.

“Not much value in sparring if you’re not treating it like a real-life scenario,” Miguel told you severely. “You’ll get too relaxed and you’ll slip up in the field.”

“Hey, hey,” Peter interjected, holding his hands up with an awkward laugh, “it’s fine to have a bit of fun every now and then! We were just messing around, really, not trying to take each other out.”

“You think this is all I’m capable of?” you questioned dubiously, ignoring Peter’s attempts to negate Miguel’s…whatever this was. Was he goading you? Because like hell you were going to lay down and take such a thing as proud as you were of your hard-won hand-to-hand skills. “I could take you down without breaking a sweat.”

Miguel raised a brow. “Is that supposed to be a threat?”

“It’s supposed to be a warning.” You disengaged your mask to glare at him properly, now thoroughly displeased enough that his appearance wasn’t even enough to fluster you anymore. “I’ve handled villains of the week twice your size, cabrón.”

The man regarded you for a long moment, sizing you up. He didn’t look irked in any way, shape, or form. He really had no reason to come over and talk trash. Conversing with him had gotten a little easier after your unexpected heart-to-heart, but he hadn’t seemed particularly interested in casual discussions outside of business regarding anomaly hunting or your daily deliveries since then. Why on earth would he go out of his way just to try to ruffle your feathers?

“You could be a liability,” he said slowly. “I had to help you with one of those villains, after all.”

Was he…wanting you to prove yourself? That Rhino was a special case, you were certain, as you were quite capable of handling your villains of the week. You had, in fact—quite successfully, at any rate. No prison escapes, few civilian casualties…overall a clean track record.

You scowled. “Fine. Come here and let me kick your ass if you’re so worried about mine getting handed to me.”

Peter watched the exchange warily, removing his mask, as well. “I’m…not so sure that’s a good idea, sweetheart.”

And…wow. You really weren’t sure how to interpret the scathing glare Miguel sent him.

“There’s nothing he can do that I can’t take,” you retorted, “considering my Sandman was an absolute abomination of a sentient sandstorm that tried to infiltrate my respiratory system so he could suffocate me from the inside. Or the fact that my Lizard transformed more into more of a mutant Utahraptor than a…well, lizard. My point is—”

“Prove it.” Miguel kicked off his trainers and stepped onto the mat, beckoning expectantly. “Bring it on, fresa.”

Anger was a valuable asset, although extremely difficult to hone. If one allowed it to get out of hand, to develop into unmitigated fury, then control would inevitably be lost. You’d encountered that issue before, and it had cost you���some of the lingering scars on your person boasted of that. You’d gone through hell with grief, and wrath had been one of your defaults for a long time—especially when dealing with delinquents who seemed to know no better than to tread upon your every last nerve. Taking care of criminals had been your lone outlet since you’d no longer had time to go to the gym, and you remembered every single time it had gotten the better of you; in the aftermath, especially if you unintentionally hurt someone, you’d have to face the consequences of your instability. Now, after years of exercising self-discipline and healing your emotional wounds, agitation was an old friend. It kept you motivated, vigilant, and safe.

And as complicated as your feelings for this Miguel were, you would not tolerate him calling you incompetent in front of all the other Spider-People lingering on the fringes doing a rather poor job of disguising their eavesdropping by milling about and conversing in low tones. (Gossips, the lot of them.)

You stepped back into your corner, gesturing at him to start. You barely crooked your fingers in challenge before he lunged.

He was quick—quicker than any man his size had a right to be. You feigned left and rolled to the right, ducking under his arm as he tried to snag you. You felt the displaced air of his swing tickle the nape of your neck. You barely had the chance to recover, scrabbling onto your feet in a crouch as he wheeled around to grapple for you. It was a near thing to throw your palms up under his elbows to knock his arms out of the way, but you managed it and slipped past him. You managed to stay at his back for a moment, dancing around his blind spots, as you shuffled back to gain some distance.

Your heart pounded when he turned, then, his pupils dilated like a predator in the heat of the hunt—borderline feline, if you didn’t already know the lot of you were influenced by arachnoid genetics in one way or another. While his claws weren’t extended, seeing his bare palms held out almost like a wrestler’s would was foreign. Considering this was the first time you’d seen him out of his suit since he’d recruited you, and you hadn’t had much time nor wherewithal to absorb his appearance given the circumstances that were, you reeled a bit to notice the paler, tougher places on his fingertips where the dangerous weapons resided. If you didn’t know any better, you’d almost think they looked like tarsus pads.

“Shit!” you squeaked, leaping out of the way once more as he grabbed at you. His size lended him the upper hand of extended reach, but fortunately it seemed you had more flexibility. Your limberness, combined with your accustomability in having to navigate narrow routes of escape since so many of your bad guys often had similar advantages over you, kept you just on the edge of his victory for several more minutes of carefully dodging his increasingly irritated attempts to pin you.

His reverberating growls and gritted grunts of frustration had your heart pounding beneath your ribs, his teeth flashing every time you wiggled your way past him. You were slick with sweat all over, and never were you more grateful that the UMF was wicking, as well, than in that moment. You were breathing hard, constantly having to remain on your toes—figuratively and literally—and it wasn’t long before you were starting to get tired.

And with that came an inevitable slip-up.

As you once again tucked and tried to miss him, you stumbled—whether he intentionally placed his foot there for you to trip over or not, you did not know—and it pitched you forward long enough that you instinctively tried to recapture your balance rather than get away. Miguel scooped you up with a forearm tucked under your middle and hauled you, flailing wildly and squealing from shock, against his chest. He held you there, suspended at least half a foot off the ground. His massive hands clamped you in place, his arms crossed over you to anchor your shoulder and opposite hip, respectively. No matter how hard you tried to hit or kick or even bite him, you couldn’t catch any flank—he’d positioned you in such a way that there was no possibility of you fighting back.

You felt his heart thrumming against your shoulder blade, his breath heavy and hot on the back of your head. He straightened to his full height, and being so close to his eye-level made you realize just how far he towered over everyone else. You were tiny by comparison, no matter how you compared to the other Spider-People. You were insignificant, and perhaps it had been foolish to assume that you could stand a chance against him.

He had outplayed you, plain and simple.

…But you would only allow him to win that easily over your dead body.

“You done?” he growled into your ear.

“Like hell!” you hissed back, then swung your legs out and back under with as much momentum as you could muster. Since Miguel was leaning back to accommodate your mass, that put him high-center—and thus more prone to imbalance. As you planned, his torso swung forward to compensate for the sudden and unexpected shift in weight.

It gave you just enough room to get your footing back. You broke your unrestrained arm free and wrapped it around the back of his neck at the same time you slipped a foot behind his. You pulled down and buckled his knee by digging yours into the bend of his leg, and—in one fell swoop—Miguel came crashing down with a thundering thump and a deep wheeze as all the air rushed out of his lungs.

A cacophony of uproarious surprise from the observing Spider-People was only vague background noise compared to your pulse roaring in your ears as you stared down at the man supine below you. His eyes were round, mouth gaping as he struggled to suck in even a single breath. To say that he seemed speechless was quite the understatement.

“You good?” you panted, bracing your hands on your knees and trying not to let your satisfaction leak into your tone. “You didn’t hit your head, right?”

“Fine,” he croaked, his voice naught but a whisper as it cracked on that single word. He shut his eyes briefly, pressing his hand against his diaphragm as he coaxed a breath into his lungs once more. He then braced an elbow beneath him and leveraged himself upright, his back to you as he eased back onto his feet. “I’m fine.”

You straightened and placed your fists on your hips, cocking a brow as he snatched the rag from the waistband of his shorts to pat his forehead dry. “Well?” you prompted. “Do I pass?”

He turned just enough to level you with an unreadable side-eye, critical and lingering. “Yeah,” he finally admitted, a low grumble. “You’re all right.”

And with that, he stalked away towards the locker room.

When you found Peter in the crowd, he was in the middle of accepting his winnings from a group of rather put-upon and reluctant spectators, beaming and laughing all the while. They made themselves scarce as you approached, a little shaky on your feet but otherwise no worse for wear. (You could’ve stood to take a killer nap, though.) Peter greeted you with an infectious smile, tucking the wad of myriad types of cash under his waistband and patting your shoulder. “You should have seen his face!” he chortled, wiping a tear from his eye. “That was priceless—I should have recorded that!”

“And here you were worried about me,” you teased, nudging him in the ribs, but your eyes caught on the retreating man as he traipsed past the others with a rather impressive glower. It effectively intimidated them enough that they wouldn’t meet his eyes, and they all returned their attention to their respective workouts. “You don’t think I hurt his ego too much, do you? I don’t need him developing a chronic case of macho-man around me.”

“Nah!” Peter responded lightly. “Miguel’s proud, sure, but he doesn’t have much of an ego anymore. He’ll lick his wounds and comb his feathers back down and be back to normal in no time. I think it’ll do him some good to remind him that he’s not the baddest Spider around.”

Your lips thinned, skeptical, but you wouldn’t press the issue. “If you say so.”

“I’ll go talk him down. It’s his temper you have to worry about, and I’ll see if I can bust some of the air out of his lungs so he doesn’t blow up later.” He patted you again and made his way in the wake of his stormy colleague. “Great job, by the way!”

“Thanks!” you returned, feeling the cool air of the gym seeping in through your suit and raising goosebumps in its wake. Just as quickly as the place had condensed with noise, it had descended back into a mild background ambience of music and weight sounds.

“Not many people can match his prowess, you know.”

You looked over at Jess, who sat on a bench with a bottle of water in her hand. She quirked a brow at you as you approached and settled next to her. “I’ve had to learn how to be as quick on my feet as I am in my head,” you sighed, rubbing the back of your neck. “That’s all.”

“He’s smart, though, and even though he doesn’t have a Spider-Sense like most of us, he’s…more in tune with his body, shall we say. It takes a lot to catch him off-guard like that. He’s had to rely on ambush tactics more than entrapment like others do.” She sipped thoughtfully, then gave you an appraising once-over. “You know he spends almost all his free time here.”

You didn’t, but you nodded anyway. “Somehow that doesn’t surprise me.”

“He doesn’t do a whole lot more than work or lift weights. LYLA’s been getting him to stop for food and nap breaks lately, but I haven’t seen much of an improvement yet, honestly.” She paused, contemplative, for a moment. “He wasn’t always like this, though.”

You had a feeling as to what might have caused such a change in temperament, since you’d endured it yourself. “It’s hard,” you murmured, dropping your head to peer at the rubbery floor under your feet, “to deal with all this. It’s worse when you go through the things we do.”

“To say the least,” she agreed. “His case is a special one.”

“I’ve gathered that.” You sighed heavily. “I won’t pry, since he hasn’t talked much about it, but…I’m guessing he’s still grieving?”

“Definitely. I’m not sure finding you is helping any, but…” She pursed her lips. “...I think you’ve been good for him as a reminder that he’s not the only one in his position. He gets self-absorbed, sometimes, too caught up in his own losses to remember that others go through the same things—or at least similar ones.” She glanced at you out of the corner of her eye. “He’s been more focused lately, at least—not quite as mopey.”

“I hate to think of how mopey he was before, then,” you laughed under your breath.

“He’s been depressed since I’ve known him, and probably longer than that. I’ve spent a lot of time piddling in his lab to keep an eye on him.” She jabbed a thumb over her shoulder in the general direction of the cafeteria. “But I have noticed that he’s eating better now that he calls dibs on your orders every day. Those sandwiches you make are better than the empanadas he’s been binging for the last couple of months, anyway.”

Your brows rose in surprise. “I…didn’t know. He always seems kind of irritated when I take him snacks.”

“Probably more at himself for forgetting than at you specifically, but I can’t recall the last time I’ve seen him sit down and eat a full meal.” Jess hesitated. “Maybe I’m wrong for saying this, but…maybe he misses your counterpart’s cooking—assuming yours is similar, of course. I think there’s a reason he’s so lean, and not necessarily because he’s on a cut.” Her expression softened. “If that’s going too far, I apologize. It’s probably a touchy subject.”

You…hadn’t thought about that, honestly. He hadn’t really reacted outwardly to the various things you’d made a point to take him, as stoic as his default setting seemed to be. 

“No,” you responded quietly but earnestly, “it’s fine. I…never really gave it a second thought. I know I—” You swallowed, cleared your throat, and took a steadying breath. “—miss my husband’s cooking, too. Even when I follow the recipes, it’s never quite the same.” She laid a hand on your arm, and you patted it gratefully. “I don’t mind talking about it. My family makes it weird, you know, being all sympathetic and saccharine and supportive. None of that sugar-coating doesn’t take away the fact that he’s gone. I just want to remember him at this point.”

“I can understand that,” Jess replied gently, matching your register. ��If you ever need an ear, I’m here.”

“Thank you.” You were a little surprised by her offer, given how busy and business-like she tended to be around most, but perhaps you shouldn’t have been. “I appreciate that.” You let out a wry little chuckle. “I guess you’d have a unique point of view knowing that version, huh?”

“I don’t know how different he is from yours,” she began carefully, “but he’s mentioned his version of you only a couple of times. Usually if he managed to get himself drunk enough.”

You tilted your head in curiosity. It took a lot to get drunk anymore, so you couldn’t imagine how much a man as tanky as Miguel would have to put away before even getting tipsy, much less fully intoxicated. “Oh?”

“Yeah. Little things—details that most people would forget. I could tell he was head over heels.” She rolled the bottle between her hands. “But based on what he’s mentioned, you sound an awful lot like her.”

You frowned. “You think that’s why he doesn’t like being around me much?”

“Probably.” And that’s what you liked about Jess—she was frank about things, didn’t see any need to dance around a problem. It was extremely refreshing. “But he’s not at the same point you are, either. I think it’ll take him some time to get readjusted to having you here.”

“He said he didn’t want me to leave, so there’s that, I suppose,” you told her. “I just…I’d like to help, if I can.”

“That’s admirable, considering he’s been an ass to you.” She bumped her shoulder into yours. “If he gives you too hard of a time, let me know. I can take him down a peg or two.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” you chuckled, “but I think he’ll think twice before calling bluff on me again.”

“Definitely.” She stood and rolled her shoulders. “Just keep doing your thing, girl. You being so kind isn’t worthless, even if it seems like it.” She winked. “He doesn’t take the time to check on everyone’s field capabilities to make sure they can take care of themselves, after all.”

You watched her go, dumbstruck. Maybe Peter had hit you harder than you’d thought.

[eggymf-archived]

of paper planes and wildflowers; masterlist

ft. ominis gaunt with f!reader

themes: enemies to lovers, strangers to lovers, anonymous pen pals, fluff, angst, ravenclaw!reader, reader is not mc, reader is in 5th year (loosely follows the canon plotline)

warning: nsfw, smut, non-specified ages, not spoiler-free

summary: it was the most random idea you’ve ever had: you were going to send a random letter to a random person, and you were going to let your poor owl bring it to its random person of choice. who would’ve thought your silly little random letter would end up in the hands of the boy you’ve been secretly hate fucking a month ago.

main masterlist || AO3 || wattpad

a/n: typically updated every two weeks/twice a month for now. i don’t have a solid posting schedule since i only write whenever i have spare time. please do note that the number of parts may get increased or decreased. chapter titles are also subjected to change as i deem fit. ;)

main storyline:

chapter 1 - liquid luck? or liquid fuck 🔞

chapter 2 - what a mess! 🔞

chapter 3 - the wingman with wings

chapter 4 - an adventurer’s whims

chapter 5 - did i?

chapter 6 - blurred lines 🔞

chapter 7 - denial and desires 🔞

chapter 8 - carpe diem 

chapter 9 - uncontrollably fond

chapter 10 - desiderata

chapter 11 - the duality of man

chapter 12 - the art of subtlety

chapter 13 - a hideout within a hideout 🔞

chapter 14 - in plain sight

chapter 15 - tba...

[ more chapters to come... ]

extras: 

a/n: one-shots, blurbs, writing practice, moodboards, ocs, etc.

the stars of dawn and dusk (ominis gaunt x f!reader; tudor au)

update [6/30/2023]: due to sudden changes in plot and future plans, this series will have more chapters (possibly around 25-ish?) and a possible sequel. 

[angelesca]

𝙬𝙚𝙡𝙘𝙤𝙢𝙚 𝙩𝙤 𝙢𝙮 𝙩𝙧𝙖𝙨𝙝 𝙙𝙪𝙢𝙥¬!

currently, i am mostly posting fanfics of my fav stuff, plus some sprinkles of (fan)art here and there. basically i'm just sharing my love for fictional characters with everyone hihihi this masterlist will update as i write more, so stay tuned! ˚☽˚.⋆ come along with me! ˚☽˚.⋆

˚☽˚.⋆ 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐦𝐞 𝐨𝐮𝐭! ˚☽˚.⋆

˚☽˚.⋆ i have decided to only post sfw versions/fics of my works here on tumblr ˚☽˚.⋆ explicit versions/fics +everything else will be on my ao3 (find me @ sweetangelique) so readers can choose whichever works best for them! ˚☽˚.⋆ for my x reader fics, i aim to write a gender-neutral reader!

𝙡𝙚𝙩'𝙨 𝙜𝙤 𝙙𝙪𝙢𝙥𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙙𝙞𝙫𝙞𝙣𝙜~!

𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒌, 𝒊𝒕'𝒔 𝒉𝒐𝒏𝒌𝒂𝒊 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒓 𝒓𝒂𝒊𝒍! ˚☽˚.⋆

˚☽˚.⋆ various • the great encounters of xianzhou luofu's haunted house ••• extras for haunted house ˚☽˚.⋆ sunday • sunday is incapable of washing his hands pt. 1 // pt. 2 • for who did the sinner turn to for solace? • vows are not meant to be exchanged with the devil • the stars will bend so that we can find each other again • i got isekai'd into the dreamscape but... i'm just a truck driver?! ˚☽˚.⋆ aventurine • come make a fun bet with aventurine (come, come)

𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐧 𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐚𝐜𝐭! ˚☽˚.⋆

˚☽˚.⋆ various • teyvat's sleuth operatives ˚☽˚.⋆ childe • childe is kinda obsessed with you

while you're here, why not take a few seconds to support these causes?

arab.org - help support Palestinians, including education and security for women and children, poverty, and more!

it was estimated that there are about 41,000 fatalities as of now (Farge & Al-Mughrabi, 2024). yet, there are inevitably victims who were not found. this alludes to the count being higher, which is horrifying to imagine. every bit will help save many futures from this unjust ending.

plus, it's free! every click is converted to one lebanese lira (very cool!):

Women for Women - help support women in the Democratic Republic of Congo, which is currently in a violent political crisis, whose wars date back to 1996 and is still in an unfortunate state of conflict after 30 years (War Child UK, 2024).

other causes include supporting women following the devastation of the Iraq War, which Iraq has been recovering from since 2003 (Instability in Iraq | Global Conflict Tracker, 2024).

and many more! go check out the website! donations go towards feeding, clothing, shelters and ensuring security for women in need!!:

Doctors Without Borders (MSF) - help support hospitals, nurses and doctors on the frontline of conflicts, including Gaza, Sudan, and Lebanon.

they are 100% reliant on donations as they are independent, so donations are crucial considering the hard work and expenses needed for medical aid! and are especially critical to tackling rising casualties!:

Save the Children - help support children in over 100 countries, including Ukraine (who are still at war against Russia), Lebanon, Gaza, and many, many more!!

children are the most vulnerable, yet many are forced to grow up quickly and abandon their dreams. your donations can rekindle these opportunities for children, investing in education, food, and aiding mothers in childbirth!:

spread the word!!! awareness is important for acknowledging the existence of these issues so that the victims and civilians are not forgotten or ignored.

thanks for reading all the way here! just by doing this, you are helping to raise awareness!

sources: - Farge, E., & Al-Mughrabi, N. (2024, October 1). Gaza death toll: how many Palestinians has Israel’s campaign killed? Reuters. https://www.reuters.com/world/middle-east/gaza-death-toll-how-many-palestinians-has-israels-campaign-killed-2024-07-25/ - Instability in Iraq | Global Conflict Tracker. (2024, Feb 13). Global Conflict Tracker. https://www.cfr.org/global-conflict-tracker/conflict/political-instability-iraq - War Child UK - A safe future for every child living through war. (2024, August 28). War Child. https://www.warchild.org.uk/

[erisluna35ocblog]

ErisLuna35ocblog Guide:

I started this blog to organize my OC lores for those who are interested and want to get to know them better. It's a little complicated as I tend to put them in AUs, and they end up somewhat different depending on the story they're in yet I try to keep the cores of their characters the same. It will take a while before this blog starts posting original content as I put a lot of stuff on main that I will reblog here for now. I will expand and update this as time goes on.

Main OCs:

Keagan Gerald "Kaji" Aurelio Ashworth

Fiona "Fuyu" Kuznetsov

Shizuke Midorikawa

Blair Crawford

Blake Crawford

Natalia Hale

Damien Guerrero

Zephyr Ryder

AUs:

OG STORY - this is the tag I use to label my original concepts for these characters. Before their better known ML AU incarnations, I pictured them in this fairytale-esque fantasy au with Keagan as the main protagonist. Prince Keagan had a leisurely life as the spare to the throne who's only responsibility is tying down the most powerful knight of their generation to stay on their kingdom's side forever through marriage. Everything was set on a track and he had no intention of fighting it. He likes his hedonistic life as a prince and he gets along well enough with his fiance, it's not worth losing over a thing called "freedom". His destiny was agreeable to him... that is, until he learns of a horrible secret that puts his fiance in danger but she can't know about it lest she dies by her own sword because she is stubborn about protecting everyone like the goddamn knight she is. The prince is forced to take matters into his own hands and run away from the capital, recruiting an unlikely group of outcasts, creating enemies from the shadows and have his fiance and his other childhood friend try to drag him back home.

ML AU - this is the tag I use to lump together all stories set in the show called Miraculous Ladybug.

BTaL - Between Truths and Lies, posted on Ao3 and FF.net. Acronym can be pronounced to sound like "Beetle" lol. The basic premise is its lowkey a future gen fic focusing on the new heroes, Shizuke Midorikawa as Ladybug and Blair Crawford as Chat Noire. Follow their journey as they struggle through superheroing, magic, love, grief and one evil butterfly lady.

N2CatS - No Two Cats are the Same, posted on Ao3 and FF.net. Acronym can be pronounced like "N-2-Cats". It's the time travel story set midway S2 of BTaL that features canon characters and how they deal with being stuck with my ocs for a week. Focused mainly on character study. It jumps off from an alternate end to Ephemeral where Sass's last resort ends up yeeting Adrien and Blair into each other's eras. Can be read as a stand alone despite its references to BTaL, as most references come with an explanation or much context isn't needed to be understood. Though reading BTaL first does enhance some of the references and enhances foreshadowing.

Otome Game AU - You know those manhwas where the protagonist, usually female, wakes up one day into the romfan world of the otome game or novel she was reading before she died? And she's in the body of the villainess, or the heroine or some extra? This AU, that's my entire main cast. A group of tired and stressed college students were working on a game for their thesis. They either worked themselves to death or their kidneys gave out from too much red bull or maybe they were half asleep walking home when truck-kun came for them, who knows. Thing is, they all died. Individually woke up into the body of the character that was modelled after them - which explains how none of them realizes they're not the only one who reincarnated. Chaos ensues. Can they all come to the same page before its too late?

To go directly to the most important notes, go to:

CHARACTER ARTS NOTES AND OTHER INFO

[mistiell]

WHIPLASH | Chapter 1

Eddie Munson x Fem! Reader

Summary: A season 4 fix-it fic with an ‘x reader’ insert because it destroyed me and I still need comfort months later.

A/N: Here it is! I figured if I’m gonna post it on Wattpad, I might as well take a little extra time to post each chapter over here, too. Who knows, maybe Ao3 is next lmao

Update Dec 2023: Hi there, I forgot to update this. I’m afraid I won’t be continuing this series and figured I should let y’all know.

Chapter Warnings: Strong language

Word count: 2.4k words

One/Two (coming soon)

__________________________________________

You sit in your seat, knee bouncing up and down quickly in a feeble attempt to release some pent up energy. Your teacher drones on and on about a topic you quite frankly don't care enough about to pay any attention to. Instead, your focus is on your notes, or what little you have of them, anyway. You stopped writing nearly twenty minutes ago, opting instead to scribble little stars and hearts in the margins of your notebook. You've never been one to enjoy math. You understood it to a relatively impressive degree according to your peers, but you failed to see the intrigue that few people had it in it. English and Art are more your speed, mostly because you love to create.

