#A Drowning Soul Will Clutch at Any Straw | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

shireness-says · 5 years

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A Drowning Soul Will Clutch at Any Straw

Summary: Though this is far from Killian Jones' first encounter with a mermaid, he's never met any quite like this blonde siren. Together, can they break a cruel curse? Rated T for language. ~13.3K. Also on AO3.

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A/N: It’s here - my entry for @cssns 2k19! Thanks to the mods for organizing this again, my beta @snidgetsafan, and ESPECIALLY to @hollyethecurious, who’s created this lovely photoset for the fic. It’s posted on her page as well - definitely go check it out and give her some love.

Tagging my usuals and those who showed interest in the sneak peek: @kmomof4, @teamhook, @snowbellewells, @scientificapricot, @winterbaby89, @mythologicalmango

Enjoy!

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It’s agreed upon on every shore of this realm’s oceans: Killian Jones is one hell of a captain.

He’s not just saying that either, as vain as it sounds - he’s proved it, many times over. After all, who else can boast of having not only evaded every nation’s navy for as long as he has, but outrun curses, cut through the most treacherous of waters, and even discovered every secret way in and out of Neverland? No, in this case, as in all others (a pirate he may be, but he still prides himself on being a true gentleman), his word is worth its weight in gold.

Yes, Killian Jones prides himself on being the best captain this realm has ever seen, able to handle everything fate and the sea has thrown his way for well over a century. This storm, however, is testing every moment of his vast experience and all the seafaring instincts he possesses.

It had arisen suddenly and without warning. This isn’t a corner of the world Killian or his crew have ever visited before, a remote island he’s never even seen on any of his maps. Smee had heard a rumor though, in a seedy tavern in a seedy town while the rest of them had been more concerned with finding spirits and female companionship, of a glorious treasure hidden on a secret island. In all his years, Killian has never been one to turn down treasure, and this rumor is no different. Sure, it might not lead anywhere, but at this point, what do any of them have to lose? With the Dark One long since disappeared and the king who killed Liam even longer since overthrown, they’re only in this now for the thrill of it all. Treasure hunting seems just as good a pastime as any.

The rumor had neglected to mention whatever magical enchantments are protecting the island, however - because mark his words, there’s something unusual about this storm, something otherworldly. Killian has been around for a long while, and has seen a lot of things, but a storm spontaneously forming in a matter of minutes from what was a cloudless sky and calm seas is not one of them. He’s been around long enough, too, to recognize magic, and the air here practically reeks with the stuff. Something more is a play here - something sinister. And until they can identify it and defeat it, he and his men are left clinging to drenched ropes as the Jolly tilts precariously from side to side.

“Turn us into the waves, Mr. Smee!” He yells over the crush of noise. “Let’s work with this storm instead of against it!”

“Aye aye, Captain!” The stout man yells back. His red hat is obviously drenched through, but for some unimaginable reason he still insists on wearing the stupid thing. Frivolities aside, he’s a good first mate, able to get the other men to follow orders quickly and efficiently, leaving Killian free to scan the waves for whatever might be causing this. He’s got his suspicions already, based off his long experience in Neverland, and if he can just spot something amongst the waves —

— There. A flash of silver, too bright to be just the light on the waves, and a lilting feminine voice he shouldn’t be able to hear over the storm around them.

“Prepare the nets, Mr. Smee!” He calls. “There’s a merbitch in the water, and I’ve got a mind to go fishing!”

With a target in mind, the men cheer before scurrying to man their stations, guiding the ship into position as Killian directs them to capture their quarry.

He’ll give the scaly cunt this much: she fights back. Hard. For the first time in decades, Killian is genuinely concerned that the Jolly Roger will capsize as the waves rise higher and higher all around them. It’s easy to miss the flash of her tail amongst the squall, but Killian and the crew do their best to keep her in sight, teams of men working with nets to trap and entangle her. And eventually, their efforts succeed.

Killian expects the mermaid to be spitting mad when they haul her aboard - he certainly would be, in her position - but he’s shocked by her… acceptance isn’t quite the word. There’s still too much defiance, too much fire in her eyes to truly call it that. But she doesn’t fight back either, or curse them all to a variety of watery hells even as lightning strikes dangerously close to the ship. Instead, she tilts her chin upwards as Killian approaches, his sword drawn and resting against his shoulder in a contradictory move between threat and casualness, making sure to meet his eyes. All the while, she continues singing, her words melodically wrapping around them both - and almost certainly controlling this storm, like the sirens of legend. She’s dooming them with her very voice.

“Anything to say for yourself, siren?” he sneers. He almost hopes she does - would welcome the chance to rid them of such a predator, even one wearing such a pretty face.

The singing doesn’t stop, though, even as she stares boldly into his face. With her arms still tangled in the net, it’s her only means of defense, and she seems intent on using it. If it wasn’t obvious how she was summoning the storm before, it is now as a bolt of lightning cracks down dangerously close to the ship as her singing crescendos. He may have the weapons, but in this fight for their lives, it’s obvious who’s winning.

It’d be so easy to just gut the fish-woman where she lies, dispatch her like the monster she’s currently behaving as, but something makes him look closer, push past the noise echoing in his ears to really examine the creature in front of him. Her expression is a careful blank mask, only the bold set of her chin betraying any emotion or personality, but her eyes… her eyes are brimming with emotion. Horrifically human. Confoundingly pleading.

End this, they beg. End me.

Killian raises his sword to strike.

———

He shouldn’t have done it - left her alive, that is.

He’d been fully prepared to end her, for the sake of his whole crew, but at the last moment he had knocked her out with the hilt of his sword instead. Something about those eyes… he couldn’t do it. They’d been a little too human, a little too female, and he’s always prided himself on being a gentleman.

(There’s also the fact that after decades, centuries, he’s bloody bored, and he can’t deny that there’s something intriguing about the mermaid who asks for death. She’s a mystery, a pleasant diversion, and he can’t bring himself to kill the first interesting thing to happen to him in ages.)

Regardless of method, the storm had abruptly stopped as soon as the mermaid had been knocked into unconsciousness, black skies giving way again to the rosy colors of a sunset at sea, which had been the goal all along. Killian had just taken a slightly different path to get there. After that, they had located the largest tub they could find and relocated it to the brig, where it had been filled with water behind the iron bars before their unexpected guest was deposited in it and locked up. It’s true that Killian Jones may be a pirate, but he’s not a cruel man, not without severe provocation, and it seems a bit much to beach the siren, so to speak, if she’ll be with them for any amount of time.

For now, she’s still unconscious, and Killian is left playing the waiting game. He’s got a fair few questions for their piscine guest, after all. He can’t help but examine her form in the meantime, driven both by boredom and the desire to be there the very moment she wakes up. There’s something more intimidating about waking up to find the captain present, after all, as if already waiting to dole out judgement and punishment. He could tell himself that his examination is just precautionary, sizing up the enemy, but the truth is that his appreciation is much more aesthetic. The mermaid is, in a word, striking - a little too dangerous to be pretty and a little too real to be otherworldly. She could be the very source of all the tales of sirens’ dangerous beauty. The lantern’s light reflects almost blindingly off her silver-scaled tail in the darkness of the brig, though with this closer proximity he can pick up glints of blue and green amongst the metallic sheen where it hangs lazily over the edge. Her hair is blonde and tousled by the waves, the wet locks drying before his eyes into a mess of curls. A smattering of small braids twines through the strands, though he can’t tell from here whether they’re simply intended for looks or as a small effort towards taming the way it must all billow around her head underwater. Her breasts are covered by some contraption made of seaweed and shells, which strikes Killian as a bit odd; he’