You sigh and look up towards the window for what you think has to be the fiftieth time in the passed half an hour, displeased but not surprised to find that the parking lot is the same as it was the last time you checked. God, this day could not move any slower if it tried.

As if on cue, the shrill sound of the bell makes you jump and breathe a sigh of relief, quickly collecting your things and getting the hell out of that godforsaken classroom. You're met with the regular cacophony of noise as you weave through the sea of bodies towards the cafeteria. You have to dodge a few people as they nearly walk straight into you, seemingly none the wiser to your presence despite the fact that they came within centimetres of you. You try to get to your locker to drop off a few textbooks but find that your neighbours are currently looking through theirs. Coming to the conclusion that the space between them isn't wide enough to reach yours, you stand behind them and shift your weight between your feet awkwardly. As confident as you may seem to others, you really couldn't feel further from it sometimes.

There's a word for how you're feeling right now. A feeling of being out of place, a persistent voice in the back of your head that tells you that you're not supposed to be here. That you should just leave before people start getting annoyed with you for standing still in the hallway.

Monachopsis

That's the word. Fitting, you think, as one of the people blocking your path finally departs and allows you to open your own locker. You make quick work of stuffing a couple textbooks inside and grabbing a small paper bag before continuing on your way. 

When you finally reach your destination, your gaze automatically slides to your regular table and the feeling begins to dissipate.  The Hellfire club, lead by your childhood best friend and town pariah, Eddie "The Freak" Munson, has become your tight knit group of friends. You find that with them, you feel like you belong, even despite not knowing all that much about D&D.

"Look who it is," The metal head smiles as you take your place between him and Garreth, "What took you so long?"

"Had to drop some stuff off, sorry." He nods and hums in acknowledgement as you reach across the table to steal a couple of Jeff's M&M's, drawing a comically high pitched whine of protest from the victim of your heinous crime. You pull out your lunch bag while Eddie flips through a magazine you're not familiar with.

"Guys, listen to this," Eddie scoffs, clearing his throat to proceed with what you can only assume is about to be a dramatic monologue, "Dungeons and dragons."

Yup, there it is.

You snort at the deep, theatrical voice he's taken on and Gareth elbows you in the side, earning himself a hushed but curt, "Watch it, asshole."

"At first regarded as a harmless game of make believe, now has both parents and psychologists concerned. Studies have linked violent behaviour to the game, saying it promotes satanic worship, ritual sacrifice, sodomy, suicide, and even," He slams the magazine down on the table, a wild glint in his eye, "Murder!"

You all laugh at the absurdity of the article when out of the corner of your eye, you spot the two freshman Eddie had welcomed into the group standing just a few feet away, looking like they're about to piss their pants. You shoot them a look of confusion but they keep their eyes on the floor as they scurry over to sit adjacent to you.

"Society has to blame something. We're an easy target." Jeff adds and Eddie nods his head in agreement.

"Exactly. We're the freaks because we like to play a fantasy game. But," You jump in your seat when Eddie slams a hand down on the table before climbing on top of it, "As long as you're in to band, or science, or partiieess."

You chuckle at the nasally tone he says it in, watching him walk to the end of the table and cup his hands to his mouth, "Or a game where you toss BALLS INTO LAUNDRY BASKETS!"

Jason Carver stands up from his table to yell at your eccentric friend from across the room, "You want something, freak?"

Eddie's response is to stick his tongue out and put his fingers up against the side of his head like devil horns, clearly pissing the jock off but not enough for the situation to escalate further. Eddie smirks at him as he huffs and sits back down to talk heatedly amongst his friends before turning around to walk back down the table, "It's forced conforming."

"That's what's," He hops down to the floor and yells in the direction of a teacher, scaring the shit out of her, "KILLING THE KIDS!"

Everyone at the table laughs as he steps back and gestures for two cheerleaders to walk passed him before taking his seat, "That's the real monster."

There's a short moment of silence before Dustin hesitantly breaks it, "So, uh, speaking of monsters. Um, Lucas has to do his, uh... balls-in-laundry-baskets game. So," The poor boy looks like he's about to be eaten alive as he titters out his next sentence, "He's not gonna be able to make it to hellfire tonight."

You chance a glance at Eddie to find he has a very unimpressed look on his face as he munches on a single bag of walnuts. You slide him your yogurt and a spoon while Dustin continues talking, nodding when Eddie throws a quick, "Thanks," your way.

"And I know there's no way we can beat your sadistic campaign without him. So, me and Mike. We were talking, shooting the shit, and we were thinking that we... m-maybe we might..."

"Postpone?" Mike finishes, sending the table into an uproar of protests.

“Postone?!”

“Over my dead body!”

"I worked for weeks re-painting your figures!" You exclaim alongside everyone else before Eddie cuts you all off.

"Shut up!" You share a disgruntled look with Garreth before turning your attention back to the dungeon master, "You saying Sinclair's been taken in by the dark side?"

“Uhh, something like that?”

"Something like that?" He echoes, tossing a nut at the boys and earning a high pitched, "Jesus Christ," from Dustin, "And rather than find a sub for him, you want... you want to postpone, the cult of Vecna?"

"I- I don't want to postpone it, we don't want to postpone it," Eddie pushes away from the table with a screech from his chair and stands up, "It's just that, you know, most of the subs will be at the championship game."

He whips back around to face the boys and you swear you see them flinch, "Oh, it's the championship game?"

“Yeah?”

"Can I level with you? Jeff graduates this year. Garreth's got, what, a year and a half?" He walks behind you and you crane your neck to watch him as he goes, "Me? I am army crawling my way towards a 'D' in Miss O'Donnel's. If I don't blow her final, I'm gonna walk that stage next month, I'm gonna look principal Higgins dead in the eye. I'm gonna flip him the bird," He raises his middle finger as he slowly turns around to the rest of you, "I'm gonna snatch that diploma and I'm gonna run like hell outta here!”

You chuckle at his little jog as Gareth speaks up, "Didn't you say that last year?"

Now it's your turn to elbow him in the side.

"Yeah, Yeah, and I was full of shit!" He exclaims, jogging back down to your table, slowly turning to survey the cafeteria, "This year's different. This year is my year. I can feel it."

He turns around and grins at you, "'86, baby."

It makes you happy knowing he's so optimistic about graduating this year. You can't count the amount of times you've had to reassure him that he isn't stupid over the years.

"Y'know what that means?" he settles his gaze on the freshman once more, coming around to squat between them and place each hand on one of their shoulders, "It means that you boys are the future of hellfire. I knew it the moment I saw you. You were sat at that table right over there looking like two little lost sheep. You were wearing a Weird Al T-shirt, which I thought was brave."

Dustin replies with a tense, “Thank you.”

"And you," He turns to Mike, "You were wearing whatever shit your mommy bought you from the goddamn Gap!"

You snort along with your friends at his comment, remembering exactly what outfit he was talking about. Suddenly, he's pulling them up by the backs of their shirts like you would a puppy by the scruff of it's neck, "We showed you that school didn't have to be the worst years of your lives, right?"

He gets two soft, “No”’s in response.

"Well, I'm here to tell you, that there are other lost little sheepies out there who need help. Who need you, and all you guys gotta do is get your Bo Peeps on and go find one." And with that, he shoves them forward to start their quest.

He rounds the table to plop back down in his seat and you give his shoulder a half hearted shove, "You didn't have to scare them so bad. Poor little shits looked like they were about to piss themselves."

"Not scaring. Motivating, princess." He smirks at the way you frown at the nickname.

"Watch yourself, Munson." You say as you roll your eyes and feign indifference. In reality, your heart flutters and your cheeks flush at the nickname, but you pray he doesn't notice.

"You coming to Hellfire tonight?" He asks, peeling the top off the yogurt you'd given him and taking a spoonful.

"I don't know, I don't wanna intrude-." He scoffs at you as if you'd just said something absolutely ludicrous.

"Y/n, you're a member. You can't intrude on a club meeting if you're apart of the club."

"Yeah, but I don't even play."

"Sure, but you help me write the campaigns, paint our figures, make us dice-."

"Okay, I'll come!" You laugh and he grins at you, "Speaking of dice, I actually have something for you guys."

They all lean in to get a better look at what you're doing as you rummage through your backpack for that paper bag you grabbed earlier. When you find what you're looking for, you sit back up and reach inside to remove a black box in the shape of a coffin. They all watch you curiously as you hand it to Eddie, "I know I gave you a set last month but since this is the end of your campaign, I wanted to make something special."

"That's very sweet of you, princess, but you really didn't have-," When he opens to the lid, his eyes blow wide and his lips part in what you hope is awe. The set of dice inside are made of a combination of black and red resin, the numbers painted in a shiny silver. On the inside of the lid, the name of their band, Corroded Coffin, is painted in the exact font they had chosen for the posters they had hung up around town.

"You made this?" He asks, looking at you like you'd just handed him the Mona Lisa. Gareth and Jeff are now urging him to show them, and when he turns it around to show them they look just as shocked as he is.

“Are you serious?”

“Those are fuckin’ metal!”

"Thanks." You giggle bashfully, cheeks and ears heating at the onslaught of praise.

"How long did it take you to make these?" Eddie asks, brushing his fingertips over the dice.

"Not too long. Two weeks max." You reply nonchalantly, popping an M&M into your mouth as he looks back up at you.

He really isn't sure what to say. You've made dice for them several times before but this feels different somehow. Normally, your dice were pretty generic. Either solid colours or a marbled mix of different ones. Never had you ever put this much time and effort into a set, especially with the damn near exact copy of their band name that you had hand painted on the lid. Part of him doesn't even want to use them in fear of damaging them.

"Thank you. Really, this is just... holy shit." He chuckles, shutting the lid and slipping them into his bag.

"'Course. I had to do something to mark the big finale." You smile, resting your chin on your palm before jerking your nose towards his backpack, "You better use them tonight."

He places one hand on his chest dramatically and takes yours in his other, "You have my word, fair maiden."

"Good." You laugh as the bell rings to mark the end of lunch. He pulls his hand from yours to pack up his things as you and the others follow suit. You stand and sling your backpack over your shoulder, "I'll see you guys after school."

“Yeah.”

“See ya.”

You turn and begin walking towards the doors before spinning on your heels to face Eddie again, continuing to walk backwards, "If you lose those, I'll kick your ass!"

“Ooh, is that a promise?”

“Suck my dick, Jackass!” You laugh.

“Don’t tempt me, L/n!” He hollers back.

You flip him the bird and he gives it right back, his smile damn near blinding you before you finally make it to the doors and slip back into the crowded hall to make your way to class.

[improbable-outset]

𝐓𝐨𝐨 𝐦𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐰

TK x gn!Reader (Did try to make the genitals as neutral as I could)

Word count: 1.3k

TW and CW: Smut, PIV sex, fingering, pet names. No use of Y/N (I’m sorry I just don’t prefer using it 😭I replace it with a lot of nicknames and pet names instead) MINORS DNI!!! This fandom should be 18+ only anyways

Y0urb0yfriend Masterlist | AO3 | Heyyyyy!!

Summary: Nothing is better than a quick fuck in the morning before you start your day.

A/N: Phew, haven’t posted a fanfic on this for a while now, I’ve only been updating a MadCom series I’m writing which is only available on my AO3. This is my first y0ur b0yfriend fanfic I am writing. I am basing TK on fanart that I’ve seen on twitter (AMAB TK). Here’s some food for you. Some fan art inspo here and here.

Dearly beloved,

If this love only exist in my dreams,

don’t wake me up.

Every so often, you made it a routine to clean your bed sheets and comforters just like any other normal person would do. It was a big task, pulling the heavy sheet, dumping it in the washing machine and hanging it on the washing line for it to thoroughly dry before use. Doing it often can be exhausting but the results were always worth it.

Waking up to that familiar fresh smell of the fabric conditioner would always be the perfect start to your day. Adding to the list of perfect mornings was feeling your partner's arm enveloping you in their sleep while radiating their warmth. Both of these combined were everything and more.

You turned your body so you were now facing TK; watching as they inhaled, chest rising and falling and listening to their soft snores in deep slumber. Their hair was tied but it was still messy from sleep. You ran your hand over their bare chest, lightly tracing the bite marks that were imprinted on their skin with your own marks on you to match - a visual evidence of your intimate love for each other.

Shortly after, they stirred as they gradually opened their eyes. “Morning, love,” TK’s morning voice vibrated through their embrace and gave you a sleepy smile.

“Good morning,” Their hand ran through your hair while lightly scratching your scalp. You relaxed in their touch, sighing from their gentleness. It was enough to lull you back to sleep if they didn’t abruptly stop their movement after they noticed the time on the nightstand clock. “Come on, let’s get up,”

Oh right, we still have to go to work.

Their arms slowly loosened from you as they shifted their form away from you. Just when they were about to get up, you immediately grasped their arm, stopping them from moving anymore.

“Don’t leave me. 5 more minutes in bed, please?” you pouted.

“We’re gonna be late for work if we stay longer in bed, darling,”

“Let’s make it later then,” you flashed a mischievous grin. You were already tugging their arm, signalling them to return come back to bed. They could never refuse a few extra minutes of cuddles, just feeling that skin to skin body warmth was just too irresistible to refuse. What’s even better was you both were still bare from the night before. They gave in and laid back down beside you, wrapping their arms around you again.

You shuffled closer and wrapped your outer leg around theirs. Not too much time passed until you found TK’s eyes were closed and relaxed. You kept your eyes locked on their expression. You were still a little aggravated despite the long night you had. You shouldn't be doing this but you really couldn't resist. Just one time. Very lightly, you rolled your hips up to their crotch. As expected, there was no reaction. You did it again, a little harder this time. You noticed their brows furrowed but other than that, nothing much. You did it again, pressing a little firmer now.

“What are you doing?” They knew exactly what you were doing. You bit your lip when you noticed their cock growing hard.

“Up for another round, hmm?” You hummed. TK opened their eyes, now fully awake and alert.

“I thought you’d be tired of me after last night,” they joked.

“I’ll never grow tired of you,”

“So needy, huh?”

They loosened their grip on you but instead of getting up, they positioned themselves so they were now over you, arms resting to your side to get better look at you and easy access to your sex. They started from your neck, leaving kisses and licking your bare skin, tracing over the bite marks with their tongue. You tossed your arms up and hooked them around their neck, lacing through their soft hair. Simultaneously, TK’s hand reached down to your lower area until they could feel your aroused sex. They started toying with it, pressing a little firm around your hole until they slipped a finger in. You whine as they start to slowly pump in and out of your heated hole. Oh, they just know how to work their fingers. They stuck another digit and your whines turned into messy moans, all focus on them and them only. TK was pleased with your state that they got you into.

“You make the prettiest sounds when I do this, love,” they smiled coyly, watching as you coiled and arched your back from desperation. Watching you react to their touches like this was one of their favourite thing - it was exciting and they could feel their cock slightly twitching from you.

“Oh TK, I need you in me please,” you cried, still squirming from their touch. TK pulled their fingers out of your dripping hole, now wet from your fluids.

“It’s a good thing a brought some spare condoms with me,”

All you could do now was watch in anticipation as they snagged the last condom on the nightstand and tore it with their teeth. Your senses were going haywire from the overload of dopamine, even the plastic crinkling was amplified which didn’t help with your thinning patience. They put the condom on, ensuring it was secure before they continued. Once that was done they shuffled closer to you again. They positioned your legs on their shoulders to get the best angle to hit that one spot in you that they knew would always drive you mad.

You felt them sink inside you, your hole was already a little stretched from being penetrated numerous times before. Your walls fluttered around their cock, almost welcoming it back in again. TK was quick to start rolling his hips in and out of you, keeping a steady rhythem. The sun was pearing trough the blinds and reflecting off their hazel eyes. It was breathtaking.

You moaned out TK’s name in adoration as you were lost in the blissful moment. The friction from their cock was just amazing - the pace and angle were just right. “I’ll never hmm get tired of this ah-” you were cut off with another moan as you felt a jerky thrust in you again, hitting the same spot over and over again.

Their pace was starting to stutter and their face was in full concentration as they focused on chasing their climax. It was adorable watching them like this, a mess even though you were already falling apart yourself.

“Bloody hell sweetheart hmm you’ll… be the death hah of me, you know that?” they gritted through their pleasure groans.

“Come on sweetheart,” you huffed, lifting their head so they had no choice but to look at you, “let it all out, look at me when you’re coming for me,”

Finally, they unravelled, gripping onto the bed sheet beside you as their movement became more sloppy and uneven. They collapsed on you but were careful not to crush you. The fabric conditioner scent was now mixed with the fresh smell of sex and you were infatuated by it.

“Mmh, alright there love?” They lifted their head from the crook of your neck to look at you. The loose strands of their hair were sticking to their slightly sweaty face, but you still found it attractive. You hummed in response to their previous question, still in awe. They pulled out from your hole and watched them peeled the cum filled comdom from their cock. After doing so they disposed it in the waste bin under the bed. They climbed off the bed and strectched, nude in full display for you.

“Coffee?”

“Always! But let’s take a shower first, yeah?”

[thebrochtuarachs]

Something in the Rain - “Friday Lunch”

A/N: I’m sorry I posted this a week late but I had work to do over the weekend and couldn’t squeeze it in. But alas, here I am at 2:00AM posting this as inspiration struck and I wanted to share this new chapter with you all even with pending work waiting tomorrow morning. :) Thank you for reading and all your lovely comments on this little fic. <3 Again, this fic is me trying to get back into writing so some things might be off. I also noticed that I didn’t really set a particular location for this fic so I invented most of the areas where this is set but in essence, think of it in major CBD areas. I hope this update brings a little joy to you as we continue to stay home in this pandemic. As always, your comments and suggestions are always welcome. Lots of love, M.

AO3  / C1: A Day In June : C2: Definitely, Maybe : C3: So We Meet Again 

XXXX

Jamie scheduled to arrive 15 minutes early for their meeting to make sure that they were able to get a seat before the lunch rush. Nothing extraordinary was happening on this particular Friday with only some paperwork and quick calls taking his time so there was no rush to get back to the office. 

Just as he left his building, he spotted Claire at the crossing heading to the plaza. 

“Claire! Wait up!” Jamie called out as he tried to catch her but to his surprise, Claire ignored him and crossed the street nonetheless. Confused at first, Jamie let it go and went with the next group of people. 

When he arrived at the restaurant, Claire acknowledged him with a cheerful greeting. “Hi! I just arrived, thought I’d come a little early to save us a seat.” 

“I know.” Jamie replied casually but Claire’s questioned look prompted him to follow through quickly. “I saw you earlier just before you crossed the street. I called your name but maybe you didn’t hear me”

“Oh, I’m so sorry, I probably didn’t. I usually have my headphones on when walking and completely unaware of anything except well...walking.”

“No worries. It’s all good.” Jamie replied, thankful for the explanation but it was no big deal really because what’s more important to him was that she was there. “Did you order yet?” 

“No, not yet, was waiting for you. I’d probably get the soy chicken chops today. How about you? What are you ordering? How was your chicken yesterday?” 

“It was really good and tasty! Now, I know why you come here weekly.” he stood, ready to get in line. “I’ll probably have what you’ll be getting. Any drink preference?” 

“Maybe a large red iced tea” Claire said, taking out her wallet to get some cash.

“No need.” Jamie halted Claire as humbly as he could hoping that she saw the genuineness of his lunch offer. “It’s my treat today for introducing me to this meal.” 

Claire mused initially but accepted his kind gesture. “Thank you.” 

Jamie came back with their food and added french fries for a side dish. “This is for sharing, feel free to get some” He said, serving their food and giving the tray back to the counter. 

If Jamie thought there would be an awkwardness to their sudden acquaintanceship, he thought wrong. There was something about Claire that just puts him at ease. 

“You know, come to think of it, I should be treating you for sharing your umbrella the other day.” Claire said, beginning to eat and Jamie following suit. 

“Well, I’m currently and probably addicted to this chicken now so, call it even.” 

“Haha, sure.” 

“So, what are you specializing in?” Jamie asked, continuing the conversation. 

“I’m a pediatric neonatal surgeon at North Hope General Hospital. I’m finishing, or hoping to finish, my residency in a year. How about you?” 

“I’m an associate lawyer with Fraser Clan Law.” 

“Oh, that’s why your name was familiar. Your family’s company has been here in the city forever, almost like an institution!”

“Yeah, been here for around 50 years. My grandfather started it and now my father is heading it and I joined a few years back after I finished law school.” 

“Is it something you’d always planned? Joining the family business?”

“Kind off, yes. I have been going to the office since I was young so I grew up in that place. But I learned to love the profession as well, seeing my family do it, defending and fighting for justice… gives me a thrill.” 

“I can relate to that somehow. Whenever I’m in the O.R., saving a life, especially babies, seeing the look on the parents face when they see and hold their child for the first time. Nothing makes me happier than keeping families together, it’s just the best” 

The rest of the hour flew by fast as they exchanged interesting work stories. Thankfully, Claire wasn’t bored with the cases and Jamie wasn’t squirmish with blood. However, by the time they we’re opening a new topic, they had to get back to work. 

“Mind if I walk you back to the hospital?” Jamie asked as they exited the restaurant. 

“I wouldn’t mind. But, I’m actually heading to the same building you dropped me off last week.” Claire said as they made her way. 

It was a shorter walk then, Jamie thought, but glad she agreed. “Lead the way.” He pointed across the street. “Do you have a clinic there?” 

“Somewhat?” Claire began to answer as they crossed the street. “I help run a free extra-curriculars school for kids from nearby orphanages and shelters. We have art classes, dance classes, theater, books, etc. Whatever interest kids have, we might have it. Also from time to time, I do check-up the kids if they’re healthy too”

With Jamie’s silence, Claire looked to him and found him smiling. “What?” 

“I never would’ve guessed that was what you’re doing here.” He answered, Claire shyly shrugged. “What prompted this venture?”  

Before she was able to answer, a man called out to Claire ahead of her building. 

“Claire, are you heading up?” a slender man in a three-piece brown suit approached them, holding a cup of coffee on his right hand. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“No problem and yes, I am heading up. Would not want to miss the puppet show.” she replied. “Oh, Jamie Fraser, this is Frank Randall. Frank Randall, Jamie Fraser. Frank volunteers here as a history teacher to the kids.” 

“Fraser? Like the law family Frasers?” Frank asked, extending a hand.

“Erm, yes. Hi, I’m Jamie.” Jamie replied, taking the handshake. 

“Frank, nice to meet you.” 

“Well, I wouldn’t want you to be late for the puppet show so, I’ll let you be on your way.” Jamie gestured to Claire. “Thank you for lunch.” 

“No, thank you for lunch and the walk here.” Claire turned to Jamie in response. She could see there was something on his mind but the presence of Frank was holding him back and if her instincts were right, they were thinking of the same thing. 

“Well, I’ll get going. It was nice meeting you, Frank.” 

“Wait!” Claire called as Jamie turned to leave. “Same time next week?” she asked hoping it was obvious enough between them despite the short time they’ve known each other.

“I’ll be there.” Jamie smiled and nodded then turned to leave. 

Thankfully, Frank didn’t ask anymore questions about Jamie as they rode the elevator but a pang of regret hit her on their cut moment. There was more, she felt it but it never materialized with the interruption. She feared that the moment lost might turn to a chance gone before anything even happened.

Her mind was tossed until the kids dragged her from the elevator to watch the show with them. On that moment, Claire focused on the present and let everything about next week go until it was there. 

[faecaribou]

Fanfiction Masterpost

Markiplier Egos Fics (check tags for posts if links dont work, also tags may have some art!)

The Second Coming: Actor Mark kidnaps all the egos. Based on Doctor Discord’s Trauma AU. Very whumpy. No ship? Not finished.

Only on ao3: full work - prequel - between chapters 3 and 4

Broken Glasses and Bonding Sessions: Mild Erik Derekson whump. Dr. Iplier & Eric friendship. Finished.

ao3 - tumblr

Celebrating Death: An unus annus fic co-authored with @kraefandoms. Ethan dies. To stay alive, he makes a deal with Death: He must “celebrate death,” whatever that means. No ship. Not finished. Kraefandoms runs point on this one so talk to them not me for updates.

Only on ao3

Second Chances Come So Rarely: My Damien Time Travel AU. Damien travels to before the events of WKM. He’s determined to change everything. No ship- at least yet (fan wants william/damien or william/damien/DA endgame). NOT finished. check the #damientimetravelau tag for extra stuff!

full work on ao3 - tumblr chapters 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 - 6 - 7 - 8 - 9 - 10

Watermelon Jolly Rancher - short and sweet Wilford x Reader. Finished.

ao3 - tumblr 

Grape Jolly Rancher - Yancy x reader. The District Attorney decides to stay in jail with Yancy. Together they help the DA deal with the trauma from the events of Who Killed Markiplier. Finished.

ao3 

Hard Time’ Totally Great - Yancy x reader. Yancy has a nightmare and Y/n comforts him. Finished.

ao3

Kitten- Yancy gets a kitten and worries about his ability to take care of living creatures. No ship. finished.

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Dark dies. Or does he? - short crack fic about dark defusing a bomb but he’s colorblind from his monochrome effects. No ship? finished.

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The Mansion That No One Enters: a short spooky thing about the wkm mansion. no ship. finished.

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AHWM Dark ending- meant to be another short spooky thing. no ship. finished. WKM references.

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 Whumptober 2020 Day 22: The Host gets poisoned. no ship. Finished.

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Whumptober 2020 Day 10: Dr. Iplier is injured and running from someone. No ship. finished.

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Monster! Dark, Monsterhunter! Y/N: as title suggests. No ship? NOT finished.

tumblr pt 1 

Forgiveness: post-WAIA, Dark and Wilford have a talk. No ship. Finished.

ao3 - tumblr

Markiplier Ego Hunger Games AU. No ship? NOT finished.

full work on ao3 - tumblr ch 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 - 

Markiplier Ego Poems

Actor - Google - Dark -  

Old Age: Warfstache-centric, egos face old age. no ship (?). finished. has a sequel (Whumptober 2021 Day 7) also a comic should be under #goinggray or #oldage

tumblr - ao3

Whumptober 2021 All written prompts: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2540470

Whumptober 2021 Day 1: Dark confronts Actor Mark about the DA. It doesn’t go the way you think it will. No ship. Finished.

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Whumptober 2021 Day 2: The Author hurts Eric Derekson (Dr. Iplier & Eric friendship). Finished.

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Whumptober 2021 Day 3: Actor Mark needs his audience. No ship? Finished

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Whumptober 2021 Day 4: Damien/William role swap WKM. No ship. Finished. (WIWGTTP AU)

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Whumptober 2021 Day 5: Bing has a traumatic experience and Google is not very nice to him about it. Could imply various Bing x Google (Blue, Yellow, Green) ships but thats not the focus nor is anything written with romantic intent. Finished.

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Whumptober 2021 Day 6: Host is touchstarved and its fluffy (Dr. Iplier x The Host x Yancy?) Finished.

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Whumptober 2021 Day 7: Old Age sequel. finished. no ship?

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Whumptober 2021 Day 8: Host has a cold and its fluffy (Dr. Iplier x The Host x Yancy?) Finished.

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Whumptober 2021 Day 9: Dr. Iplier and the Struggle of Always Being Asked to Inform the Family that Their Loved One is Now Deceased

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Whumptober 2021 Day 10: King and Bim (mostly Bim) ignore choking hazards. No ship? Finished.

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Whumptober 2021 Day 11 & 12 (A The Second Coming Sequel and TSC Ch. 9)

11 ao3 - tumblr -- 12 tumblr

Whumptober 2021 Day 13: William. Wilford? has a dream. A memory? A vision? of Actor Mark standing by a fire. no ship. finished.

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Whumptober 2021 Day 14: Eric has a no good, very bad day. no ship. finished.

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Whumptober 2021 Day 15: Illinois wants to make a good impression and Yancy is telling outrageous lies. No ship. Finished.

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Whumptober 2021 Day 16: A short thing about the egos and their respective scars. No ship. Finished.

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Whumptober 2021 Day 17: whumpiest shit so far w/ Author. No ship. Finished.

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Whumptober 2021 Day 18: Yancy has a broken nose/got into a fight. Dr. Iplier fixes him up. no ship. Finished.

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Whumptober 2021 Day 19: Bim eats people. Character Death. No ship. Finished.

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Whumptober 2021 Day 20: Yancy gets into a fight he can’t win (spoiler he doesnt die). No ship. Finished.

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Whumptober 2021 Day 21: Wilford gets shot but its okay because death isn’t real! (spoiler: death is real) No ship. Finished.

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Whumptober 2021 Day 22: The Jims shouldn’t have been fooling around. No ship. Finished.

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Whumptober 2021 Day 23: The Author is hunting. No ship. Finished.

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Whumptober 2021 Day 24: Reporter Jim is lost and stumbles across Actor Mark. No Ship. Finished.

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Whumptober 2021 Day 25: Dark is captured by incompetent fools and he is furious. No ship. Finished.

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Whumptober 2021 Day 26: Illinois thought there were no more booby traps. He was wrong. No ship.

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Whumptober 2021 Day 27: King refuses to admit he has a problem. No ship.

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Whumptober 2021 Day 28: FNAF Mark joins the manor and he is not doing well mentally. No ship. Finished??

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Whumptober 2021 Day 29: Dark is working too much. Darkstache maybe? Finsihed.

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Whumptober 2021 Day 30: My best fucking masterpiece in the world. Fuck any of my other fics. Made myself cry. Sort of an ISWM prediction. Mark & DA|Y/N. Finished. Warning: Character Death.

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Whumptober 2021 Day 31: I made a sequel of day 30 lmao character death Mark & Dark in a rivals are tired of fighting kind of way. Finished

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Host fluff Request. Host X Yancy? Finished.

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Don’t Wake The Captain: Another ISWM prediction fic where I grab the cloning prediction and run with it. no ship, finished. ao3 - tumblr

The Greater Invincible II Polycule: I ship the Captain with every single crew member and I solve all problems with a little kiss <3

ao3 - tumblr ch. 1 - 2

Go Into The Dark: go into the light fake ending where the paranoid captain locks everyone into a cave (no ship YET)

ao3 - tumblr ch. 1 - 2

various one shots or half finished ego x reader works

ao3

Anger Issues: ISWM Part 2 scene when you hold on but Mark is more violent towards the Captain (no ship, finished)

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The Better Titanic: throw mark into the ocean (April Fools choose your own adventure) fic. no ship. finished.

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[capnjay21]

The Wind Blows White 1/6

It’s been two years since Killian Jones and Emma Swan managed to escape the clutches of Brooke House, two years of waiting for it all to catch up to them and two years of pretending the cracks in their happy ending don’t show. But when the vision appears to Killian of a young boy unearthing the dagger and the darkness they had long since buried, it’s a race against time to try and stop another innocent from befalling the same fate. If they have the strength to face it.

Sequel to ‘A House is Never Still’.

A/N: Here it is, happy (slightly early) Halloween everyone! :D Confession time, I’ve actually been kinda nervous about posting this for a little while? Fretting over whether this one won’t be as good or scary as the original - but I am officially making a concerted effort not to care about any of that, because this is how the next part of the story goes and I’m excited to tell it! I hope you guys like it <3

***Editing to include the AMAZING art done by the lovely @hollyethecurious​ - I love it so much and I’m so excited by it. And for those that don’t know, she created the art that inspired the original fic so this is EXTRA cool!

Updates will probs be every other week to allow me to stay ahead. If it’s any consolation, they’re usually over 10k words, oof! Enjoy! 

AO3

Rating: T Warnings: Mentions of canonical character death and some certified Spooky Business™.

Taglist: @carpedzem @optomisticgirl @snowbellewells @kmomof4 @lfh1226-linda @phiralovesloki @hollyethecurious @stahlop @peglegsjones @mariakov81 @seasailia @courtorderedcake​ @jonesfandomfanatic @wyntereyez @mrtinski @thisonesatellite @klynn-stormz @teamhook​ 

If anyone would like on, or off, the taglist, just let me know! 

-/-

1.  i won’t die in my sleep.

-/-

It was 2:17am.

The whispers woke her, as the whispers always did.

It took her a few dizzying moments to emerge completely from sleep, the vivid and fraught images of her restless dreaming spilling out into the darkness of the room. As usual, she could not move. Her muscles had seized, curled tightly around her stomach like a clenched fist, trembling with strain while her eyes blinked out into the dark. She could see the forest. The broad, sweeping trunks of old red oaks sprawled from the ground upward, their leaves stained crimson by blood while their bark wept tears the colour of potted ink. Only once observed did she really consider that there was so little in nature truly black, as pus the same shade as crows dribbled and oozed down the spines of every oak she could see.

Slowly, the numbness receded from her aching limbs, the reckless smears of her wakeless mind gave way to the shapes her eyes could make out, could confirm as being there, and like a prayer she whispered aloud every object she could see and smell and know was real.

“Chair,” she croaked, “desk. Lamp. Computer. Window. Gold –”

No. No gold. The basket of spun gold twine was the final little spill, tempting her to return to a nightmare it could kiss back into a dream.

She refused.

It disappeared.

The whispers had woken her, but once she rose she was alone in the dark.

Emma patted the bed beside her, and found the sheets bare and cool. He had been gone for some time already, then. Trying to suppress the growing tide of unease that always came from waking alone, she stood slowly, then stretched out her sore muscles. Sore from being clenched so tightly for what felt like hours. Usually Killian woke her before it reached this point, but clearly he hadn’t even been there for its beginning.

She sighed. Thought about calling him. The clock on her nightstand winked in and out. 2:17am.

There was no point, anyway. She knew where he’d be.

-/-

It was 2:17am.

As usual, it was raining.

Beyond the stretch of porch in front of him, sheets of water fell in a relentless assault on the sodden ground, and Killian mopped at his already sweaty brow. The air was thick and moist, even this early in the morning, the height of an unusually punishing June. He let the downpour carry on for another few moments before ducking out into it, bending to lift the wide bowl he had left sitting on the grass a couple of minutes earlier. Now filled to the brim with rainwater, he brought it back underneath the shelter of the porch and laid it down on the ground.

He'd had that dream again. He couldn’t stop thinking about it.

There was a noise from not too far away, the screech of metal on concrete in the dark and the answering leap of a car horn out into the night air, but he tried to push it from his mind. This would never work if he couldn’t clear his thoughts. Folding his legs underneath him, Killian leant forward until he could see his reflection staring back at him from the bowl.

The surface of the water was inky black, the faint caresses of a breeze brushing ripples across the surface and making his reflection appear distorted, but he tried to see beyond that. Beyond his tired eyes and the hurt and the heat, to something more. Silently, he willed the dark pool to show him something else.

Show me the boy, he asked out into the dark. Show me the boy at the creek with the dagger.

Even just the thought of the dagger, the curling blade they had sent hurling into the ravine, brought forth a rush of unwelcome and jarring memories. The dagger, floating in the middle of their circle, summoning a storm of black lightning and hurt and that nothing, that awful nothing, and Killian could feel something tugging at the centre of his chest, beckoning him forward.

He couldn’t see his reflection anymore. The surface of the water was blank.

Not like this, he thought furiously, wrestling for control.

It wasn’t interested in his control. If he wanted to go deeper, he had to let himself fall. This was the bargain.

But –

He thought of her at home, in their bed, resting fitfully.

This was the bargain.

Emma.

Killian gasped for air, which was when he realised the tightness in his chest was because he hadn’t taken a breath in a long time. He almost fell forward, and his right hand shot out to the deck of the porch to stop his face from crashing into the bowl – which was when he realised it was just a bowl of water again. His reflection stared back at him, breathing heavily, eyes wild and afraid.

If he wanted to go deeper, he had to let himself fall.

In his mind’s eye, he could see it perfectly. The sparkling summer day. The boy, knelt with his right arm in the creek before he pulled it out, and the dagger with it.

Dragging his eyes away from the bowl, he reached into his pocket for his phone. The clock on the display ticked onto 2:17am.

Still? He thought, bewildered.

“You should be used to this sort of shit by now,” he muttered, before emptying the bowl onto the grass.

-/-

It was 2:17am.

Henry only knew this because it had been 2:17am for a really long time already, but every time he checked the clock it was the same.

“Gotta be broken,” he mumbled, letting it drop back onto his nightstand. He told himself to roll over, to go back to sleep, Mom was making pancakes tomorrow and he didn’t want to be too tired to enjoy them, but something kept lingering at the edge of his awareness. Like a movement that was too quick to spot, or a sound too quiet to take shape, or that sensation after someone had taken a deep breath and they were waiting to speak, but wouldn’t utter a word until he looked at them.

Something was different, and it niggled at him like an itch he couldn’t quite scratch.

Somehow, he didn’t feel alone in his bedroom anymore.

He rolled over again, and this time his eyes instantly locked onto the shoebox he had stuffed under his dresser. He didn’t know how he knew, but he just did. Whatever he was feeling – it was coming from there, and the object he had hidden inside.

The dagger he had found at the creek.

It was… whispering to him.

Come, it hissed out into the dark. Listen.

Henry’s hand tightened on the covers. Then he gently pushed them back and sat up.

-/-

It was 2:17am.

Robert should have been home hours ago, and Belle couldn’t sleep for worry.

Her heart stuttered into hopefulness with every shadow that passed in front of the pawn shop window, but each one merely reached the other side with barely a glance back at her. She thought about calling the police, but surely they would dismiss her concerns so early into the morning. It’s normal, ma’am, they would say, and laugh about wives wondering after their wandering husbands. But this was different.

There was something about the way he had looked tonight, something wild and dangerous and careless in his eye, that had made her want to take three steps back every time he opened his mouth to speak. His tongue had lingered over softer sounds, tickled by a secret that only it knew. Like an animal, his sharp eyes had followed her around the shop as they closed, and when he kissed her it had sent a shiver down her spine.

It had frightened her. He had frightened her.

You’ll see, he had said, when she asked where he was going. You’ll see.

Belle didn’t want to see. She just wanted him to come home. Her mind railed against the truth that had already started to creep into the corner of her heart.

Tonight, he had gone to Brooke House.

And Brooke House did not want to give him back.

-/-

Liam Jones didn’t care what fucking time it was.

Aching and exhausted, he kicked open the screen door and stepped out onto the porch. The air was dank and cold, and smelled faintly of mildew, and he wrapped his coat tighter around him. Killian had needed three blankets before he could get to sleep earlier, the act of being inside the house only slightly warmer than the harsh early spring outside, but still sweat pooled at the base of Liam’s neck. His hands felt clammy with a layer of grit that he could never wipe away, and the moisture on his skin froze the moment he walked out into the night.

But under his skin, he burned with cold fury.   

He’d have to pretend to be Brennan and call the school again tomorrow, there was no way he could go in if he needed to be up for the rest of the night. He could send Killian over to Smee’s, that was one problem dealt with. The older man would take him into elementary school; but even that solution summoned the familiar rush of dread that came to Liam whenever he thought of his little brother moving into middle school next year. That would make everything so much more difficult to hide from concerned and nosy neighbours alike. 

How had he let this happen? Again? They had been making so much progress.

Liam rubbed his eyes tiredly. He should just hurry up and drop out. He was good with his hands, he could make a living doing carpentry jobs, move to some quiet town upstate maybe –

I’m just trying to prepare you for life’s big question, Liam.

What kind of man are you going to be?

A quiet town upstate? He was really setting the bar low for pipe dreams these days.

Then there was always the chance Brennan might be himself again by morning; maybe he could call the school. Could drive Killian in. Maybe he’d be up before the sun rose like he used to, whistling a sea shanty and cooking them eggs over easy.

 Now there was a pipe dream.

What time was it? A distracted pat of his jacket let him know his phone was still inside, but he wasn’t quite ready to go back in yet. It had to be late. Or early. Wednesday. The recycling went out on Wednesday. Which mean they were two days closer to Friday, which was the eighteenth. Water bill went out on the eighteenth.

Brennan hadn’t worked in weeks. They’d be short.

No heat and no water. The only things he could rely on in this house were the bricks and the mortar.

Why him? Why did it have to be him?

Liam resisted the urge to scream. At the night, at the cold, at whatever curse had captured his family and refused to let them go.

It was 2:17am.

And Liam wasn’t alone on the porch.

Once alerted to the intruder he stumbled backward, fumbling around for anything he could use as a weapon.

“Liam?”

Liam froze, his fist having clenched around the shard of a shattered flowerpot Brennan had destroyed last week.

The stranger hadn’t moved, stood silhouetted against the porch light.

He blinked. Willed his racing heart to slow.

“Who are you?”

-/-

It was 2:17am.

Except, no, it wasn’t.

Emma frowned and looked at her phone again, and the correct time stared back at her; 10:41am. How had she thought it said anything different?

She shook her head. Shit, she really needed to get more sleep. Her foot resumed tapping its restless beat on the floor of the almost empty corridor.

The entire hall was almost completely deserted, only the low murmur of conversation ricocheting against thin walls and tall ceilings, and everything was beige. Beige walls, beige floors, beige murals; she fucking hated beige, it was such a non-colour. Just pick something a bit more appealing and stick to it. But in her not-all-that-limited experience, most government buildings seemed to default to beige, and it was no different in the Seattle equivalent of the DMV. They had been led up to the customer service desk almost half an hour ago, but nobody seemed to care about how goddamn important this was, and her anxiety was climbing with every unattended second that ticked past.

Somewhere down the corridor a door opened, and Emma immediately whipped around to look at it. A broad, cheerful man offered her a bemused smile at the sudden sharp attention he was being given, before disappearing out through another door.

“You need to calm down,” Killian mused.

A glance at him confirmed his eyes were still closed, head tilted to lean back against the wall with his hands folded over his stomach, but her impatience had to have been obvious even without looking at her. She huffed in a way which she knew made her sound puerile, and the corner of his mouth quirked up in amusement. From the moment they had been seated there he had stayed silent, and it was only fuelling her irritation that she couldn’t settle on whether that was because he was bored, tired or just giving her room to complain and agitate to her heart’s content. She preferred to know exactly what Killian was thinking.

The memory of waking alone the night before still smarted, and she had to keep reminding herself that it wasn’t Killian’s job to always be at her side on the off chance she didn’t sleep through the night. Dark circles rimmed his eyes, and she knew whatever had caught his attention this time had kept him up at least an hour or so after she had summoned the courage to climb back into bed. She had still been awake when he slid back in beside her, but she had pretended to be asleep.

He had probably known she was doing it, which was why he had kissed an apology into her shoulder and held her a little tighter than usual.

It was hard to stay mad at him when he hadn’t technically done anything to make her mad – and he was already sorry about the thing he shouldn’t have to be sorry for.

Which just made her feel even worse.

“I hate beige,” she grumbled.

Killian let out a breath of warm, ticklish laughter, something that growled pleasantly in his throat. Some of her temper ebbed away. “I know,” he said. “I’ll take you somewhere pink after.”

“There’s that big hotel in Hawaii that’s totally pink, right? What do they call that?”

He opened his eyes and arched an eyebrow. “And maybe when our next skip is the Queen of England, we’ll be able to afford to go there.” Even less than thirty seconds of talking to him, properly, she could feel her mood lifting. He reached one of his hands into her lap, seeking hers, and she let him thread their fingers together. “I was actually thinking donuts. The strawberry glazed kind?”

Emma sighed happily. “Make it chocolate and you’ve got yourself a deal.”

He smiled warmly and squeezed her hand. “Whatever you want.”

His mood seemed light, but she wasn’t fooled. The way she would catch his eyes flickering carefully between her and the customer service desk in front of them told her all she really needed to know about the direction of his thoughts – they probably shared the same sinking feeling that had washed over her since they had arrived.

That this almost definitely wasn’t going to go her way.

“Ms. Swan?”

Immediately Emma was on her feet, bolting over to the desk as quickly as polite company would allow, Killian close behind, all traces of mirth evaporated from his expression. The man who had come to meet them wasn’t the same one who had led them up to the desk earlier, and a quick glance at his nametag told Emma they were speaking to a Mr. Heller. He resembled every bureaucrat that had ever taken residence in her imagination, thin in a sickly way and sort-of feeble-looking, but with a snide tug at the corner of his mouth which suggested he was not going to tell her what she wanted to hear, and he was enjoying the prospect immensely.

The sick feeling in her gut deepened.

“Thank you for waiting,” he said, in a bored tone, skimming the file he was holding. Emma tried to lift herself a little taller to take a look at it, but it was angled slightly away from her. “We were able to track down the license plate you requested in your application, but it was recalled eleven years ago. The vehicle it was registered to is no longer in use.”

It was easy to push back the first wave of disappointment – a setback, but not the most important thing. “But you know who it belonged to?”

Heller sighed heavily, and let the folder close. “I’m afraid the Washington State Licensing Department has denied your public records request regarding the owners of the plate.”

It was like a punch to the stomach. She could feel the warmth of Killian’s palm splayed against the small of her back, gently reassuring.

This couldn’t be it. This couldn’t be another dead end.

“On what grounds?” he was asking, and she felt a rush of gratitude for him as she hadn’t quite been able to form her mouth around the words.

“Not enough evidence,” Heller continued, in that same flat tone that was beginning to grate. “We reviewed the article you sent, about the circumstances of the abandoned child at the edge of the road. There isn’t a lot of information available regarding the incident, even at the county level.”

“Well, it happened,” Emma replied hotly. “It’s me. I was the kid.”

Another banner year, right?

What?

We’ve all got ghosts here.

Heller quirked an eyebrow. “Then the department offers their sympathies. But there is no reason to suggest the plate you requested belonged to the vehicle involved.” He lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “Maine is a long way from Seattle.”

But she had seen it.

She had experienced the moment that changed the course of her life hundreds, thousands of times at the behest of a malevolent demon, while to the rest of the world she had been missing for five years. Even before that, the very fact of her being abandoned on the side of the road as a baby had cast its shadow over her entire life. Achieving any measure of answers about it had been unobtainable. She had made her peace with that a long time ago.

But then she became trapped in Brooke House.

And Brooke House had given her a few more pieces of the puzzle.

It felt like a dream, now. Like the scatter of smoke, or déjà vu. Something she couldn’t really be sure had happened. She had spent five years of her life suspended in a place that showed only her regrets, her fears, her desperate desires; anything that would make her pray for deliverance. In the two years she had spent free of it all, her ability to conjure up and consult those visions waxed and waned. The images it had shown her sometimes dribbled back like the trickle of a raindrop down glass to her waiting, thirsty mouth, but nothing was ever enough. While that feeling, that sensation of being left again, and again, and again remained seared onto her mind forever, the actual, physical details of the day her parents abandoned her were scarce. The vision was difficult to bring into focus.

Two months ago, a nightmare had caught her so tightly that Killian hadn’t been able to wake her for six minutes. Just when he had been reaching for his phone in a panic to dial 911, she had burst free; gasping, aching – awake and alive. The details had been so vivid. Before her eyes, her parents abandoned her at the side of the freeway; only this time she had spotted and could recall the plate of the car that had left her.

They had packed everything they owned into Killian’s Chevelle and made for Seattle in a matter of days.

This couldn’t be the end of the road. Not after everything she had been through to get here. She deserved answers, damn it.

“That’s the thing about cars,” Emma replied coolly, “they drive. And if you’re abandoning a kid, you’re not likely to do it on your own doorstep, are you?”

Heller looked bored. “You’re welcome to make an appeal against the department’s decision, so long as you do so within four to six weeks.”

“But I saw – we have a witness!”

“A witness?” His tone was disbelieving, and he fixed her with a hard stare. “Why didn’t you say so before?” Emma opened her mouth, but Killian pinched the side of her waist sharply and she hesitated. When she didn’t immediately confirm her declaration, Heller’s eyebrows rose victoriously. “Would they be prepared to come down here and make a statement?”

“We can ask,” Killian replied smoothly, before she could say anything. He whipped a notepad and a pen from his pocket. “Is it the same address we submit the appeal to, or –?”

Emma fumed quietly at his side. She knew why he had cut her off, before she could dig herself into a hole that would ensure state officials labelled her as halfway to crazy town, but it was infuriating. She couldn’t very well say their witness was her and the visions a haunted house halfway across the country had given her – a house which they had no physical evidence even existed, as it had since disappeared.

Silently, she smouldered.

Killian reached absently for her hand. She tugged it out of his grip.

Heller and Killian confirmed the logistics of an appeal process, but before long they were being thanked dully for their time and invited to leave. Emma stayed quiet for their entire walk out of the building, and she could sense Killian intentionally kept some space between them to allow her to adequately process what had happened in there.

Nothing. Nothing was what had happened in there.

Emma could feel the tide of something tight at the top of her stomach, like her insides were cramping. It was how she felt when she woke, uncertain, in the middle of the night.

“We’ll find another way, Emma,” Killian spoke gently as they stepped out into the morning sunlight.

Emma waved a dismissive hand and tried to focus her gaze on the particulars of the street. The chequered red, blue and silver line of cars parked along the sidewalk, the scent of wet asphalt and the hum of traffic whizzing by. They were far from a forest here – but she could feel the quiet whisper of the trees against her skin.

“I know, I know, I just –” She curled her toes in her boots, felt the stiff concrete beneath her feet. “I’m – tired of hitting brick walls.”

“We’ve got a little cash in the bank,” Killian pointed out, “maybe for the appeal we could hire a solicitor, just see if there’s anything else we can do to help our case.”

He was frowning at the note he had scribbled down during their conversation with Heller, his mind already four or five steps further ahead, and Emma felt a rush of affection for him. For his solidness and his patience. His tenacity was well documented, he had spent five years searching for answers about Brooke House and had never once given up on the idea that he would find them, and her along with them – even now he refused to let any speedbumps hamper their progress. It was so easy for her to get struck down by the first sign of resistance, but Killian persisted in a way she could only ever hope of emulating.

Nothing in the street felt tangible beside the resilience and vibrance of Killian Jones. Sometimes it felt like he was the only real thing she had found outside of Brooke House.

Like dust, the cars and the concrete and the chorus of the Seattle summer drifted away.

She reached for his hand and squeezed it tightly, praying for an anchor.

“How are you always so optimistic?”

“Because I know what you’re capable of,” he replied easily, although it felt like he was speaking to her from a great distance. Emma fought to inhabit this moment. “And I’ve yet to see you fail.”

Killian was smiling, which had always done its best to keep monsters at bay.

In a blur the noises returned, like a radio slowly tuning into focus.

“Emma?” he queried softly, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear. “Are you still with me?”

The wet splatters of rain against the yearning canopy receded as it stretched for the sky.

Down the street a car horn blared, and she let it shake her firmly back into the present.

In Seattle, the sun was shining, and Killian was here. Standing so close to his warmth made her feel like a thief, but she couldn’t stop herself from reaching for him.

“Donuts,” she managed, nodding firmly. “I need a whole lot of donuts.”

He brought her hand up to his mouth and kissed it. “You read my mind.”

-/-

Killian railed against the idea of calling Elsa’s home a house.

It was a huge, sprawling behemoth of a structure, with vast corridors that led nowhere and innumerable superfluous rooms that all looked identical, with walls scaled by books and furniture shrouded in neat, ivory sheeting to protect them from dust and age. More than once he had found himself completely and utterly lost while attempting to find the bathroom, which he was convinced changed locations every time he visited it, and that wasn’t even mentioning the size of the grounds which circled the outside of the house.

Embedded deep within the winding roads of West Bellevue, he was grateful for the opportunity to interact with something a little less urban than the busy street he and Emma had rented their flat on, and Elsa had opened up her home to all assortments of waifs and strays long before he had ever come on the scene. Truthfully, it was sheer coincidence that they had even met, crossing paths in downtown Seattle late one night – but then, he didn’t believe in coincidences anymore. He had been searching for something more, and she had been offering something for him to find. The rest was inevitable.

Clear night, isn’t it?

The room in which he spent the most time was the large dining room – the long table that would ordinarily occupy its centre was, as ever, pushed to the side against one wall and loaded with edible treats already half depleted, clearing the way for Elsa’s guests to arrange themselves on the floor in any number of styles depending on what the evening requested of them. The windows always remained open, so the room was immersed in the earthy scent of the outside, of wet moss and woodsmoke and pine, and the rain from the night before somehow made everything so much more pervasive.

Aurora stood in the centre of the room with her eyes closed, her hands held palm up with a pinecone resting atop them, while the rest of Elsa’s guests sat spread out across the room with their palms turned to the ceiling, mimicking the same position.

Killian sat at the edge of the room, notebook resting open in his lap, and observed.

Elsa stood, made her way over to Aurora, and placed her hands over the other woman’s.

“Child of earth, wind, fire and sea,” she spoke clearly out into the silent room. “We welcome you into our lives, into our homes, and into the waiting embrace of this powerful, caring woman. Think fondly on her, and choose her, as we have, to be part of your family.”

As Aurora opened her eyes, Anna stepped forward holding a candle in one hand and a ceramic bowl scattered with herbs in the other.

“Light it,” Elsa encouraged her, and Aurora held the pinecone over the candle until it caught.

The flame grew rapidly, Killian remembered reading somewhere that it had to do with the natural resins so near to the surface in pinecones, and soon Aurora dropped it into the bowl. Once there, the contents of the bowl started to gently smoulder and the scent of sweetgrass and sage began to float out into the air.

Killian took a deep breath. Let it wash over him for a few quiet, tender moments.

He wasn’t sure why, but he always felt closest to Liam here.

Aurora was smiling, and Elsa grinned back.

“Blessed be,” she said warmly. “And good luck!”

The group echoed a fractured but delighted blessed be, in response, before breaking out into a smattering of claps and spirited cheers. A few jumped to their feet to envelope Aurora in a loving, haphazard embrace.

No, house didn’t really cover the breadth of what Elsa’s home had become to this community, or the reality of what Killian had found there.  

This was a covenstead.

It wasn’t the first coven Killian had ever encountered – his first had been in Pennsylvania a number of years ago, but they had been intensely private and suspicious of strangers, and their association had not extended more than a few weeks. Long before now it had become his habit to deliberately seek out suggestions of the world that existed beyond what they could see. It had started because of Brooke House, because of the mistakes they had made when they were seventeen and naïve and frightened; after Emma had disappeared, Killian had searched for answers anywhere he could. He had five years to cross the globe, to pursue every lead and overturn every stone that might hint at something more, with varying levels of success.

Now, Killian had spent so long searching that he wasn’t sure he remembered how to be anything else. Getting Emma back, rather than being the end of his fascination with the otherworldly, had only fuelled it. There were still so many questions he didn’t have answers to, with Liam being chief among them. His brother had been involved in all this, had known about this barely perceivable double life that some among them were living, but Killian still had no idea about the how, or the why.

Emma was his life now. Everything he had ever wanted. For so long, his sole focus had been in making this world as right for her as possible, in giving her the tools with which she could build her new reality and hoping desperately that she still wanted him in it; while privately wrestling with that disquieting sensation that accompanied stepping away from the bizarre and the unexplained for the first time in a long while.

It was difficult, he had realised, to come to terms with the fact that everything you wanted wouldn’t stay everything you needed for the rest of your life.

And Killian needed something.

On their third night in Seattle, he had met Elsa. The very same night he had first had the dream about the boy and the creek and the dagger.

He didn’t believe in coincidences anymore.

Soon after Elsa wrapped up the ceremony, the group began to disperse, some aiming for a few treats to take for the road while others went to collect coats and bags from the hall. For his part, Killian took more care than necessary slipping his notebook back into his already overpacked bag and began shrugging on his jacket. The ending of these meetings always left him feeling oddly bereft, like although every week he walked in with no idea what he would find, somehow his expectations were never met. Or perhaps it was the realisation that always came when he watched the members of the coven at its conclusion, mingling and trading smiles and stories about the week that had just passed.

He wasn’t one of them. They were all kind enough, and they liked him, but he wasn’t part of them. They wondered why he was there as much as he did.

Watching them, his heart throbbed for the one place that had always been home; for that warm, golden light, for Regina’s lasagne and David’s terrible jokes and Mary Margaret’s helpful reminders to enjoy happily ever after. His chest hurt for the wanting of it.

The clerk at the DMV the day before had been right: Maine was a long way from Seattle.

He turned to leave.

“Killian, hi there.” It was Elsa, calling him back, and he fixed on a cheerful smile as he pivoted on the spot to face her. “I hope today wasn’t too women-centric for you.”

Aurora was trying for a baby with her husband; as a result, they had focused the evening on fertility. The lighting of the pinecone was a ritual from Elsa’s book of shadows, and had followed a relaxing evening spent sharing poetry and prayers and best wishes about family.

(At the very least, that probably explained why he was feeling so homesick.)

“Not at all,” he assured her, not least because he didn’t feel fertility was an exclusively female pursuit. There were plenty of men there tonight. “It’s a pleasure to observe. Thank you again for inviting me into your home.”

“Anyone is welcome here, there’s no need to thank me.”

He was reminded, again, of how different Elsa’s coven were to the one in Pennsylvania; Elsa made a point of opening up the covenstead to anyone at any time, not just during their meetings. It was Elsa’s home, but it was also effectively a refuge or meeting place for any of its members whenever they needed it. The grounds in particular were always accessible, and something Killian himself had taken advantage of more than once.

Especially when he wanted to – well. Dip his toe into something Emma would never approve of. The covenstead felt like a safer place to explore those private desires.

If he wanted to go deeper, he had to let himself fall.

“You know,” Elsa was saying “if you would like to participate rather than just observe, we’d be happy to invite you to join us.”

For a moment he could see it; himself, sat on cushions with the rest of the group, palms up and eyes closed and waiting for wonders to begin again.

The image immediately fell apart as visions began to swim of a pentagram penned in black marker, scattered salt and a dagger rising above the swell of a storm.

This was the bargain.

“Oh,” Killian let out uneasily, trying to find the best way to refuse without sounding impolite. “No, that’s alright. Really.” Elsa looked a little disappointed, and he hurried to reassure her. “I’ve… had some experience with the miraculous. It didn’t exactly go well.”

Killian – Killian, don’t –!

A wave of nausea threatened to overwhelm him.

“I wouldn’t say what we do here is miraculous,” Elsa replied, but he could see she was quietly pleased by the comparison. Awkwardness settled like dust between them, neither considering the conversation finished, but before they could continue a few people cut between them on their way out of the dining room and into the hall. They called out their goodbyes to Elsa as they passed, and she returned them warmly. Killian lingered until they were finished, fiddling with the strap on his bag.

Once they were gone, she took a step towards him.

“Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?”

Killian shrugged. “By all means.”

“Why is it that you come to our meetings?” she clasped her hands in front of her, in a gesture Killian couldn’t help but interpret as deliberately nonthreatening. “And if you say Anna’s fruit loaf I might believe you, but I don’t really think that’s what it is.”

The question felt like it should be impolite, loaded with a query that went beyond their unspoken arrangement; that he could come, and he could watch, and she, like the rest of the group, would leave him be – but he was uninjured by her curiosity. Curiosity was, after all, what had brought him there.

So he surprised himself by being honest.

“For… proof, I guess?” he lifted his shoulders in an uncertain shrug. “That the world is still – strange?” The way Elsa watched him, almost waiting for him to continue, made that answer feel inadequate. He cleared his throat and searched for more to offer. “I actually lost my brother, a long time ago, now – and I still don’t fully understand why. And my partner, she…”

So good of you to finally come and see me.

“She went through something I can’t even begin to comprehend. But she doesn’t like to talk about it.”

Elsa nodded slowly. “Sometimes what we don’t say speaks more for what troubles us.”

“Yeah,” Killian agreed, feeling oddly liberated by the opportunity to confide in someone. All he could think of was Emma in the dead of night, clenched tightly in their bed, her arms and knees curled against her chest as she fought darkness only she could see. “Yeah, it does.”

“Perhaps she’d like to come along to a meeting?” Elsa suggested. “There’s no obligation to partake. She could observe, as you do.”

“Oh, no. No. She hates all this stuff.”

Emma had already made clear her opinion on the covenstead in Bellevue, she was not interested; and he felt compelled to apologise on her behalf, seeing as they were all perfectly good people who had done nothing to offend her.

“It’s just — that something, I mentioned,” he offered. “Thank you, though. I appreciate it.”

“Well,” Elsa spread her hands. It was neither here nor there to her, he was sure. She couldn’t offer help to someone who didn’t want to receive it. “Have a good week, Killian. Will we be seeing you at our Litha celebration?”

Litha, Killian had learnt, was the wicca celebration of Midsummer, which took place on the summer solstice at the end of June. It traditionally heralded the beginning of summer, with its focus on fertility and the championing of light over darkness manifesting in the longest day of the year. The coven had planned an evening full of festivities including a large bonfire, an almost drastic amount of food and a lot of promised general merriment. Elsa had said last year two among their number had decided to spontaneously marry during the festival; in their eyes, the perfect way to celebrate new life and regeneration.

It sounded like a lot of fun. In the bleak, uninspiring, greyscape that Seattle had become to him in the last two months, it was a breath of life and the outdoors that he would be grateful for.

But he wasn’t really sure if he should. Especially with – well. With Emma.

“Sure,” he said, just to be polite. “If I can get away. That would be nice.”

He meant it. Elsa smiled understandingly, as if she knew he had no clear intention of attending but would let him maintain the charade for the sake of pleasant company – she was kind, and she didn’t really know him, but she had still invited him into her home without a single caveat. The coven respected her. Killian would like nothing more than to introduce her to Emma; he was sure whatever she refused to talk to him about she could bring before the other woman without fear of shame or regret, or whatever else she must think would come from Killian that prevented her from being honest.

Not that he was being entirely honest with her, either; she knew he came to the covenstead more often than their weekly meetings, but she didn’t know what he had been trying to do there. She couldn’t know. It was better she focused on the future, on the path ahead, on the fact that she was free, now, from the nightmare behind them.

It was lonely, he had come to realise, being the only one with unfinished business.

Clear night, isn’t it?

“Elsa, wait,” he said, before he could think better of it. A jolt of nervous energy ran through him, his feet squaring imperceptibly on the laminate floor beneath him as if they were ready to run, but he forced himself to stay where he was. “Actually, I’ve… for the last few weeks, I’ve been trying to scry.”

Elsa’s eyebrows shot upwards.

He could understand her surprise, given he had shown no interest in participating in any of the wicca crafts since he had started coming to the Bellevue covenstead. Scrying was something he had only really read about, but never seen performed; it was the practice of, at its core, looking into a suitable medium in the hope of detecting significant messages of visions. While the most notorious method of which remained fortunes told over crystal balls, the history of the craft extended far beyond recent iterations of neopaganism. Cultures as far back as ancient Egyptians and Babylonians had practiced scrying by gazing into stone dishes filled with palm oil.

Killian had never really bought into it – but its existence as a medium through which he might gain some insight had been too tempting not to at least attempt, and the results were, well. Inconclusive.  

He stumbled over himself to continue. “I usually try at night, and mostly with rainwater, as I’ve heard that’s more potent? But I’ve also tried with tap water, and mirrors, too. But I’m finding it difficult to find direction.” He shrugged helplessly; his mouth felt bone dry. “It’s like staring out into silt.”

“Scrying is a challenging craft,” Elsa confirmed. “What is it you’re trying to see?”

He hesitated. Not just because he was reluctant to confirm the details for fear of sounding – well. Halfway to crazy town, as Emma would put it, but it was also this: he didn’t want Elsa to be part of it. Any of it. If he could protect one more person from the demons in his past, he would prefer to do so.

“I’ve… been having this dream,” he answered carefully. “A nightmare, really. It makes me worry someone might be in trouble because of something I didn’t finish.”

Come. Listen.

The quiet truth knocked gently. They had been naïve to assume it was over.

Elsa hummed thoughtfully. “Often, dreams are just manifestations of our anxieties –”

“This is different,” he said firmly. “I can feel it.”

Killian didn’t sleep the way Emma slept, treading that breathless line between the waking world and the rest, fumbling in those in-between spaces, sometimes needing help discerning where the truest threads of herself should lie. They had developed a number of strategies for her, routines to perform while waking to know she was no longer asleep; listing the objects she could see and smell and taste as chief among them. Anything to help her cling to the world above and pull her out.

Killian did not sleep that way. The delineation for him was clear.

Which was how he knew this was more than just a nightmare.

Elsa seemed to take his confidence at his word, and instead turned her attention back to the wider room.

“Tink, would you come over here?”

Tink was not her name, but nobody ever called her anything else, so Tink was what Killian had come to know her by. Her features were sharp, her wit just as cutting, and she had made a point of behaving as indifferently to him as possible in a way he found both frustrating and a little refreshing – somebody else acting like he didn’t belong there helped remind him he was separate, he was apart from all this. Currently, she stood looking exceptionally guilty by the dining table, three small cupcakes placed precariously on top of each other and clearly about to be tucked away in some tupperware for her return journey. Killian didn’t blame her. The lemon cakes were always especially divine.

“Tink is our resident expert on divining arts,” Elsa informed him after spotting his rather put out expression. In a few moments, Tink had joined them. “Killian has been trying to scry but hasn’t had a lot of luck.”

Tink wrinkled her nose. “Nasty business, scrying. Wouldn’t bother.”

“I’ve been having this dream I’m trying to –”

“Oh, boy. It’s amateur hour. Trouble with dreams, go see an oneiromancer. Or a therapist.”

Killian bit back a retort; he was somewhat regretting the decision to come clean already.

“Killian believes this is more than a dream,” Elsa spoke quietly, but firmly, “and it’s not our business to interpret another’s instincts. We were hoping you could provide some insight.”

When Tink turned her shrewd eyes onto him, he merely lifted a shoulder in a helpless gesture. “You said it,” he pointed at himself, “amateur hour.”

Tink looked immensely reluctant, but as her gaze flickered between Elsa’s imploring request and Killian’s discomfort, she finally heaved a defeated sigh.

“Agh, shit.”

She took a bite out of a lemon cake.

Through chews, she carried on.

“Catch me up. What’ve you tried so far?”

-/-

The quiet blip of a notification turned Emma’s attention away from the window and back to her laptop. She smirked triumphantly – finally some good news.

“There you are,” she muttered, “sneaky bastard.”

She and Killian had been tracking down the same skip for a few days – so far none of their usual tactics could draw him out, but his credit card had just been used at a convenience store around the corner from his previous place of employment. The first time she had gone to that office she’d had a feeling everybody was behaving just a little shady. Now she knew she was right to be suspicious and resolved to pay them another visit in the morning, provided Killian was alright with it.

Well, she corrected, only if she decided to give Killian a say. Emma’s gaze skimmed the empty flat. If he wanted to spend the night messing around with delusional, self-proclaimed witches, then she got to make the work decisions by herself.

She gritted her teeth at the thought of the house in Bellevue Killian liked to retreat to these days; why couldn’t he have joined a local rec team or found some obnoxious new drinking buddies like a normal guy? The group at Bellevue were all just a bunch of tree-huggers, even worse than Regina. Emma knew what real magic was. And it wasn’t dancing around a field wearing flower crowns or mumbling limericks over a cauldron.

Emma quickly jotted down the address and the details regarding the skip’s purchase. It usually helped to be able to throw everything in her arsenal at getting past the front desk of any office. Bail bonds was a career she and Killian had fallen into almost accidentally – it suited the nomadic lifestyle they preferred, and blended Emma’s instincts for catching someone in a lie and Killian’s propensity towards investigation quite well. It just worked. And they needed some way to get food on the table.

David had offered them work at the veterinary shelter more times than she could count, but she was sure that had a lot more to do with wanting them to stay back home in Storybrooke than anything else. But Storybrooke couldn’t be for them what it was to him and Mary Margaret, and Regina; not anymore. There were too many splintered memories. Not to mention half the town still thought Killian had kidnapped her and kept her in a cave somewhere for five years. The lines had to be carefully drawn.

The notes for their appeal were sat in a haphazard clump behind the laptop, and the stack looked exactly how Emma felt about it; worn, sad, and a little flustered. It had only been a few days, but something about the disappointment at the DMV left her feeling wrecked and restless all it once. It didn’t feel over, but whenever she thought about burying herself back in the endless bureaucratic process all she wanted to do was hit the pavement and not stop running until she fell off the corner of the map. She wanted to be outside. Balmy air drifted in through the open window, coloured by the frustrated yelps and the gentle roar of cars in the busy evening.

She paused, listening for the familiar growl of Killian’s Chevelle. Nothing.

With a jolt, she realised her pen was still in her hand and had been working idly against the paper. She peered over at the notepad, hoping she hadn’t doodled over her notes about the credit card – and nearly knocked over the laptop as she jerked backwards.

Scribbled over every inch of the page, completely obscuring anything underneath it, she had written her name. Over and over.

In a twisted, medieval cursive she had only ever seen in one other place.

Emma Swan Emma Swan Emma Swan Emma

The dagger swam into focus, and Emma resisted the urge to retch, clutching tightly at the desk in front of her with her left hand. Her right lay motionless across its surface, a foreign object to her now, a traitor which had scrawled out the pall that nestled around her shoulders and given it physical form. It was disquieting enough to see it there, a restless dream broken out, but only more disturbing to not remember having put it there.

She stood abruptly. Tore the page free, scrunched it up with that now untrustworthy hand, and dropped it down onto the floor.

Leaving the laptop open, she stalked out of the bedroom and across the hall to their tiny kitchen, determined to regain some control over the course of the evening, constantly clenching and unclenching her hand into a fist at her side. The kitchen was little more than two counters facing each other atop a strip of gaudy orange tiles with barely enough space for one person to pass by another, but they managed. They had never needed a lot of space, and their budget hadn’t been able to stretch particularly far. If they hadn’t needed a permanent address in order to submit the public records request, she probably would have made a case for sleeping in the Chevelle somewhere once they made it to the city.

Still, Killian had pointed out there was something nice about having a home base that wasn’t just the backseat of a car, and his suggestive glances at the bed when the realtor had taken them round had not gone unnoticed. Or unappreciated.

It was just – right then, especially without him in it, she didn’t want it. The lack of furniture, of personal affects, the rumpled sheets and the cracked plaster walls made it a gaping hole of something desolate and harsh. The jaws of something wanting in the shape of four walls and a door with a barely functional lock. She longed for the Chevelle and the torn leather seats, for something wild and alive.

At night Seattle burnt, and Emma yearned for home.

Not to mention it rained all the fucking time.

The door to the flat opened and closed, and Emma called out a greeting as she poured herself a glass of water. Killian didn’t reply. Assuming he had his headphones on, Emma allowed herself a few moments to breathe. She’d tell him about the credit card alert, let him know she was going by the skip’s office again in the morning and he could come along if he wanted, but she probably wouldn’t need the backup. Cornering a skip somewhere surrounded by friends and colleagues usually made them more amenable to coming quietly. Then she would ask as politely as she could manage about his evening and try not look too sour if he used the word covenstead again, instead of big fucking house.

Emma emerged from the kitchen, but he wasn’t setting his bag down in the sitting room like she was expecting him to be. Frowning, Emma re-entered the bedroom, but he was nowhere to be seen.

Her right hand twitched.

It felt numb, like she had been holding it in cold water for a few minutes. She could barely feel her other hand when she brushed her palms together, just the whisper of a touch instead of skin.

Her phone buzzed with an incoming text from Killian.

Leaving now – should be 30mins. Stopping for snacks. Want anything?

Behind her, the door into the kitchen creaked, and the tap started to run.

Her mind rang with the dull truth slowly, like a bell tolling at dusk.

Someone had turned the tap on.

Killian wasn’t home.

Someone had turned the tap on.

Killian wasn’t home.

Her heart stuttered against her ribcage.

Immediately searching for anything she could use as a weapon, Emma darted back over to her desk to reach for one of the hardback file folders they used for work, but as she leant across to reach for it she froze.

Her laptop had been closed, and on top of it placed a clumsily straightened, crumpled bit of paper.

Her mouth went dry at its familiar script.

Emma Swan Emma Swan Emma Swan Emma Swan Emma

Still through the doorway came the splurge from the rapidly filling kitchen sink, and Emma began to panic. She couldn’t go out there. Not now. Not now she couldn’t know, couldn’t be sure if there was anyone there to find or if she had unknowingly slipped back into sleep and this was just another spill. Her feet were frozen, dug in like anxious roots into earth, while her attention remained fixed on the hallway for every single sound or breath of movement.  

As quietly as she could, Emma closed the door to the bedroom. For good measure, she grabbed the desk chair and hooked it under the handle so it couldn’t turn, the noise masked by the water as it began to sluice over the side of the sink and splatter onto the floor of the kitchen.

Then she waited.

Was she dreaming?

It didn’t feel like a dream – but then, they never did. Her pulse raced, her skin felt cold even though her senses were telling her the flat was warm, hot, but she daren’t start mumbling aloud the objects she could discern as being real just in case it heard her. It. Already something had taken shape in her mind.

It liked to stop by, every now and then, just so she didn’t forget.

It wasn’t long before the noises grew louder. With the steady stream of water came the slap of footsteps through the puddle, of the flat soles of smart shoes pacing restlessly back and forth across her kitchen, the smack of cupboards being flung open and slammed shut again.

Not here, she thought, desperately, not when I’m alone.

Then Killian called her.

The sudden loud buzzing surprised her, and the phone slipped out of her grasp and onto the carpet below. Dropping to her knees and scrambling to reject the call, she split her attention between her frantic efforts and the blocked door, hoping against hope that it hadn’t heard, that it wouldn’t –

The door handle squeaked, stopping short when it was met with resistance from the chair.

When she was seven, there had been a month or so she had avoided being alone in her bedroom as often as possible. Not, she had insisted to Archie, because she was scared, but of course, really she had been terrified. It was a new room, colder, bigger, and the first one she hadn’t shared for as long as she could remember. For so long, all she could imagine was that one day the door would lock with her inside it, and nobody would ever come back for her or care at all that she was alone in there.

After weeks of creative avoidance strategies, Archie had finally wheedled the truth out of her, and had removed the lock the very next day. Then they had spent time drawing maps of the group home together, doodling creative means for her escape from that room until she was convinced that even if the door locked, it would be pretty easy to build a hang glider out of a kite and make a break for it through the window.

Nobody can control this door except you, Emma.

Only these days, she had built the lock herself. She checked a hundred times a day that it was still secure. She buried herself behind it and when the cracks had started to form, she had piled up bricks instead.

The handle creaked again.

A desperate, fearful sound ripped itself from somewhere deep inside her chest and she stumbled backwards, reaching for anything, wanting the maps, the exit strategies, everything she had burnt the day she decided it was more important to keep things out than avoid leaving herself trapped in.

The door to the bedroom rattled against its hinges.

Thump. Again. Thump.

Her fumbling hands fell on the door to the closet, and she hauled it open and ducked inside before she could think twice. She was breathing hard, her chest ached with the force of it. It smelt of black leather and mildew inside, and once she pushed through coats and her back hit the wall, she slid down onto the floor.

Once inside, the noises stopped.

Just, stopped. Like she had stepped out of an airlock, and all she could hear now was the hard, accelerated huff of her own breathing.  

Was it still out there?

Like she was seven again, she pulled her knees up to her chest. She told herself it was just like when she and Killian used to play sardines with the other kids at the group home; exploring dark, gaping crevices until they could melt into its very walls. She had been older, then. Escape was all rationalisation, she didn’t need the maps. Keeping herself hidden meant just shutting her eyes and forcing it all out of her mind until she made herself unreachable.

As long as she couldn’t be seen, she couldn’t be caught.

Something in her twinged, something that ached for wide, open streets and a crumbling clocktower, for long conversations over steaming coffee and the vermillion kiss of the New England fall. Seattle was just unrelenting, torrid heat. Noise and noise and noise and more ceaseless, callous noise. And Killian’s coats smelt like midsummer rain and spluttering exhaust fumes in heavy traffic.  

She couldn’t remember calling David, but she was glad when he answered.

“My new assistant is pteronophobic,” he sighed heavily, by way of greeting.

The words sounded like nonsense to her, but she couldn’t discern if that was because they were, or because she didn’t feel like she could trust her senses anymore.

“Terr— what?”

“Pteronophobic. She’s pteronophobic.”

Emma pressed herself as far back into the wall as she could go, curling tightly away from the door.  

She tried to focus on the call. “So… she’s a dinosaur?”

David snorted. “It’s a phobia of being tickled by feathers. Isn’t that ridiculous?” He clicked his tongue. “Actually, what’s ridiculous is that she knew this about herself, yet she applied for a job at a veterinary shelter.”

“Is this your way of telling me you’re the idiot that hired an assistant who’s scared of birds?”

“Feathers. And their proclivity for tickling.” She could hear him smiling down the phone, and already the pressure in her chest began to lessen. “Anyway, what’s up?”

Emma bit her lip. “Nothing, I just…” With a start, she realised the time and was amazed he had picked up at all. “Isn’t it nearly midnight over there?”

“You don’t call enough,” he reproached, but she could hear the tease in his voice. “This is like positive reinforcement.”

“How’s Ruth?”

There was a pause, a barely audible sigh. Gently, he repeated: “You don’t call enough.”

She could feel herself becoming more aware of herself, of her limbs tangled tightly at the bottom of the closet, of her hair sticking to the back of her neck, in a way that let her know that if she had drifted, she was returning now. It was nearly over.

“She misses you,” David added, “that’s all. So do we.”

“Me too,” Emma frowned, trying to remember the last time she had called anybody from Storybrooke. She had called after they got to Seattle, hadn’t she? How – how long ago was that? “Sorry.”

David made a dismissive noise, and as he always did, he forgave her.

“Everything good with Killian?”

Something in her chest squeezed as she remembered the call she had rejected.

“It’s fine,” she said, and tried to sound convincing, “I’m fine.” He didn’t have to know she was talking to him from the floor of a closet. “I just… wanted to hear your voice.”

For a little while, David said nothing. It was nice to just hear him breathe.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

Emma smiled weakly, even though she knew he couldn’t see it. “Yeah.”

“Y’know, if it’s just that you’re afraid you’ll miss Seattle, I could set up the hose at the end of Mom’s porch and you’re welcome to stand under it whenever.”

“Wow, how generous,” she snorted. “It’s really more of a near constant moistness than always rain, though.”

“Or we could buy you a Subaru? You could sit in it and vape a Starbucks, or whatever it is you do there.”

“I honestly don’t know what to say to that.”

For a few moments they just laughed, until they petered back out into quiet. Emma thought about Killian returning home soon, and the fact that she really didn’t want him to find her in the closet.

“Listen, um… I have to go. I’ll call more,” she promised.

David hummed on the other end of the line. “I hope you do.”

She felt calmer now as she disconnected the call, her heartbeat still clear in her ears but a steady pound, almost reassuring, not racing away without her. With fresher eyes, she nudged open the door to the closet and edged her way out slowly. The bedroom door was still closed, the desk chair propped up against it, but the only sound she could hear was the humming of her laptop on standby and the noise drifting up from the street through the open window.

Carefully, she removed the chair and shut the window. Then she sunk down into bed, into the quiet, and buried herself beneath the covers. She felt like she had run a marathon, her muscles ached in the aftermath of pumped adrenaline, and all her body wanted to do was rest.

She didn’t realise until Killian got home, but she had forgotten about the flooded kitchen. She heard him pause in the hallway, then the patter of his boots on the sodden tiles. Once realisation struck, her entire body burned when she wondered what he must be thinking, thinking of her, her skin hot with humiliation. But he didn’t comment on it, at least not that she could hear. Instead she heard him pulling out the mop and bucket and cleaning it up.

She wanted to join him, she just couldn’t muster the willpower.

A passing thought occurred to her then, the meekest of suggestions, now that rational thought had crept back in.

Had she just left the tap on?

After a few minutes she heard Killian enter the bedroom, but he didn’t switch on the light. Instead he slid into bed beside her, still clothed, and curled himself around her as tightly as he could manage. Something in her relaxed, as it always did, a muscle coming unclenched as she sank into the safety of his arms.

This, she knew. This was always real.

He kissed her shoulder, and he didn’t say a single word.

She loved him for it, and she hated him a little for it, too. 

[spartanguard]

even death won’t part us now (2/?)

Summary: Two covens, both alike in dignity, / In fair New York, where we lay our scene, / From ancient grudge break to new mutiny, / Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean. From forth the fatal loins of these two foes / A pair of star-cross’d lovers take their life; / Whole misadventured piteous overthrows / Do with their death bury their sires’ strife. (Captain Swan + West Side Story + vampires. But not as sad. Probably.)

rated M | part 1 | AO3 | 3.9k words

A/N: I was going to post this update yesterday but *life*. We really get into the story, though—I hope you enjoy it! Thanks again to @optomisticgirl​ for being an awesome beta; to @thesschesthair​ for her amazing art; and to @kmomof4​ and @cssns​ for putting this event on and pushing me to continue this story!

say what you will about Glee, but Darren Criss’s version of this song is amazing

part two— the air is humming, and something great is coming...

2020

The sun was setting on another day, just like it had for the last 5000-plus. At least, Emma figured the number was up there; she’d stopped counting around day 4,588. Which was really an absurdly long time to count considering her days were no longer numbered, but old habits died hard, even if she never would.

She’d accepted that fact somewhere around day 4,040, which ironically was her 40th birthday. But instead of dealing with gray hairs and wrinkles and aching joints, she was still in her 28-year-old body, fairly spry and with exactly one white hair blended into her blonde. (Not that she could see it in the mirror anymore—or, you know, anything—but she knew it was there and that was all that mattered.)

She knew she’d finally settled into her new life when she was looking forward to drinking the deer blood she had at home and not longing for chocolate cake like she had the past several birthdays. Well, she still wished she could eat it—real food didn’t digest properly anymore—but the blood sounded just as good.

“It probably took me about that long to come to terms with it, too. Longer for your dad,” her mom had told her about the revelation.

That had been another epiphany: that the kindly undead couple she’d somehow ended up on the doorstep of—David and Snow Nolan—were her parents. Her actual birth parents. You know, the ones she’d been looking for her entire mortal life? (Had once dreamed would save her from one shitty foster home after another until she finally gave up hope, and instead turned to counting the days until she moved again?)

As it turned out, they’d been attacked and turned shortly after she’d been born—which apparently had been in a backwoods cottage in Maine that her grandparents had owned—and were taking her to the hospital for checkup after the fact. They didn’t trust themselves to face their new reality while also in charge of an infant (an infant with delicious-smelling blood, no less—creepy, but true) and so finished the journey to the hospital, but left her there alone.

Coming to terms with that had taken 1,187 days. There would have been lots of tears, were any of them able to cry; but instead, there was just a lot of emotion, which Emma had never dealt well with. But she was getting better. Who knew the kind of personal growth one could achieve after death? And it was a good lesson in how to handle (or not handle) things should the son she herself gave up ever manage to track her down.

(She looked—once, before she was turned. All she’d been able to find out was that he ended up in the foster system, too. She just hoped he was having a better time of it than she did. Well, had—he’d be an adult by now, wouldn’t he? Damn.)

So. Anyways. Sunset. Which Emma was watching from the roof of their building, which had become something of a refuge for her over the past 15 years. She had her own bedroom, but after so long on her own, being an adult suddenly under the same roof as her parents (who, despite being physically younger than her, still acted like her parents) was a bit stifling at times.

It wasn’t much, but it was her own space: she’d cobbled together a tent with some reclaimed tarps, filled with gently-used cushions, and on nice nights, would bring out a sleeping bag and let the lights and sounds of the city wash over her. It had been overwhelming at first—she kind of envied that her parents only had to deal with forest smells when they turned, and not the incredible everything of New York—but it had dulled over time, which she probably should have expected; it had only taken her a week or so to get used to the smell the first time, right?

That’s to say—the overwhelmingness did; she learned to tune things out and let them fall to the background. But her senses themselves were the sharpest they’d ever been, consequently making her even better at her job than she’d been pre-death. Having ethereal beauty compared to a mere mortal easily drew in most of her targets; her preternatural sight, hearing, and strength made it pretty simple to track them down and subdue them (she loved it when they ran); and she’d found out they were extra willing to comply with her demands when they were down a bit of blood. (It probably was connected to the whole your-sire-can-control-you thing but it didn’t last once they’d recovered from the blood loss and it kept her from murdering random ne'er-do-wells on the street; the lower a body count a vampire kept, the better.)

On a normal night, she’d be getting ready to catch another skip: either gussying up for a honeytrap, revving up her old Bug for a stakeout, or trying to track them down on Tinder while binging Netflix in the background (they kept up on technology...for the most part; she still wasn’t sure what a TikTok was). One thing a lot of the stories leave out is that it takes a long time to build up the kind of wealth and decadence you see with old vampires; even Emma’s parents still had to work, 40-odd years into this thing (David was an after-hours vet and Snow taught night school) and their townhouse was not rent-controlled. 

Of all the vampire media out there, their existence was far more What We Do In The Shadows than Twilight.

(Emma had always preferred comedy anyways.)

God, she was really getting sidetracked tonight. Anyways. No one was working because it was the anniversary of her being turned—her rebirthday, so to speak—and her mom was very much Leslie Knope when it came to anniversaries, but especially this one, given that it marked them finally coming together as a family.

That, and they were all going to get drunk.

“My class is a bunch of assholes this semester—I need this,” Snow had gushed earlier that week, grading papers behind their blackout curtains. (Vampires didn’t sparkle, thank god—at least, not without the help of glitter—but they were dangerously susceptible to sunburns, so the whole pale thing was accurate.) “And David—you’ve worked every weekend the last month; they can definitely operate without you for one night.”

“I put in for it a month ago, dear,” he tutted as he gathered the laundry, placing a kiss on her cheek as he went. 

They were definitely one of those nauseatingly cute couples, so it was a good thing Emma’s gag reflex was dormant. And, though she’d never admit it, she was a bit jealous that they’d been able to find—and keep—something that had evaded her her entire mortal life, and likely would for her afterlife, too.

Every now and then, a flash of blue eyes blinked into her vision; the same pair she’d seen on the night she transitioned. She still wasn’t sure they were real, and her parents genuinely knew nothing when she’d asked, so she never did again. The fact that she hadn’t ever seen them again, despite knowing just about all the vampires in this part of town (for better or worse), had her pretty convinced it was a mania-induced hallucination. But damn, was it a good one.

“Emma, are you ready?” Snow’s voice pulled Emma from her daydreams (nightdreams?). “It’s time to go,” she shouted—not loud enough to annoy the neighbors, but enough for Emma to hear.

“Coming,” she replied, then took one last glance at the night sky. Maybe there was something different in the stars? She didn’t know; she just had this feeling that something was going to change tonight. 

She brushed her hands down the skirt of her light pink dress; it wasn’t what she’d usually wear, but since this wasn’t her typical honey trap, she’d borrowed a dress from Snow. It was definitely sweeter than her taste, with its pastel color and A-line skirt, but just cut low enough to not be demure. Her high ponytail fell somewhere in between. Her fangs would probably take it in another direction, but it’s not like she was going to pose for photos—she only just showed up in those.

In a moment, she was back in the house, grabbing her purse and joining her parents (who equally straddled the line of sweet and seductive; it was a vampire thing). 

Out of nowhere, a flash of light blinded her. “Seriously?” she cursed, blinking away the temporary blindness, only to see her mother holding a Polaroid camera. That was the one thing that could document them; thank god the hipsters over in Greenwich Village had clung to them.

Snow just grinned and shook the picture while David lectured, “It’s not like we got to see you off to prom or anything.”

“Yeah, but are you going to do this every year?”

“Yes,” Snow stated matter-of-factly, smiling at the photo before setting it aside. “Now come on; there’s a bloody mary calling my name.”

“Where are we going?” 

“That new underground club at 43rd and 10th. Figured we should try it, and it should be trouble-free.”

‘Trouble’ meaning the Aurum coven. Emma still hadn’t figured out the reason for this centuries-long blood feud, but she did know that she’d been dragged in on the side of Coroza, under a woman named Cora; turns out Walsh had been one of her cronies. And it normally wouldn’t affect her, save for the fact that her parents were turned by someone in Aurum (led by the mysteriously mononymed Gold) and that had dangerous implications, not to mention the rising tensions between the two groups as they began to encroach on each other (and each other’s feeding grounds) on the Upper West Side. 

“You sure? That’s awfully close.” 43rd had become an arbitrary border between the two factions, and there had been more than a few skirmishes while people were on the prowl for a midnight snack. She’d had a couple close calls of her own while tracking down skips in the part of town, but had somehow managed to evade notice.

“It’s on our side of the street,” her mom shrugged in response and grabbed her purse.

(Why one side couldn’t just move to another part of town, Emma didn’t know, but she was definitely aware of how stubborn vampires could be. And she wasn’t going to move; there’s no way they’d be able to get a place like this anywhere else for a reasonable price.)

She’d hardly gotten out the door when a familiar scent caught her nose—and not necessarily a welcome one: Graham.

“Uh, hi, Emma,” he stammered, while giving her a shy yet adorable grin.

“Hey,” she answered back, not meeting his eyes—and instead finding Snow’s, who was intently studying the sky. Snow had been trying to get the two of them together for at least 10 years, and while Graham was a great guy, a good friend, and handsome to boot, Emma had never been attracted to him like that. A fact that seemed to keep falling silent on Snow’s ears despite her enhanced hearing. 

(His blue eyes were pretty, but they weren’t the pair that kept haunting her.)

Given the sudden awkwardness that settled over the group—because that was apparently something you had to deal with whether you were dead or alive—it was up to Emma to break it. Not that she had any skill in that department.

“Alright, uh, let’s go,” she said with little confidence, and set off towards the club, with the others falling in behind her; Graham stayed close and if she wasn’t mistaken, attempted to put an arm around her, but she walked a bit faster to avoid his reach. The bar was only a few blocks away, which they could normally cover in less than a minute, but they had decided to blend in with the crowd tonight; it was nice to be normal every now and then.

But still—every now and then, the hairs on the back of Emma’s neck rose, and it had nothing to do with Graham’s proximity. Something was coming; she just didn’t know what. 

That wasn’t for her to worry about tonight, though. Tonight was for fun and drinks and dancing. And once they got to the darkly-lit club, that’s what she focused on for the next hour or so—

—Until her gaze locked with the blue eyes from her dreams.

★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★

Killian took a deep breath as soon as he exited the jetway—and immediately regretted it. He didn’t know why he expected LaGuardia to have changed at all in the past 15 years. Despite all the reconstruction, it still smelled the same: of old coffee, questionable sushi, and stale humans. (The latter was a double-edged sword: despite eating shortly before he got to Heathrow, there had been a few delays before takeoff and he was feeling rather peckish now, although nothing here seemed appetizing. Which was probably something he had in common with mortals at the moment.)

He didn’t know why he’d assumed that he might have been routed through JFK this time—why would he think Gold would care enough to properly welcome home his best operative from abroad after 15 years?—but he tried to push that ire to the back of his mind as he summoned an Uber.

At least the delays meant he landed just as the sun was setting; his previous plan had been to hang around the terminal until dusk, so at least this prevented any awkward encounters with some overtalkative Midwesterner on their way back to Cleveland. Signs pointed him to the ride share lot, and a gentleman named Marco was waiting to take him home.

On the ride into the city, he marveled at how New York always seemed like a living, breathing thing, constantly evolving and changing. He could still sharply remember the dusty bustle of the town more than 200 years ago, the sound of carriages running over dirt and cobbled streets. He’d watched as the city grew, sprawling both across and beyond the Manhattan island and up into the sky, the smell of horses and people and sweat replaced by the acrid stench of exhaust (although, even his extra-sensitive nose had gotten used to it in short order). 

So it was both surprising and not to see how much the city had changed even in the last 15 years, most noticeably in the skyline: the Twin Towers were still fresh in everyone’s memory when he’d left, so to see the new One World Trade Center in their place was a bit jarring. But the sun still glinted golden off the skyscrapers the same way; pedestrians still hardly waited for the crossing signals to give the okay to go; and though he wasn’t in a yellow cab, a language barrier still lay between him and his driver. 

Cash tips were understandable to all, though, which Killian handed over once they’d arrived at his apartment building on 34th—the Chelsea side. He’d owned his flat since the building was constructed, which was fairly impressive, but did require him to occasionally change the name on the paperwork lest anyone notice anything suspicious. 

(Someone had figured out at some point that it was helpful to have an ally in both the Social Security office and the DMV; Archie and Jefferson traded off every 20 years or so in order to help create revolving identities for the members of the vampire community. The name on his ID at the moment was Kyle Johnson, and during the past 100 or so years since he’d been required to have one, he’d also been Killian James, Ian Joseph, and—though he had to admit, he’d picked this one just to see if he could get away with it—James Hook.)

And thankfully, he’d had a reliable roommate for the past 80 years. “Honey, I’m home,” he called out after braving the still-shaky lift to the top floor.

“About bloody time,” Robin called back from the couch. “You know I had dinner ready for you before you left?”

“Ha,” Killian answered. “I’d hate to see what that looks like after all this time.”

“Oh, I let him go. And good thing, too—he ended up writing Hamilton.”

Killian had barely poked his head into his musty bedroom before he returned to the living room. “You didn’t actually have Lin-Manuel Miranda in here, did you?” To most people’s surprise, Killian was a bit of a theater nerd; the West End was great, but he was looking forward to catching up on Broadway again. 

“No. But maybe that’s a good strategy if we want to get tickets.”

“I’ll keep it in mind.”

His stomach grumbled in agreement.

Robin chuckled. “There’s a bottle in the fridge you can have; figured you’d be hungry when you got back.”

Killian tossed his luggage in his room and emerged again. “Have I ever mentioned that I love you?”

“Maybe a few times over the past several decades.”

He downed the bottle quickly; the black blood market never gave the best stuff—considering the type of mortals who would be willing to sell their blood for money and didn’t qualify to sell plasma—but it hit the spot in a pinch, and every now and then had something good. This definitely wasn’t, but it sated his thirst long enough to take a shower and wash the airplane off of him.

As he stared at the fogged mirror with nothing looking back at him, rubbing his palm over his permanently well-trimmed scruff, he realized he hadn’t yet checked in with Gold. Even if he’d spent the last decade-plus doing the man’s bidding from abroad, it was still easy to forget about him.

Well, mostly—until he glanced back down at his blunted left wrist. Then it just brought ancient memories to the surface, as fresh as the day they’d happened, no matter how many centuries had intervened.

Which reminded him: he was still missing something. He shot off a quick missive to Gold as he pulled some clothes out of his depressingly dated closet (having left anything more modern in a consignment shop in London), managing to put together something vaguely timeless. But before he dressed, he turned his attention on the nightstand drawer.

He slowly pulled it open, though he knew what would be inside: his hook, as sturdy and sharp as ever, with its well-worn leather brace. Sure, he had a fairly modern prosthetic hand—one that TSA didn’t mind so much—but the hook had come first, and was definitely his preferred artificial appendage. He hadn’t meant to go so long without it, but then again, he hadn’t expected his London assignment to take so long. 

(Although, 15 years to him was roughly the same as 2 or 3 to the average mortal.)

Slipping on the soft leather was like greeting an old friend (well, another one, albeit he’d known this one longer than Robin). And snapping in the hook settled a part of him that he hadn’t realized had been adrift all these years. It didn’t fully still the odd sense of anticipation he’d had ever since he landed, but he definitely felt more at ease.

With that settled, he finished dressing and then headed back to the living room and flopped on the sofa next to Robin. “When did we get a new couch?” he asked indignantly, inspecting the unfamiliar upholstery.

“As soon as you left.”

“And what was so wrong with the previous one?”

“It was from the 70s! It was hideous and uncomfortable and you know it.”

Killian could only sigh; Robin was completely right. 

“Anyways,” Robin continued. “We’ve plenty of time to argue about furniture but very little to decide what we’re doing tonight.”

“Why? What’s tonight?”

“You arrive back in North America for the first time in a decade and a half and you think that’s not a reason to celebrate?”

“Well, I was in Toronto a few years ago.”

“Still the Commonwealth. Doesn’t count. What do you want to do? There are quite a few people anxious to see you.” 

Well that’s good for them, he thought, but he wasn’t so sure of the same. The time away in the UK had definitely made him reconsider some of his connections back here in the States; getting away from the drama with Coroza had made him realize how petty he found it all. Though he’d never be completely extricated given that Gold was his sire, he’d definitely be alright with staying distant from the other frivolous disputes.

(And after spending a bit too much time in Brighton—particularly with some headstones bearing the name Jones and some rather divy taverns that were still somehow open all these centuries later—he wished more than ever to be free of Gold’s influence. Alas.)

He supposed he could placate them for one night, though; it’s not like he was going to sleep anyway. “Are there any new clubs to check out?”

“For you—plenty. For all of us...aye, there’s one that’s just opened up about...10 blocks away? Ish?”

“In which direction?”

“Up, but kind of midtown so it should be in the clear.” Meaning no one from Coroza would be there.

“Sounds fine, then,” he replied; after so many years, every club started to feel the same, but he was willing to give it a shot.  

It wasn’t long before he found himself dressed in a waistcoat and slacks that were trendy a decade ago, hoping his hair was styled appropriately (he stopped caring about 130 years ago), and waiting outside the apartment building of Robin’s girlfriend Regina.

“Jones, it’s the 21st century; why do you still have a fish hook on the end of that arm?” she greeted when she emerged from the tower, with a young vampire behind her. 

“It’s nice to see you too, Regina,” he tossed back. They’d known each other for well over a couple hundred years and this was just how they communicated. Nodding at the young man, he continued, “Who’s this?”

“This is Henry; he’s new.” The statement was matter-of-fact enough that Killian knew she wouldn’t say anything else. But he seemed friendly, albeit nervous, and Gold never complained about new vampires on their side—just Coroza.

It didn't take much for him to immediately think of Emma. His thoughts had drifted to her more than he cared to admit over the past years, wondering if she’d acclimated or if she’d burned out. It was definitely odd that such a brief encounter had left such a lasting impression, but at the same time, it had taken him well over 250 years to get over his first love; he was a romantic at heart, even if that heart no longer beat. 

He of course said nothing about it as they continued on; if no one had discovered what he’d done that night by now, he was content to leave it that way. There were other ways of him finding out if she was still around, such as—

—Such as the green eyes staring at him from the other side of the club, barely a minute after he’d entered it, freezing him in place.

★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★

thanks for reading, friends! let me know if you want/don’t want a tag! @kat2609​ @xpumpkindumplingx​ @shipsxahoy​ @amortentia-on-the-rocks​ @mryddinwilt​ @cocohook38​ @annytecture​ @shireness-says​ @ohmightydevviepuu​ @profdanglaisstuff​ @wingedlioness​ @word-bug​ @distant-rose​ @wellhellotragic​ @welllpthisishappening​ @let-it-raines​ @pirateherokillian​ @bleebug​ @its-imperator-furiosa​ @fergus80​ @killianmesmalls​ @sherlockianwhovian​ @ineffablecolors​ @laschatzi​ @ive-always-been-a-pirate​ @nfbagelperson​ @stubblesandwich​​ @lenfaz​ @phiralovesloki​ @athenascarlet​ @ilovemesomekillianjones​ @whimsicallyenchantedrose​ @snowbellewells​ @idristardis​ @scientificapricot​ @searchingwardrobes​ @donteattheappleshook​ @lfh1226-linda​

[eggymf-archived]

dearly beloved; masterlist

ft. garreth weasley with f!reader/mc (series)

themes: arranged marriage, 7th year, slytherin!reader, angst, fluff, slow burn, reader is mc, eventual romance, mutual pining, love triangle, friends with benefits

warning: nsfw, smut, toxic dynamics, mild gore, mild violence, not spoiler-free

summary: as the sole heiress of a pureblooded family who valued prestige and wealth above all, an arranged marriage was inevitable in order to preserve the family’s line of purity. much to your parents’ sheer annoyance, you’ve decided to make their jobs unnecessarily difficult by rejecting every single boy from their silly little list of potential suitors, ultimately leaving the last remaining option: garreth weasley.

main masterlist || AO3 || wattpad (will be published there once completed)

a/n: might be on hold for now due to my other ongoing fic. just comment if you want to be added to the taglist. (posting this in advance so that i don’t chuck it in the trash out of fear.)

erotomania: 

a/n: a short prequel of the story featuring f!reader/mc’s unsavory antics before her story with the ever lovable garreth weasley

part 1 - the art of persuasion (ominis gaunt x f!reader/mc) 🔞

part 2 - all’s fair in love and war (ominis gaunt x f!reader/mc) 🔞

part 3 - the elegy of us (sebastian sallow x f!reader/mc) 🔞

dearly beloved:

part 1 - tbd...

...

extras: 

a/n: one-shots, blurbs, writing practice, etc. 

no place like home (garreth weasley x f!reader/mc)

update [5/30/2023]: no tentative dates of when i’ll be releasing the main story just yet. i’m still focused on my other fics plus the part 2 of the backstory one-shots. :D

[the-insomniac-emporium]

Writing Commission Information + Terms of Service

Commission Guide:

A step by step process for commissioning me:

Read Rules/Guidelines: Check over the rest of this page, making sure to thoroughly read every section, especially the rules.

Fill out the Form Below: Once you’re done reading the rules, see the form at the bottom of the page. Fill out every section as described (and as applicable).

Send me the completed form: You can either use tumblr’s built in messenger, or email me at the.tyrant.bat@gmail.com. If emailing, please put “Commission” and the date in the subject box, otherwise I might not see it.

Wait for a response: I should respond to your message within 48 hours, assuming you followed the above instructions. If I don’t, double check that the message was sent properly, and that you put “Commission” in the subject line. If everything on your end looks good, consider sending me a message directly on tumblr and asking if I’ve seen your message. Chances are my computer was glitching on me and I need to restart it.

General Rules:

Be clear. Make sure to fill out the form, and mention anything you want included in the prompt section.

I accept Character x Character Prompts as well as Character x Reader and Character Study prompts. However, I will not write any ships involving underage characters or any involving incest (even pseudo).

NSFW/Smut is okay. I am willing to write most kinks, but you might want to check in with me on specific ones before filling out a form.

AUs are accepted as long as you are clear about what exactly the AU is. Again, I will not write underage characters, so High School AUs are out of the question, but College AUs are fine.

Prompts containing sensitive topics must be marked as such. If your prompt contains any potentially triggering content, such as depression, abuse, or self-harm, you must mention it both in the main prompt and in the “Warnings” section of the form. Even if it’s only a small mention of the sensitive topic, I need this warning. Failing to mark your prompt as sensitive/potentially triggering can lead to me denying your request outright, and repeat offenders can be blocked. Please keep in mind that I am a real person, with real feelings, who has had traumatic experiences in the past. While I am fine with writing these subjects, I need to mentally prepare myself before I can.

I will write dark/yandere content. Nothing is “too bloody” for me. The only thing I will not, under any circumstances, write is non consensual sex.

Fics will be posted on AO3 unless you specifically request otherwise. If you contact me via email, I will also email a copy of the fic to you, in addition to a link to the fic on AO3.

Pricing Guide:

One-Shots/Single Fics: $5 for 500 words, $1 for every additional 100 words. 500 words is the minimum, and anything over 4,000 words might be converted into a multi-chapter fic (which would likely save you money).

Multi-Chapter Fics: $20 for two (2) chapters, with a minimum of 1,200 words per chapter, and $10 per additional chapter. Two chapters minimum.

Alternative Payment Options: Fellow writers/artists can pay for some or all of their commission with an art trade, depending on how large of a commission it is. This is done on a case by case basis, and should be mentioned in your initial message.

Payment:

All payments will be made through Paypal

All payments will be made up front, once I have officially accepted the prompt and confirmed this with you.

I will not start working on your commission until I have received payment, this is to help prevent unsavory activities.

If you are choosing to pay partially with an art/writing trade, you will only need to pay the cash portion before I will start working. However, you will not receive the finished commission until I have received your end of the trade.

Full refunds can be requested up until the commission is completed. If your commission has already been finished and posted, I cannot guarantee a refund for the full amount. Instead, I will attempt to rewrite your request to your satisfaction (if that was the issue). If you are not happy with the rewritten piece, I will refund you for 80% of the commission.

If something changes, and you are no longer able to afford what you have commissioned, and I have not posted it yet, message me as soon as you know! I will cease working and do my best to get you your money back as soon as possible, but I will not be able to pay you for any extra charge made by Paypal itself. Partially written fics will be added to my "abandoned" list, where others can pay a reduced amount to see them finished. If you still intend to pay me, and simply need to postpone the payment, I am willing to set aside a commission for up to 6 months. After that time has passed I will assume you cannot pay and proceed as mentioned above.

Updates:

I will try to give you regular updates on the progress of your pieces, such as "50% done" or "rough draft finished, editing now".

For multiple chapter fics, I will send you each chapter as they are finished, so that you may give feedback and make alterations to the overall plot if you see fit.

If you don't hear from me for over two weeks, please send me an email or message on tumblr. I have a running list of all commissions, but sometimes things get mixed up, regardless of how hard I work to prevent these issues. In the event of a delay, expect to get bonus material as my way of apologizing!

Fandoms:

Overwatch: All characters, including non-playable ones.

Resident Evil: Only characters from Village

Fallout: Characters from 3, New Vegas, and 4, with some exceptions.

Mass Effect: Original trilogy only

Borderlands: All games, limited characters (on a case by case basis).

Far Cry 5: All guns for hire + Faith. Seed brothers are on a case by case basis.

Other: If you like my writing and want me to write about something not listed above, feel free to send me a message on tumblr and ask about it.

Commission Form:

Fandom: What game/fandom are you requesting for?

Pairing (If Applicable): Does your prompt include any ships/pairings?

Characters: What characters do you want to show up in the fic?

Warnings (If Applicable): Are you requesting any sensitive/potentially triggering content?

Type of Fic: Single fic or multi-chapter?

Word Count/Price: How long do you want the story to be? This will determine the price, as noted above in the price guide. If you aren’t sure about this part, feel free to send me a message for clarification.

Prompt: What do you want the fic/story to focus on?

Notes: Is there anything else you want me to know?

Example Form:

Here’s a filled out version of the commission form to use as an example:

Fandom: Overwatch

Pairing (If Applicable): Mercy x Reader

Characters: Mercy, Reader Insert

Warnings (If Applicable): N/A

Type of Fic: Single chapter/oneshot

Word Count/Price: 1,500 Words, $15

Prompt: Mercy comforting a reader who’s had a bad day. Just something warm and fluffy. Please and thank you!

Notes: Gender neutral reader, please.

[lifeinahole27]

CS ff: “Walking the Tightrope” (Chapter 1/10) (au)

Summary: Killian's daily routines are a matter of habit. When he wakes up late one morning, his routines all change for the better. Emma doesn't care about routines, but she does care about Killian, no matter how reluctant she is to admit it to herself. 

Rating: E (much later in the story)

Content Warnings: There will be a part where pictures are posted without permission. It happens much later in the fic but if that’s not your thing, I want to put it out there now. And, of course, sexual content will be present. I will update these warnings for each chapter to pinpoint those sections!

A Special Thank You: Oh man, how do I put my gratitude into words? There are two constants in my CS fic writing life that I am so incredibly lucky to have. Thank you @captainstudmuffin for just downright prodding me in the ass to keep me moving when I wanted to give up. You were always there in the right capacity to keep me going. You did that reverse psychology thing with me that I always do to you with “Well, if you want to give up, that’s your choice...” and it worked. And then there’s @phiralovesloki who has listened to me self-depreciate for hours on end and still keeps me moving forward. And then you both turned your attentions to helping me get this thing edited and proofread. You handled all my tantrums, all my fits, all my problems. I love you both to the moon and back. 

And of course, thank you to the @captainswanbigbang for going with this rewrite idea. All of you modding this and putting shit in line and answering questions and being awesome and informative and helpful... my eternal gratitude for helping get this, my possible magnum opus, finished and out to the fandom. Much love to you all!

A/N: I wrote a lot of notes above here to start. Because of that, I’ll keep this line brief. Enjoy!

Find it on Ao3 & FFN!

-x-

Chapter 1: The Art of Routines

September 30: Monday

Every day, Killian Jones walks from his respectable dwelling by the Storybrooke Harbor to where he works, located right off the main drag. Storybrooke is nearly the definition of small-town America, but it houses a quaint-sized office of a British publishing firm that opened a branch over here last year. Three months ago, Killian took a chance to upend his whole life and applied for a junior editing position.

From a life in the Navy to a redirection of passions towards the fine art of literature, Killian has used a rigorous set of routines to get through every major upheaval in his life, including but not limited to the aforementioned relocation from London to a small speck on the map.

He uses his daily habits from the moment his alarm sounds in the morning until he shuts his eyes at night – operating his life in a tidy way and controlling what he can control while doing his best to accept whatever tries to throw him off.

Because of his method to build up his regimens, he knows that anything that lasts beyond two weeks becomes more likely to stick.

And for six weeks, Emma Swan has been part of his routines. Monday through Friday they cross the street together. They never speak. Sometimes they’ll smile and nod in greeting, but it’s enough in Killian’s book. Or at least, they’ve come to some unspoken agreement that it’s enough. Since the middle of August, this has been his norm, and thus it is now just another thing that marks time throughout his days.

The only reason he knows her name is because of the star-shaped badge she wears on her hip. That and being the sister of the sheriff are dead-giveaways to an identity. He’d heard of Emma long before he saw her as Will Scarlet filled him in on the townies. She, on the other hand, probably doesn’t even know his name. But he’s okay with that. He’s not out to meet the love of his life – not after what he went through with his last major relationship – but to enjoy a walk across the street with an ease he doesn’t understand and doesn’t have to. 

Day after day, he continues on, never looking back to see if she’s still looking at him. He’s afraid of what he might find if he does: either she’s also glancing back and this immediately becomes something different, or she isn’t and he’s effectively found himself with some kind of rejection complex. Both ideas are ridiculous. At the mere thought, Killian snorts and picks up his pace. 

On October 1st, Killian discovers how easy it is to throw off the delicate balance of a routine as strong as his. The alarm never goes off, or if it does, Killian either doesn’t hear it or turns it off in his sleep. He wakes, instead, to the sound of his text messages going off in quick succession, followed by the phone ringing and Will’s chirpy voice alerting him as he answers that he’s going to be late. 

With that, his eyes shoot fully open and he throws himself into action, hoping to get out the door in record time. He skips the coffee and the shower, throwing on the clothes he set out last night and hoping his hair stays in place with the water he combs through it. He’s out the door fifteen minutes late. His boss, Robin, will hopefully understand - he’s one of the most easy-going people Killian has ever met. Will is going to take the piss out of him, but that’s no different from any other day. Killian knew it was a mistake to share his location with his friend but in this case, with Will able to see that he was still at home when he should already be making his journey, he wasn’t going to complain about it. 

Instead, what he’s most upset about is that he’s going to miss Deputy Swan standing at their corner. 

And he’s right: she’s not there when he gets to the intersection. He pushes the button and diligently waits until it turns before crossing, just as he always does. It’s when he gets a full view of the patio in front of Granny’s that his steps suddenly halt. There she is, checking her phone and sipping from a to-go cup, standing at the table closest to the entrance. She glances up and sees him on the other side of the small fence that surrounds the front of the patio, and her eyes go wide. 

Quickly, she jams her phone in her pocket and exits the patio with two cups in hand, heading towards the sheriff’s station and away from him until she stops just as suddenly. She turns around to where he’s still glued in spot, knowing that each extra minute is asking for more torture from Will, but she walks up to him and he wouldn’t move if a bus came careening down the sidewalk at him. 

“Hi. This might be weird but… nevermind. Forget it.” She turns again, but Killian hastens after her. 

“What seems to be the problem, love?”

She spins around to face him again, a perturbed look on her face. He doesn’t know if it’s at him or herself, though, so he waits for her response.

“I’m not…” The words trail off, but she redirects. “I thought you might need coffee. You’re always so punctual. Figured if you were running late, you didn’t have any. But that’s probably ridiculous and just…” she trails off again, turning to dump the to-go cup into the bin nearby but Killian lunges for it. 

“No no, wait!” He catches the cup just before it leaves her grip, smiling wide when he successfully rescues it. “Thank you, Deputy. I appreciate it.”

“Swan. Emma Swan.”

“Oh, I know,” he responds, surprised at the devilish tone to the words. The only time he flirts anymore is when he’s two pints in at The Rabbit Hole on a rare night out with Will, and even then it’s with no intent behind it. His watch buzzes and Killian glances down to see Will is calling him again. When he sees the time, he can understand why. “Bloody hell. I’m incredibly late,” he says quickly, moving to continue his journey to the office and forgetting all his manners. 

“Is there something else I can call you, Incredibly Late?”

“Killian Jones!” he calls out as he gets to the corner by the post office. He spins on his heels to turn back to her, lifting the coffee again in thanks.

There’s an odd little smile on her face when he says it, but he’s still moving and has no time to wonder what it’s all about. “See you tomorrow, Jones!” 

Her words follow him around the corner and he grins as he picks up the pace to the office.

He’s amazed at how quickly his day turns around after officially meeting Emma Swan. Robin isn’t even mad when he shows up late, just happy that he’s finally sitting in front of his computer working on the endless edits he’s been helping with for a new book by an established writer. One that has terrible punctuation skills, apparently. And spelling. And grammar.

It’s barely been a half hour when he finds his thoughts drifting to the woman he only knows by name and reputation, and knows that somehow, his daily routines will never look quite the same. He wonders how much this little interaction means to her, too, if she looked so out of sorts when he was late today. And startlingly, he realizes that it did turn into something.

Running a hand over his face, Killian looks back at the page he’s supposed to be proofreading. He’s read the same sentence at least three times and still can’t figure out why it doesn’t feel right. It’s too early in the day to shut his office door and start reading everything out loud, however, so instead he saves his changes and closes the file, opening up a rain app on his phone and letting the sound soothe him while he stands up and stretches. 

“If you’re playing the calming sounds, I feel like you’re ready for more coffee,” Will says from his doorway. 

“You’re probably right,” Killian says, finishing his current stretch and turning off the app. “Shall we?”

“Ask Robin what he wants. Your treat since you were so late this morning,” his friend adds as he turns from the doorway. 

Killian makes a noise of aggravation, but still walks the short length to Robin’s office to inquire. 

Robin is locked in his own work, looking back and forth between three cover mockups that Will’s department would’ve sent over when they were ready. He glances up when Killian enters but only barely. “Coffee run?” the other man asks as he nudges each design around. 

This, too, is like clockwork in his life, which is why Robin already knows why he’s standing in his doorway. “Aye. Would you like me to bring back the usual or will you need something stronger today?”

“The usual is fine. Else I’ll be tempted to add liquor to it and no one at the home office will appreciate what I think of their last company email.”

“I have that whole rant recorded. You’d better make sure I don’t have anything stronger today or else they’ll get it verbatim.”

“Remind me to have you killed later this week after that chapter is edited.”

“I’ll pass it on to your secretary to be added to your calendar,” Killian mentions offhandedly while he leaves Robin’s office. This isn’t the first time Robin has scheduled to kill him for information he has on his superior. Killian’s sure it won’t be the last, either. 

As he leaves, Killian catches sight of the pictures on the wall. There’s a few scattered around his office, mostly of Robin’s adorable son Roland and his late wife. Marian passed just after Roland was born, making Robin’s decision to head up the American branch of NeverEndings Publishing House an easy one. The reason he’s stayed so long is also evident in the pictures of Regina Mills, the mayor of Storybrooke, scattered among the others. Regina was his “diamond in the rough” - the woman he never expected to meet and fall in love with shortly after he set up shop here. 

Along with pictures, there are paintings and his degrees, an antique wall clock that matches everything else, and a vintage bow and arrow hung behind the mahogany desk he nearly lives in some days. The whole thing feels like the den of some expensive cabin in the woods, but Killian knows for a fact that Robin put most of this together on the cheap. 

He passes his own little office again, noting the blank walls, the tidy desk, the single chair on the opposite side for small one-on-one meetings. He’s never really gotten around to decorating his work area. His degrees are still in one of the boxes in his flat, as are all the pictures of his friends and family from back home. 

There’s a single frame on his desk - just a picture of him and Liam at graduation that was packed into his luggage when he moved. Liam is beaming with pride while Killian looks like he’s about to bolt from the courtyard they had all gathered in after the ceremony. His left arm is tucked close by his side, and he knows for a fact it’s because he was trying to hide the prosthetic hook he wears from being in the pictures.

“So, why were you late today?” Will asks when they reach the doors and head outside.

“Alarm malfunctions,” Killian responds, as if there could be something besides human error to blame. Will just nods as they make the short trek down the street to Granny’s. Foolishly, Killian hopes to find his favorite deputy out patrolling or stopping for her own midday caffeine, but the only blonde in the diner is Ashley, the attentive but clumsy young server. 

Well, the only blonde woman. Dr. Whale, trying his best to flirt with Ruby, doesn’t count. 

“Have you heard anything I’ve said in the last three minutes?” Will asks, a touch of exasperation in his voice but humor lighting up his eyes. Instead of answering, Killian just pushes him forward to place his order. He pulls Killian up next to him and presents him to Ruby. “Tell Jones here that he has to come out with us on Friday.”

“The only thing I have to tell Jones is to place his damn order,” Ruby responds, her expression challenging Will in the way that only Ruby can. She looks back to Killian with a sweet smile. “You paying for all three?” He nods as he hands over the cash. Ruby winks at him, processing the change and handing it back before spinning from the register to make their drinks.

“Come on, mate. Come out this Friday.”

“I still have things I’m trying to unpack.”

“You’ve been saying you were going to unpack those things for the last three months.” He throws air quotes when he says “things” as if they’re fictitious items Killian invented for the sake of an excuse. He almost invites Will over to see what he’s talking about but feels like that would somehow turn into a standing invitation for his colleague to come over whenever he pleases.

“Yeah? And now I might mean it,” Killian retorts instead. Ruby places their drinks down on the counter before Will can press any further, and Killian spends an extra moment thanking the younger Lucas for exceptional service, as always.

“Kiss ass,” Ruby says as they gather their drinks and leave. There’s a smile on her face, though, and Killian knows that her days would be infinitely less exciting without him and Will pestering her at least once an afternoon. 

When they get back, Will takes Robin his coffee without having to be asked, which Killian is grateful for. But he’s barely seated in front of his computer again before Will is popping back up in his doorway.

“You’ve been summoned to the dungeons, mate.”

Killian drops his head for a second, trying to gather the energy to just… get up and go see if suddenly his benevolent boss has had a change in heart regarding his tardiness this morning. But Robin just waves him in and motions for him to sit down. 

“As you know, we originally hired you to be a junior editor to collaborate on projects.”

“Aye, that was the explanation I was given when I interviewed.”

“Well, we’ve gotten a new project that I’d like to see you take on. This isn’t quite a promotion, but it’s a test to see if I can trust you with something bigger than just standard edits to a pompous arse that doesn’t know his p’s from his q’s… literally.”

“I’m definitely interested. What is this project?”

“A young author has written a novella that twists fairy tales. It’s short but it’s deep, and I want your best on proofreading, but also on suggesting edits. He’ll be in to discuss the project at the end of this month, so keep working on your current progress until then. I’ll send all the files your way this weekend so you can start reviewing them whenever you’d like. Sound good?”

“Sounds excellent,” Killian says, genuine enthusiasm coloring his answer. “I look forward to it.”

Another disruption to the orderly life he’s been living, but honestly, this is almost as good as meeting Emma Swan. At least this feels like his disastrous start to October is no indication on how the rest of the month will go. 

-x- October 2: Wednesday

The next morning, Killian is back to his impeccable schedule, so he’s calm and collected when he strolls up to the crosswalk. Only minutes later, Emma walks up, eyes trained on her phone, earbuds playing music that she nods her head in time with. He takes a moment before she notices him to appreciate the view, to take in the dark jeans she likes to wear instead of a uniform, with black boots up to her knees. Her red leather jacket is half-zipped. Soon the weather is going to grow colder and he wonders if she’ll be warm enough on her walks.

She looks up, then, and smiles at Killian while he raises a hand in greeting. She hesitantly waves back, moving to stand next to him while they wait. 

“Good morning, Swan,” he greets just as the light changes and they start to cross. Her response is mumbled as she pulls the earbud from one ear.

“Have a good day, Jones,” she says, dipping her head as a parting gesture. There’s a smile pulling at his cheeks, and he turns to look at where he’s going instead of risking the possibility of running into something and ruining his mood.

For the rest of the week, they get to the crosswalk and he greets her. They part ways at the diner with her sending salutations before she walks up the path. In a way, it becomes a new routine for them. It’s one of the only changes to his days that he’s accepted as a normal progression instead of an uninvited intrusion.

On Friday, hours after his daily dose of Emma, he’s in the middle of the last chapter he has to edit when Will pops into his doorway in the afternoon. He goes to save the files and start the coffee routine, but Will enters the room fully and places two coffees and a bag with lunch on the corner of his desk.

“I hear you’ve got a bigger project coming up. Figured I’d be a good mate for once and encourage hard work instead of mucking around like we usually do on Fridays.”

The times that Will has been genuinely kind to him are definitely countable on his hand, so he’s almost afraid to ask if there’s a “but” included somewhere in there. However, Will just gives him a cheeky grin and heads right back out the door. 

When he’s made the final change and checked over the whole chapter again, it’s beyond the time that he normally leaves, even when he stays late. His eyes are burning and his stomach is growling again, but there’s a sense of victory when he sends the files back to Robin and shuts down his office for the weekend. 

He’s surprised to find Will on the couch in the reception area, asleep by the looks of it, and Killian is this tempted to leave him there because he knows exactly why his friend is still there. But the man brought him lunch and still owes him a beer for repayment of some good deed or another, so he knocks into one of Will’s shoes and snorts as he startles awake. 

“Come on, then. Sorry to have kept you waiting.”

“Damn right, you are.” Will’s response is groggy and expected.

Killian makes sure the building is locked up tight before they walk the few blocks over to The Rabbit Hole. He’d rather be in bed, or watching whatever his neglected Netflix queue has in store for him. While Will obviously went home and changed into something more casual, Killian is still stuck in his suit from work. It’ll have to do.

One drink, that’s all he’s promised, and then he’s going home to get the sleep he deserves and return to his normal order of events.

They’re barely through the door when he realizes his plan is going straight into the bin. There, in all her blonde glory, is Emma Swan. She’s parked near the end of the bar waiting for Jefferson to take her order. As he moves towards her, he hears Will greeting other acquaintances, but he’s too focused on getting to interact with Emma outside of their usual crosswalk that he doesn’t veer off course. 

“Fancy meeting you here, Swan,” he greets as he props up next to her. 

She jumps a little, clearly not expecting him to be there beside her, but regains her speech far easier than he would’ve if the situation were reversed.

“I’m sorry, you’re that figment of my imagination that only lives on Main Street. What are you doing here?”

He chuckles at her description of him and rubs behind his ear in a nervous gesture. Two more sentences and this will officially be the longest he’s ever spoken with Emma, and he’s enjoying it far more than he should.

“Out for a drink with my mate Will to celebrate a project ending.”

“Scarlet? See, I always thought you had better taste than that,” she says, a smirk on her face and her eyes shifting over Killian’s shoulder to where Will must’ve come up behind him. 

“Oy, just because I’m romancing your friend doesn’t mean you have to insult me.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s exactly what it means,” Emma responds to him, but there’s lightness and sarcasm in the whole exchange. 

“Romancing? You mean you finally worked up the nerve to tell Belle you fancy her?”

“Like three weeks ago, mate. This is why I tell you to come out more often.” Will claps Killian on the shoulder with those words, accepting the beer that Jefferson deposits on the bar for him, and walking back to the large gathering of people in the middle of the room that Killian is just realizing are mostly people he knows.

“Not one for socializing very often?” Emma asks, following his line of sight and waving to her brother at the table. Killian swallows a little harder when David sizes him up, eyes scrutinizing the whole time. 

“Not as much as I used to. Will and I usually make our ventures out earlier in the evening and in the middle of the week when we do.”

“So is it the expat club or something? You and Will, Robin, Belle. I think Tink stops in and drinks with them every couple weeks or so, too.”

“Will and I work at NeverEndings with Robin. The rest is all just coincidence.”

She hums in consideration, sipping slowly from her drink. “There’s room at the table. Wanna come join us, too?”

“That depends.”

“On?”

“Is your brother going to murder me for speaking to you for longer than three and a half minutes?”

She glances back at David, who turns back to the group suddenly, clearly pretending he wasn’t watching them.

“Listen, he’s overprotective but he’s yet to kill anyone I had a conversation with. People I’ve dated, on the other hand…” she trails off, lifting her eyebrows to emphasize with a little shrug. 

He can’t help the laughter that erupts from him at that. She’s delightful. He could spend all his days having frivolous conversations with her and probably never grow tired of it.

“Come on, I promise he doesn’t bite unless you ask. Which is unfortunately more than I ever wanted to know but that’s what happens when you become best friends with your brother’s wife.”

“Thanks for sharing your pain with me. I hope it eases the burden of your knowledge,” he says low enough so only she can hear as he pulls out one of the remaining chairs for her. Her thank you is a quiet and pleased murmur, and he has to remind his heart to stop the constant drumroll so he can get through this evening with his dignity intact. He drops into the seat next to Emma and tries to bury the way his skin itches at the sudden change in his routine. 

A chorus of introductions goes around, with Emma giving names to random faces as she goes. He does know a majority of the people at the table, even if just by reputation. It’s nice to meet the kind schoolteacher that is David’s aforementioned wife, though he’s seen her in the library more than a handful of times since his arrival in town. 

“Everyone calls me Snow,” she explains after Emma calls her Mary Margaret. “Less syllables, more Disney Princess-ish.” When the topic shifts from greetings to the usual breakdown of everyone’s days, Killian seizes the moment no one is paying attention to them. 

“A Disney Princess that enjoys a little kink in the bedroom. Good to know,” Killian whispers in Emma’s ear, and her hushed laughter is music he wants to play again and again. 

When the conversation really starts flowing, he finds he’s less interested in drinking away his week and happier to engage with the people around the table. David still regards him with suspicion, but it probably helps that he doesn’t look like he’s trying to crawl into Emma’s knickers as the night continues on. He finished his singular beer ages ago but opts for water during his next trip up to the bar, along with food because Emma bursts out laughing when his stomach growls in the middle of her talking about a digital filing system they’re implementing. 

Emma nurses her one drink, and so he’s relieved to find her willingness to talk is due to genuine interest instead of alcohol’s influence. Of course, it may be because he’s supplying her in onion rings until she finally orders her own.

Their group slowly begins to break up, starting with the people who have someone home waiting on them. Then the couples start to leave, and Killian is pleasantly surprised when Emma all but shoves David out the door with Snow, insisting that she’s more than capable of taking care of herself. 

They talk of all things small: she tells him about working law enforcement in a small town, and he shares his experiences in Storybrooke since moving. She asks about his job and actually listens when he starts talking. 

“What’s this then?” Killian asks when Emma pushes up her sleeves. 

She looks down at it, scoffing a little. “A dumb symbol of youth and rebellion,” she replies. “I got it when I was sixteen because James and I got in an argument about how perfectly behaved I was.”

“James?”

“Oh, David has a twin brother. You know how people joke about having an evil twin? David actually has one.”

“Your family is delightful,” he comments, wanting to reach out and touch the heavy lines of the flower on her wrist. “Why this?”

“Buttercups are my favorite flower.” He’s learned so many new things about her so very quickly, but he files this information away in the event he has a chance to use it.

It’s when their whole group has officially departed that they realize the rest of the establishment is similarly abandoned, with only Jefferson wiping down bottles behind the bar. 

“Sorry about that, mate. Time for us to clear out?”

“I was gonna wait until I was done cleaning to see if you even noticed the place was empty,” Jefferson responds when Killian sets the last few glasses on the counter. Emma is behind him at the table still, gathering the smattering of bottles and the rest of the stuff to be washed. “Been a while since I’ve seen her talk that much to anyone she didn’t grow up with,” the other man remarks, nodding his head towards Emma. 

“My favorite bartender back home would probably say the same of me,” Killian admits, placing a few extra bills on the bar as a tip and wandering back over to help Emma get the last of the dishes from his late dinner and her ridiculously large pile of onion rings, of which she ate every last one.

“Thanks Jeff. Have a safe trip home,” Emma tells him as she hands him the items.

As they start walking, he expects anything but for Emma to fall back into casual conversation with him about the moving process he went through. He takes it in stride as they slowly amble down the street and back to their crosswalk. 

“I’m this way,” Emma says, indicating the direction she normally arrives from in the mornings. 

“I know,” Killian responds, his tone soft and content. “It was lovely getting to meet you, Emma.”

He holds out his hand, giving hers a firm shake. Once upon a time he was a lad who could court a woman without blinking an eye. It’s that thought that has him turning her hand and bringing it to his lips, eyeing her playfully from beneath his lashes as he looks up at her. This small gesture feels so foreign, but he likes the way she’s giving him a puzzled little smile.

“Goodnight, Swan.”

“See you Monday, Jones,” she almost whispers as he releases her hand. 

They head off in their separate directions, with Killian gently brushing his lips in wonder. 

Routines be damned, this is much better than a casual wave in the mornings.

-x-

Chapter 2

[opsecretsanta2019]

FAQs (mobile-friendly)

This is a mobile-friendly copy of the FAQs page for easy reference, accurate as of 24 October 2019. For the most updated version, please check the FAQs page in browser or on desktop.

FAQs below the cut! Mobile-friendly rules here.

Where is the application form?

It’s linked in the rules page. Please read the rules before applying, thanks!

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What is this?

It’s a one piece holiday gift exchange on tumblr!

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When are the deadlines?

15 Nov – Applications close. 22 Nov – Santas assigned. 27 Nov – Santas confirm assignments. 25 Dec to 31 Dec – Post the gifts! 5 Jan 2020 – Tell me if you didn’t get your gift. 9 Jan 2020 – Backup santas notified. 31 Jan 2020 – Backup santa gifts posted!

The close of each day is 11:59pm HKT (GMT + 8h). Please note that my timezone is ahead of most countries.

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How do I join?

To enter, you must read the rules and complete the application form linked on the rules page.

You must send in the application form before 15th NOVEMBER 2019 at 11:59pm HKT (GMT+8h).

If you apply, please commit to creating and giving a gift.

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What’s this password thing you have in the application? What password?

If you don’t know the password, please read the entire rules page carefully from top to bottom. For easy reference, here’s a link to the rules and the mobile-friendly rules.

Applications with an incorrect password will be rejected during santa/ giftee assignments, even if applicants received the response email.

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Oh no! I made a mistake in my application form/ I got the password wrong/ I left out something. What do I do?

You can edit your application anytime before applications close on 15 November 2019 (2359h HKT). You should have received a response email with the edit link.

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I made a typo on my password. Will I be rejected/ do I need to edit my application?

Nah, that’s fine, I’m willing to accept typos. Your application will get denied if the answer clearly shows that you don’t know the password.

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Who sees the information I put in my application?

The middle section with your preferences will be copy-pasted and sent word-for-word to your santa. Your santa will also get your tumblr URL/ username. If you addressed any comments to your santa in your miscellaneous comment section, I’ll pass those along too.

Only the mods will see your email and other details. For now, that’s only me (@codedredalert) and @narramin. Since the volume of work got overwhelming, I got her on board as a mod.

She’s a close friend I trust, and while I don’t think we’ll have anyone else joining us as a moderator, If you’re very concerned about other people finding out about your email address and other application details, maybe give this event a miss.

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What do I have to do when I post my gift?

Mention the name of your giftee in the post (like this: @url). Also mention @opsecretsanta2019 in the post.

Tag #opsecretsanta2019 and any appropriate compulsory warning tags (#n/sfw, #graphic violence, #major character death, #noncon or dubcon, #underage , #chose not to use warnings , #no warnings apply).

Consider writing a nice message to the giftee to go along with the gift, if you like. 

If it is Not Safe For Work, please put it in a read-more and tag it appropriately.

Send me a link to your post! I will be re-blogging all gifts under #finished gifts.

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How do you select Secret Santas?

I sort participants by naughty and nice into a SFW group and a NSFW group. After that, both groups are separately put through a random generator. Once giftees are drawn from the generator, I will manually check to make sure santas/ giftees share at least one mutual interest.

You should not be giving to the same person you’re receiving from.

What does it mean if I’m in the NSFW group?

If you choose NSFW, it means you are okay with making or receiving NSFW content AND are at least 21 years of age.

You do not have to create a NSFW gift if you don’t feel like it. You may or may not receive a NSFW gift.

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Can I make/ receive NSFW?

To potentially receive or send NSFW material, you must be 21 years or older when applications close on 15 November 2019 2359h.

If you make something NSFW for your giftee, please put it under a read more and tag it appropriately. If your NSFW gift is/ could be flagged, please post it on another site and provide a link in a tumblr post.

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Why must I be 21+ to receive/ give NSFW? I’m an adult in my country.

I don’t want drama/ legal issues about adults sending NSFW to minors. 21 is the highest age of majority as far as I’m aware, so that’s what I set it as to cover everyone. Sorry, kiddo.

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I’m not 21+ yet but I will be by the time applications close. Can I still say I’m 21+?

Happy early birthday, I hope you have a great time! Please go ahead and put yourself on the NSFW list if you want. I’ll take the cut-off for age limit at the point where applications close aka 15 November 2019 2359h HKT.

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What is considered NSFW?

NSFW components for the purposes of this event (loosely based on the R rating guidelines of the Motion Picture Association of America):

      (1) Violence: Canon-typical depictions of violence are generally SFW (eg. brawls, blood, stabbing). However, violence that is detailed, realistic, extreme or persistent would make a work NSFW.

       (2) Language/ Profanity / Swearing: Generally, swearing is SFW, but you’re encouraged to keep it mild. You have a maximum of one (1) singular “fuck” to give in a SFW work. Use it wisely. Excessive or extremely graphic swearing would make a work NSFW.

       (3) Drugs/ Substance Abuse:

       Canon-typical depiction of smoking is SFW (eg. chain smoking or smoking several cigarettes/cigars at once is SFW). However, smoking/ nicotine addiction that is detailed, realistic, extreme or persistent would make a work NSFW.

       Canon-typical drinking of large amounts of alcohol is SFW. However, alcoholism/ alcohol addiction that is detailed, realistic, extreme or persistent would make a work NSFW.

       Mention of drugs used in a medical context is SFW. Otherwise, any drug use or mention of drug use would make a work NSFW.

      (4) Nudity and sexual content:

       Nudity that is depicted visually (eg. art) is NSFW, regardless of whether it is sexual or not. Please post a censored/ partial preview of the art and link the full piece on another site. (Tumblr might flag it otherwise lol.)

       Non-visual nudity (eg. writing) is NSFW if it is sexually-oriented. Please ensure that it is under a read-more.

       All sexual content is NSFW regardless of medium.

       Hugs, kisses and cuddling are SFW.

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Can I opt to be in the NSFW list, but still say I don’t want to receive/ create a certain type of NSFW (eg. specifically not sexual content, or drug abuse)?

Yup! Generally, giving more information in your application is better. It’s good to be clear and upfront about your likes and dislikes. It helps me a lot in deciding if I need to re-roll when I double-check your random match. It helps your santa know what not to give you too.

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Is ____ pairing/ content/ gen allowed?

As long as they’re canon One Piece characters, yes. This event aims to be as inclusive as possible. Just make sure you tag appropriately.

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Are OCs/ self-insert/ Y/N fic allowed?

Sorry, nope. I’m sure you and your OCs are lovely, however, this is a One Piece event, so please only feature canon One Piece characters.

You CAN sneak in a little extra cameo if you really want. Eg. a random person in the background/ a random shopkeeper in your fic. But the focus must be on canon One Piece characters.

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I personally consider ____ content problematic. Will you allow it?

The compulsory warning tags (following those on Ao3) generally cover a wide range of potentially offensive content. Please be responsible for your own content regulation by blacklisting the necessary tags. I cannot be responsible for everyone’s content consumption.

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I’m personally triggered by _____. Can you tag it?

Your personal triggers will already be accounted for in the application form and the information sent to your santa. So, this shouldn’t be a problem for your gift. Also, there are the compulsory warning tags for you to blacklist if necessary.

If you think there is still a very high chance that other people’s gifts will have your trigger, send me an ask off-anon proposing (1) a feasible identification system and (2) a tag name. We’ll see if we can work something out.

I promise to hear you out. However, I will exercise my discretion as to whether it is feasible for me to impose your request on every post on this blog. If your request requires a moral judgment or a lot of work on my part, I am less likely to impose your request.

It’s not possible for me to please everyone. I’ve done my best to cover the generally-accepted warnings. Thanks in advance for your understanding.

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What kinds of gifts are allowed?

Anything digital as long as you personally created it for your giftee!

SUGGESTED minimum guidelines for different types of content are below (feel free to go above and beyond if your heart desires):

  –  Art – 1 artwork, sketches are okay as long as characters are recognisable

  – AMVs – 30 seconds. Please use only official art/ anime/ movies as your base.

  – Animations – 3 seconds, sketches are okay as long as characters are recognisable

  –  Animatics – 30 seconds, sketches are okay as long as characters are recognisable

  – Edits – 2 edits of good image quality. Please use only official art as your base.

  –  Fanfiction – 100 words (prose), 20 words (poetry)

  –  GIFsets – 2 gifs of good image quality. Please use only official art/ anime/ movies as your base.

  –  Music cover – 1 minute. Please cover only official One Piece songs/ motifs.

 –   Playlist –   10 songs. Please try to find out about your giftee’s music taste and cater to that if possible.

  –   Podfic/ audio reading –   You MUST get permission in writing from the fic author before making the recording. In your recording, you MUST clearly state the original author, the title of the original fic, and the website where the original fic can be found. In your post, you MUST give LINKED credit to both the original author AND the original fic.

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Do I need to meet a minimum for my gift?

There are suggested minimum guidelines for different types of content, but there are no strict minimums. The gift creation for this event is intended to be very achievable, stress-free, and accessible even to first-time creators.

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Do I have to follow a winter theme in the gift?

Nope. Anything goes! Just try to do something you think your giftee would like according to the information you were given.

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Can I send something in the mail?

Sorry, please don’t. This exchange is digital-only.

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Hey I'm a writer who uses Ao3. Is there an Ao3 collection for this event which I can add my gift to?

Yup, here’s the link to the opsecretsanta2019 Ao3 collection. Please feel free to add your fic(s) to the Ao3 collection during the posting period (aka 25 December 2019 to 31 December 2019). It would be good if you could drop me a message on tumblr when you do.

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I don’t know what an Ao3 collection is/ how to submit works to an Ao3 collection/ how to specify gift recipients etc?

Here are the Ao3 Collections FAQs.

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I’m not very good at art/ writing/ etc.

That’s okay! As long as you put your heart into it, you’re welcome aboard! 

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I want to join but I’m shy/ intimidated generally/ by my giftee/ by everyone’s expectations.

Hey, it’s alright, we’re all nakama in the same anime pirate boat here to enjoy some holiday time. Just try your best and have fun!

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I didn't receive my response email?

Ah, the automated emails have a daily limit, sorry. You can send me a message and I'll send you a copy manually. Thanks!

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When and how will I get my Secret Santa assignment?

On or before 22 November, I will contact you via your tumblr blog. Please keep your askbox/ submit box open between 14 November 2019 and 23 November 2019.

If I can’t reach you on tumblr, I will use the email you provide in the application.

If you applied on time, but did not receive a giftee assignment, please contact me.

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When should I send my gift to my Secret Santa?

Any time on or between 25 December 2019 and 31 December 2019.

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Can I let my giftee know who I am?

Only once you post your gift. In other words, yes but not earlier than 25 December 2019.

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Can I contact my giftee to clarify things about the gift?

Yes but you cannot reveal your identity before you post your gift (eg. use anon asks). If you can’t contact your giftee via tumblr, just do your best with the information you have.

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What if my giftee doesn’t have anon asks on/ doesn’t respond?

If you can’t contact your giftee anonymously via tumblr, just do your best with the information you have. Most people wrote detailed applications, so this should be workable.

If giftees are feeling up to it, consider keeping anon asks open for the duration of this event so santas can make clarifications if they need to. It might mean that the gift turns out more to your personal taste.

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Can the mods contact my giftee to ask things for me?

We’d love to but we can’t afford to take on the extra workload of being the go-between for everyone’s giftee questions.

You will get your giftee’s tumblr URL. Feel free to check out your giftee’s tumblr and see if they accept anon asks. Please respect their personal rules on interacting if you send asks.

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Oops! Something has come up and I can’t participate!

If you have to drop out, please do it before 15 November 2019 if possible. I want to make sure every participant receives a gift.

If you have to drop out after 15 November 2019, please send me an ask. I will assign backup santas.

Please note that if you drop out or are deemed to have dropped out, you may or may not receive any gift.

Please note that if you don’t confirm participation by 27 November 2019, you are deemed to have dropped out.

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Oh no, I missed the confirmation deadline (27 November 2019)! But I can confirm now though I’m late! Please please please will you still make sure I get a gift?

If you confirm late but before 15 December 2019, maybe, but at my discretion. If a replacement/ backup santa has already been assigned, likely no.

If you confirm on or after 15 December 2019, no. It’s up to luck whether you get one or not. May the odds be ever in your favour.

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I don’t use tumblr much/ my tumblr is dead, but I will be contactable and post on tumblr for this event. Is that okay?

Yup! As long as you communicate and post according to the timelines, it’s okay.

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How many mods are there?

Two. The older posts like this one use mostly “I”, since I started this event alone, but beacuse of the number of participants and the workload I got another person on board.

My art/ writing/ main is @codedredalert, and the second mod’s writing/ cursed/ main is @narramin.

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Have you, the mods, ever run an event like this before?

Nope. I, Red, have participated in maybe two. Take that as you will.

Suggestions and advice from experienced people are welcome! I may not be able to use/ implement them in this event, but the learning is appreciated.

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Are you, the mods, going to be participating as a giftee/ santa? I want a chance to get content from you/ give you things.

Awww thank you, that’s so sweet. Alas, I am just your humble mod. I’ll have my work cut out for me running the event and some major IRL things. Anyways, I'll be doing the matchups so I feel like I ought not to participate.

I’ll step in as a backup santa/ pinch hitter if necessary.

Since narramin leveled up from being a humble participant/ backup santa to moderator, she will be still participating, but due to her own request she won’t know her own santa. Needless to say, her santa will be randomised too. 

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Will you read/ comment on all the gift works?

I would like to, but I don’t want to make promises unless I’m sure I can keep them. I,,,,, will try.

Currently, I’m considering reblogging with functional tags first and slowly going through to add the fun comment tags later. I think I could make that work.

I would be in a better position to talk about this after applications close and the matchups and drop-outs are finalised. Thanks for your understanding.

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Is this event affiliated with _____?

Nope, it’s just us, alone, in this coffin-boat built from our own hubris.

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I don’t like your bad jokes and your weird western pirate talk. Can you stop?

Does Zoro have a sense of direction?

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The question I wanted to ask isn’t answered here?

Thank you so much for reading the questions before asking. Please feel free to send an ask to this blog or an email to opsecretsanta2019@gmail.com .

[mimiplaysgames]

Strength to Protect the Things That Matter (Ch. 25)

Pairing: Terra/Aqua Rating: T Word Count: 5,631

Summary: Terra has prayed for years for relief from having no one to talk to in the dark, except with the monster of a man who stole his life. One day, when two boys chase a lead, he gets his chance - less than a week - to set things right before he loses everything again.

AO3        FFnet

A/N: I had a flashback scene of Terra interacting with Ventus that was supposed to appear in Ch. 15, “Confession,” toward the end. It seemed like a footnote after the flashback with Aqua in that chapter, so I removed it. I then moved it to Ch. 17, “Vacation.” Terra was supposed to think about this scene right before he helps Sora stand up, finding out where Ventus has been all along. But it lengthened it too much (in a chapter that was so damn long anyway), that I moved it to the beginning of this chapter. And it stuck out like a sore thumb. So this scene will not appear in this specific fic at all and will have to find a place somewhere else, lmao! I can’t believe I am at this part now. It’s almost done! Also, I will be posting WIP updates on Mondays and Thursdays (with the occasional extra Saturday). I put up a dated schedule that you can access here.

Fall

“You have to admit,” Terra said as Aqua dipped two fingers into a small tin of black paint, “you’re having fun.”

Swirling them into the paint, Aqua attempted to muster some strength to keep herself from grinning. But she failed.

“When the Master said we needed to restore the natural balance by retrieving a living boy from the Land of the Dead,” she said, “I don’t think he ever expected us to be doing this.”

She finished painting his eyes, and moved on to his nose. 

The last time they made such a colorful mess together, they finger-painted goblins dancing on flowers, on a corner wall tucked away in the castle by the piano. Eraqus spared them the lecture and actually kept their mural all these years. 

The last time they touched this much, they were young, long before Terra had developed blood-pumping feelings at the feel of her skin, or from being so close to her. They used to play-fight and wrestle, before he avoided such activity with her nowadays.

Two months until their Mark of Mastery exam, they were now in the Land of the Dead, where she was tracing his nose cartilage. They were on a mission, but Terra admitted he was grateful it gave him the allowance to enjoy so much contact with her.

It turned out that the Land of the Dead had gorgeous streets full of light and vibrant color. It featured buildings for homes, festivals, art shows, museums, and anything designed for entertaining all types of personalities. It was like a tourist attraction, and it had everything a person looking for fun and adventure would expect. Except rain. It didn’t rain here. The dark belly under a bridge where they were hiding for now harbored no puddles.

The people here, of course, were all skeletons. It didn’t take much effort to find the boy, Miguel, the person of interest in a world he didn’t belong. Which brought another problem – Terra and Aqua, too, had warm skin and pulses.

Aqua was against Miguel’s wish to reconnect with one of his famous singing ancestors, believing it too much of a risk for his own life. (She was very sympathetic to his need to pursue music, for she, too, adored it.) When Miguel’s family members, who were his ticket back home, didn’t approve of his obsession, she believed that they could be reasoned with. 

Terra agreed with Miguel, believing that the boy had a right to follow his passion no matter what anyone said. He was aware that Miguel had a very limited time in this realm, which could be fatal, but they had enough time, and this created a similar dynamic to all the times Terra and Ventus tag-teamed against her. Essentially pushed into a corner, Aqua went ahead and agreed to do it their way.

The plan was to blend in. A dead friend of Miguel’s, Héctor, went off to find them some clothes large enough to hide their breathing bodies.

Aqua was painting a calavera on Terra’s face to make him look like a skeleton. She traced one finger to make lines across his lips. The paint felt goopy and thick, but her touch was brisk, graceful, yet determined. It was so like her to move this way, and he had to keep reminding himself to stay calm and not let his mind wander on the touch. There were definitely some things he’d like her to do with his lips, and tracing them was not a typical thing best friends did together, right?

Neither was touching the neck this much, but she had to give the illusion that he didn’t have flesh anymore. She was careful enough not to push onto his laryngeal prominence, at the very least. But no care could be given to ease how he was feeling anyway.

Terra, if anything, felt immensely grateful when Miguel, who already had his calavera finished and was wearing a red hoodie to hide the rest, arrived to check up on her progress. An empty, cool feeling lingered on his collarbone as she finished her work.

Miguel burst into a fit of laughter. “I think you would even scare away la parca… the Grim Reaper.”

“What?” He picked up a cracked and foggy mirror laying on the ground next to him. 

Aqua had traced and covered his brows with black paint when she hollowed out his eyes. What looked back at him was a very angry skeleton, where the black color gave the impression that his eyes were even darker.

“What gives? You made me look so scary,” Terra told her.

She covered her mouth with her wrist as she giggled, careful not to mess her bare face up. “I’m sorry, I was trying to trace your face to make it look natural,” she said. 

When Terra attempted to swipe the tin can away, she evaded – which was usual. Ten years growing up and sparring together, she became a master at dodging him.

“I’ll fix it, I’ll fix it,” she said, swatting his hand away.

“You can add loops and dots.” Miguel traced his finger in the air as an example. “Or maybe something cute to trick the children,” he said with an impish grin.

She dipped her finger into the tin again and quickly went over some lines on his cheekbones and forehead. The mirror showed that she drew some loops around his imagined eye sockets, and a heart right above the bridge of his nose. His chest skipped a beat, careful not to read too much into why she picked a heart for him. But it didn’t make him look any sweeter.

“Now I look like the Evil Lord of Love,” Terra said.

She snorted and Miguel held his stomach, out of breath from his laughter.

“It’s the best I can do,” she said. It was most likely far from the truth. She was probably way too entertained to fix it for real. “My turn now.” She pushed her hair off her face and handed the tin over to Terra.

Ten years growing up and sparring together didn’t prepare Terra for this, but he became a master at hiding his emotions anyway. Each time he traced a brow or a cheekbone in black, or rubbed white onto her cheeks, he consciously breathed out of his nose. It made him look more relaxed and focused that way.

Which proved to be difficult when he finished painting her eyelids. She opened them, and the darkness gave just enough contrast to make her bright, beautiful eyes pop. They might as well be jewels. He wasn’t even aware he was staring until she asked him if something didn’t look right.

Calm and collected, his voice was smooth enough that there wasn’t an ounce of shake to it. “I was checking to see if everything was even,” he said simply.

He was aware of his posture, careful not to lean into her. Even though he really wanted to, especially when tracing her lips. Soft and supple, he had often wanted to feel them. Once wasn’t enough either. Each time he dipped his finger back into the paint was another chance at learning what her lips were like. 

He made sure to give her the same amount of care when tracing her neck too. Looking at her head lean back that way, tracing her chin, and coloring down to her crevice – it was better, as painful as it was, to finish the job than to let it drag.

It hurt enough to make Terra almost consider asking Eraqus to assign them on missions separately. Almost. There was too much enjoyment thrown into the mix as well.

The wave of relief that came when he finally closed the tin can was like being salvaged from hunger. Aqua looked into the mirror and approved of his work. Terra even gave her some doodles of small, simple flowers on her temples. Now she looked like everyone else in this world.

A skeleton soon approached them, wearing a straw hat and clothes that were so worn down they had rips and holes. Illuminated from the decorative lights of the streets, Héctor carried a couple of pieces of garments with hoods that he collected for them.

He handed Terra a bomber jacket, to hide the machismo, and stared at Aqua’s artistry on his face. “You trying to romance a demon?” he asked.

“Don’t ask,” Terra said, quickly putting on the jacket, wanting very much to keep any attention away from himself.

“And for the lady,” Héctor said, “a large cloak to hide all the... well, todo eso. Everything.” He made gestures as if to suggest curvature.

The cloak was such a dark brown that it almost seemed black. It was meant for a very tall person: it hung loosely off her shoulders, and dragged onto the floor with the sleeves draping off her fingers.

“I look ridiculous,” she said.

It was Terra’s instinct to cover her mouth for politeness’ sake, but then he’d have to trace her lips again with paint. Truthfully, she looked adorable - though he’d never say it out loud, or she would slap him with excess sleeve.

“It’s more important we blend in,” Terra said.

“Tiene razón. He has reason,” Héctor said. He glanced back and forth between Terra and Aqua, judging them. “Bueno…” he said in a way to suggest that he had no choice but to work with what he got, “You do both look like Fulano y Fulana de Tal.”

Terra’s head shook ever so slightly as his eyes narrowed. “What?”

Miguel dug his hands into his pockets. “He called you some dudes that came from nowhere.”

“Well, if it works…” Aqua mumbled to herself, following the others as they emerged from under the bridge. Her sleeves flopped back and forth as she walked.

The Land of the Dead kept a record of time. The buildings were so tall they were like skyscrapers, with each ascension more modern than the foundation it leaned on. It was as if they kept building on top of old structures, with the bottom floors a remnant of some ancient past. The music and the fireworks, all prepared to celebrate Día de los Muertos, told Terra that death was just a passage to something more exciting beyond what life could give.

It was comforting to know that whenever it was time for Master Eraqus to go, it wouldn’t be a place of suffering (or even boredom). But the separation still had to leave a scar to those left behind, right?

The people here were enjoying themselves, yes. Probably waiting for their own loved ones to join them and make the experience even better.

Héctor led them to the slums. Huts, boats, and wood houses gathered at the harbor down below the city, where the forgotten spirits dwelled. A neighborhood for those who didn’t have their photos propped up on their families’ ofrenda, a shrine where the living honor and remember their deceased relatives. These spirits therefore found family with each other.

The goal was to get Miguel a guitar. The nearby festival was set up in honor of Miguel’s relative, and he needed a musical instrument to enter the competition - and actually get a chance to meet.

The guitar was kept by Chicharrón, a friend of Héctor’s who lived in a wooden house at the end of the dock. He had to have been a hoarder, considering the stacks of random junk inside. Everything looked discarded, as if he was too exhausted to keep it all organized. As if he was the kind of person to desperately find something to hold onto through objects. Only the moonlight illuminated the entirely of the hut, as if he shunned away the joy and bright lights that paraded outside. It reflected on him as well – the bone on his skull and knuckles look sanded down, as if he wasn’t well-preserved.

Chicharrón, lying in a hammock buried under a pile of even more random trinkets, scowled when he took one look at Terra’s face. “Héctor, who gave you the right to bring el diablo here?”

“Even I don’t have the skill to convince the devil to do anything. He came on his own, acere,” Héctor said, as if addressing a friend. 

They both argued over the guitar, and agreed that Miguel could use it under one specific condition: that Héctor would sing a song. His friend wanted to savor some enjoyment left, because the guitar was the last thing that was able to give him just that.

And so Héctor sang. A folk song about a woman everyone knew named Juanita. It sounded like a beautiful love song at first. Miguel sat on his knees, in awe of the talent. Aqua had her hand to her chest, her eyes watering over the sweetness of the composition. Juanita was someone whose teeth stuck out, and a chin that caved inward. She wore her hair like shrubbery, and walked funny.

But the songwriter believed himself so ugly that she wouldn’t have considered him a proper suitor.

Terra had expected the song to end sarcastically, but the revelation of such adoration left a hard lump in his throat. What would it have taken for Aqua to give him a chance like that?

The song ended. Chicharrón, satisfied and making peace with whatever was in his mind, disintegrated into dust, the wind carrying away his remnants. He left behind a mess of all he thought was important, now discarded and unaccounted for, alone on that hammock.

It was the Second Death, a process for all whose living family members have forgotten they existed. He didn’t have anyone left in the Land of the Living who cared for him.

It wasn’t gory or terrifying. If anything, it was a pretty sight, but it was the most gruesome thing Terra ever witnessed.

The only source illuminating the clown and the streets around them is the moonlight. Kefka takes one step forward, and Terra prepares a lunge forward, aiming for the knees. 

But there is a swish, and a sphere of a gravitational contortion to push the beast back. The young version of Xehanort jumps from the roof he has been patiently waiting on, throwing all of his magical strength onto Kefka with that glowing, teal Keyblade of his.

Terra takes this opportunity to sprint towards the end of the block, where the hospital meets an alleyway, and places the duffel bag of elixirs into a nook. Away from the battlefield. Safe. Hopefully. 

Garnet follows close by, and he expects that it will be this way – he will fight, and she will mend his injuries from behind. They just need to survive ten minutes. Leave too soon and Kefka will follow them back to the others.

Xehanort lands near them, resting his Keyblade on his shoulder as Kefka stands back up. “Of all the people you lug around after our warning,” he says, “you follow the one target that pits you in such danger. It’s reckless.”

Terra is about to bark that he will not tolerate any word from Xehanort’s mouth, but there is the clown to mind. Xehanort doesn’t give Terra any chance to say anything, quickly turning his attention on the Heartless.

Xehanort’s powers of teleportation aid him in evading each and every attack, at no cost to his energy. His magic is explosive, and he takes any opportunity to hit at Kefka’s ankles and knees in order to bring it down. Kefka’s body is, of course, sturdy like diamonds.

Terra doesn’t want to ally with him. If anything, Xehanort is just as much as a threat. If he doesn’t stay focused, he might lose his body again. And he can’t afford it. Not tonight. Not ever. Not until Aqua is free can he relax and let go. Not until Garnet is safe.

He swings Ends of the Earth to let out a shockwave of light that sears the cobblestones of the streets. He follows it with a swipe of the old man’s nameless Keyblade, letting out a blow of darkness that doubles the force, ravaging all in its path. It’s certainly an aid to all of Xehanort’s acrobatics. The bastard proves himself a worthy front man to be thrown at risk, so that Terra doesn’t have to put himself or Garnet in the direct line of danger. 

But he’s too good to dispose himself.

And yet Terra is not giving out his full effort. Use the darkness, damn it, but not too much. He can’t lose control. The old man will use it to wrest his body back.

Already, there is a headache forming.

He must be stumbling too much, because Garnet seems to keep getting the impression that he is injured. He feels her healing magic envelope around him, and it takes away the hair-pulling headache. So he continues this pattern. Throw light and darkness, dodge, get tired and stumble from the pain, have her heal him. Continue.

Kefka changes its pattern to dance, creating random explosions throughout the area in an attempt to hit Xehanort. Debris crumbles, shaking the ground and tripping Garnet. It’s like an instinct, and Terra forgets he has two enemies near him, shielding her until the explosions stop.

“The bombs won’t ignite!” she says as she looks up at him. “I must have wired them incorrectly.”

She has a remote in her hand. The electric bombs planted in the office building across the street are still. Unless they can get Kefka to ram into them, they will stay silent.

She yelps. The reason why, he sees approaching them. Heartless waggle in patterns as if they can’t tell what they are aiming for. Maybe the potion still has some effect, and the Heartless cannot target them specifically. But it’s still a huge problem.

It takes too much thinking and concentration during such a heated moment to tap into Xemnas’ powers, but he tries anyway. The smaller debris floats up and above the ground, and with a wave of both Keyblades, he sends them flying to smack the various types of monstrosities that are invading the battle space.

“Terra, I need your aid!”

The voice is from behind. Xehanort blocks attacks from Kefka’s six poisonous swords. 

Pfft. Let him die. Let him suffer the way Rydia is.

... But then if he’s not there, Kefka would go after them.

Terra focuses his mind on larger masses of plaster, glass, and brick that used to be part of the hospital. They are harder to move, and sweat drops trickle down his forehead. He points his Keyblades at them, as though they are wands to help him take control. They float higher, and with huge swings toward the direction of the clown, he manages to hurl them. Kefka falls back. 

But not far enough to hit the office building, where the bombs lay waiting. Terra has managed to hit it in the face. The clown will soon come for him later.

Xehanort flashes him a look of disbelief, disgust emanating from his round eyes. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Terra, they’re surrounding us!” he hears Garnet yelling from behind. Heartless continue to come in droves.

Fight. Or protect. Dammit, why can’t I have both?

It’s like a stupor that stops him from doing anything as he thinks about his next move. A Heartless lunges at her. 

As though his body is responding, a straight wall of bright, electric energy erects in front of the princess. The monster gets shocked by this aggressive barrier, and it all disappears.

It doesn’t hurt. It’s like the fireball he made appear out of nothing. This has to be Xemnas’ powers.

“Stay close to me!” Terra says.

She stands back-to-back with him, and he waves his arms one by one, a Keyblade in each hand, in swift movements that gesture from the ground toward the sky. He visualizes this new kind of barrier forming as fast as a lightning bolt, and it follows. Against any direction where a Heartless is wandering too close.

To be so effective at protecting, while attacking at the same time... It’s like cheating, and it’s great. If only it is more intuitive so that he can do it faster. If only he doesn’t have to think about it, so he wouldn’t get so tired.

Kefka charges toward him. It prepares a force of energy and sends a fistful of it. Terra prays that the barrier will stick around this time. Kefka’s hand meets his wall, electricity sparking to and fro that Terra feels the pain of it in his forearms, as he wills it keep standing.

Something, some kind of energy flickers throughout his skin and reverberates his entire body. Silence.

Everything around him is frozen in time. There is Kefka’s screwed mask for a face, its glowing yellow eyes staring down on him, its smile glued. His barrier is still there, the electricity coming out of it, but it’s stuck in some never-ending moment. The Heartless stuck in postures, as if they are living photographs. Garnet behind him, also immobilized, holding her shortstaff close to her chest, meeting eye-to-eye with some tall shadow that stares back at her.

He has never seen time magic this effective and this far-reaching.

Xehanort pants, adjusting his black cloak. “Why do you insist on holding yourself back when you have all this power at your disposal?” he asks as he approaches.

This can’t be the time when Terra loses, all alone in a timeless space with the one man who will take away everything. He can’t touch Garnet without potentially harming her, the velocity of his movement too fast in relation to the paralyzed state she’s in.

“Unfreeze her,” he commands.

“I was under the impression you wanted to have control over your own body,” Xehanort says, wiping dirt off a sleeve.

“Unfreeze her, now.”

“So the puppet is finally given the chance at controlling the strings that once possessed him, but he hasn’t the courage to take advantage of it?”

“I’d rather cut them.” He stares hard at Xehanort. Perhaps this is foolish, considering that he doesn’t know how long the spell will last. If Kefka unfreezes now, it’s all over anyway. But if he takes his eyes off Xehanort…

Xehanort smirks. “That still assumes you are in control. You won’t be able to have it if my older self is still the puppeteer. You want to rely on powers of nothingness, which you have little understanding of, when darkness will give you all the endless possibilities for power you seek.”

This hits too close to home, darkness tied to all of his limbs. Loss of control and he’s a doll for someone else’s benefit again.

Furthermore, he wishes Xehanort would stop talking to him like he’s stupid. To use darkness too much is the one thing that will make him fall. He grips both Keyblades. Perhaps he has an advantage since he has one more weapon. “It’s just hatred and rage, and I don’t need it.”

Xehanort widens his eyes. “Is that what you think it is? How infantile.” His eyes glass over, and he cocks his head gently, like he’s talking to a child. “It is merely a first step to tap into powers of darkness through negative emotions, with fear being the wildcard because it is the only emotion that is useless as a weapon. But you – and whoever taught you that – are mistaken.

“Fear is only useful in reminding you of threats. It is the one thing that will make you weak. Not darkness. You want your life back? Then take control of it. You may use your anger and your hatred of Kefka to strengthen your power. But to imply that is all there is – do you think it was love that motivated Eraqus to wield light in his attempt to murder Ventus?”

“Don’t talk about them!” Terra barks.

“Light and darkness are all part of the same existence. In the end, they are simple tools. Do not aim to convince yourself that darkness is nothing but horrid impulses. You can love and protect with darkness. You can be driven mad by the blinding power of light.”

Riku comes to mind. Use darkness and turn it into light, he has said. To build the strength to protect what matters. Is this what he means? Is it enough to have good intentions? Or does the old man have too much experience with such things that it’s futile to try to take the strings for himself?

Garnet is the first to unfreeze. “Terra, what in the world-”

“Move!” He holds her bicep and escorts her down the street.

He hears the blast Kefka has prepared for them, crushing a mob of minor Heartless instead. 

Garnet screams his name. A Darkside, looming tall over them, contemplates its next move. It digs its hand into the ground and a portal opens up, a swarm of Shadows crawling out of it.

They run away. Worse still is the inky blackness that surrounds them and covers the entire street. He can’t see anything, except for yellow eyes squirming around everywhere. And suddenly he’s alone, the princess no longer by his side.

He hears Kefka’s footsteps, stomping the ground underneath it. It moves slowly, like it doesn’t know what to attack next. So it dances, explosions taking random pot shots in any direction.

One blows up behind him, and Garnet’s protection spell vibrates from the blast as he feels the cold street brace against his face. Hands grip his arm and help him stand up.

“Can you walk?” he hears Xehanort ask.

Terra rips his shoulder away. “Garnet!” he calls out.

Xehanort shushes him in a snake-like snarl. “We have the advantage. And I’m interested in keeping you alive.”

“Not without her.”

Xehanort holds a cold stare, his golden eyes a faint gleam in the shadow. Definitely not the kind of person to roll his eyes. 

Garnet’s pillar of light bursts through with such a power that everything trembles. It also dissipates the darkness, giving them the ability to see what has been happening. A mass of Heartless that have surrounded her are thrown back by her power. Of course, she is left exhausted and shaking from such use of magic.

And Kefka notices. It laughs, sending horrific pain throughout Terra’s head, so awful it feels like his eyeballs will burst. Xehanort yells along with Terra, clutching his hand to his chest. Garnet grips her head tightly, slumped on the ground.

Kefka moves to srtike. She is wide-eyed.

This can’t happen. Not another failure.

Terra sprints forward. He needs to get there first. To have more power. To cheat.

A portal of swirling shadows opens up on the ground in front of him. He drops inside. 

Here, there is no earth. No solid obstacle to keep him from her. Here he can fly. And up he ascends from another opening, putting him right in between a princess and a clown.

No need for a second Keyblade. Out from his left hand, all the dark impulses materialize into a deep red claw extending from his elbow, hitting Kefka upward at the chin. 

This sends it back - but still, not enough. So he throws another claw, oozing flickering shadows through his arm and body, sending the clown flying. It lands on its back, rolling. But it misses the office building.

This was the exact move, long ago, used against his Master. With good intentions, he once swore. Powerful, instinctual, impulsive. Dark. It’s a natural glove that fits, unlike nothingness.

“I’m actually impressed,” he hears Xehanort say.

A compliment from the monster. Not again. 

Terra slouches over and coughs out bile.

“Are you alright?” Garnet asks, hovering her hand at the base of his neck. Warmth radiates like waves throughout his body, as though she is healing his nervous system. The headache and the nausea lift up and away.

Kefka stands up, and screeches. It’s time to move again. Behind some bushes. Xehanort follows and covers his mouth and nose with his cloak. 

The poisonous gas releases from its joints and neck, and they all wait until it dissipates into the air.

“I grow tired of this,” Xehanort says.

“Let’s trip it.” Terra summons the nameless Keyblade again into his left hand. “Or are you incapable of that?”

Xehanort glares, disappearing into his own portal, only to reappear behind the clown as it stumbles its way back toward them. He hits one ankle with a burst - which seems like it took way too much out of him. 

Kefka trips onto one knee.

“Not enough!” Terra yells. He eyes Garnet, who is hesitant at first. He nods, as if to give her his blessing.

She sends healing magic to Xehanort. He takes a deep breath before striking the other ankle with his might. The clown falls to its face.

The prime opportunity. Terra allows darkness to swirl around him, and he growls as he grips both Keyblades in the hardest blow he’s ever given, directly onto the clown’s face, like vehicles crashing.

It screams, like metal grinding.

Two gashes now stain its once indestructible face, showing the black skin underneath.

It attempts to grab Terra in a fury, and Garnet steps in front to summon another pillar of light so that it fails, falling to her knees when she’s finished.

Kefka grabs its own face, as if in pain. As if it was human again. 

But Garnet screams.

Two more Darksides approach them, bringing forth more Heartless.

“No…” Terra groans. He doesn’t have to tell her to run away, for she’s already doing so, although she is tumbling. She heads toward the alleyway by the hospital, where he placed the elixir minutes before.

Kefka comes to and makes its way to Terra, who pants harder just to keep himself standing straight. Xehanort growls loudly and twirls his Keyblade, a sphere of time energy rupturing throughout.

It’s quiet and frozen again. Except for Xehanort, who adjusts himself with such a frustration that it’s like watching a spiteful mother clean up a child.

“That impudent, minuscule, subordinate, worthless neophyte of a clown,” he says, throwing around fancy insults at the Heartless that is clearly striking a nerve with him tonight.

The first thing Terra looks for is the princess. In the alleyway, on the ground, looking up at a swarm of Heartless about to pounce. Her shortstaff is to her chest, her eyes exhausted and teary.

He attacks the Heartless, although the Stop magic doesn’t doesn’t give way to their destruction. Not yet, anyway. They barely move from his force. But he hits enough to be sure they’d be gone when time moves forward again. 

He checks the clock tower. Less than two minutes left until Kefka is gone for the night.

Terra takes a deep breath, his muscles sore and shaking from weariness. They are almost there.

Footsteps behind him. Xehanort eyes the clock tower as well, looking just as grateful.

“At last,” he says. He forms a grip into the air. Terra is thrown up against the wall telepathically, his wrists cemented to the brick behind him, both Keyblades gone in a crackle.

“I’ve been advised to practice patience, but no longer,” Xehanort says through his teeth, standing in front of Terra with his Keyblade in hand. “You’re too much trouble.”

Terra tries to wrestle with the invisible force, but he can’t. He can’t move anything. He cries out, because this can’t be the end. Xehanort holds his Keyblade in the air, aiming for the chest.

Garnet jumps from behind him and rams her shortstaff right into the back of Xehanort’s knee. He staggers and backhands her, where she collapses. She crawls back against the wall opposite, holding her hand up in fear in a futile attempt to protect herself.

“You insignificant brat,” Xehanort says as he raises his Keyblade against her.

But her hit releases Terra, and he tackles. One arm around the bastard’s chest, another twisting the armed wrist until the Keyblade is let go. Xehanort is a touch shorter than Terra, but he’s much thinner. He has no strength when magic is not involved. 

Terra throws him, slamming him onto the ground which makes him bounce and roll away.

With Garnet following, Terra grabs the duffel bag of elixirs on the way and slings them over his shoulder. Kefka begins moving again. They runs across the street until they get situated close enough to the office building.

“Stand your ground,” he tells Garnet.

“What are you going to do?” She holds her place directly by his side.

Kefka follows them with its gaze, and walks forward. The gashes make it uglier, its neck ruffle and shoulder pads burnt.

“Just trust me,” Terra says. He summons both Keyblades and waits.

“Terra?” she says, her voice shaking with nervousness. Xehanort comes to and is running out toward them.

“Stand your ground.”

The clown comes close enough.

Terra thrusts the teeth of both Keyblades into the ground. The earth pops and spews, breaking the mended stones in a trail until it reaches the office building -  specifically the corner wall where she planted the bomb on the first floor.

It explodes as Kefka steps right past it. The building starts to crumble, triggering the second bomb to go off by the clown’s face. It screams like before, deafening the quake as the earth opens up the cobblestones underneath him and the princess.

They fall as the ground gives up. Garnet lets out a high-pitched scream, but she’s barely audible in comparison to the ruckus. 

Xehanort slides to the edge of the open pit. He wears the face of someone who desperately missed his target, watching them splash into a rush of water below.

This chapter references Pixar’s Coco (2017).

A/N: I have defined the Spanish words and phrases used with context clues, but I wanted to make a note that some of it is Cuban slang (I can’t help it). There were definitely times where I had to be careful of what I was writing. For example, for “calavera” I nearly used “calabaza.” In Spanish, that means “pumpkin,” but Cubans use the names of food to describe lots of things. We use “calabaza” to mean sugar skull, and that’s why many people look at us like we’re crazy. For example, in the movie, Frida Kahlo prepares a papaya that she makes her clone dancers crawl out of. For us, a papaya is the word we use for the woman’s nether-regions. You can imagine what kind of context we understood those scenes to mean, LMAO.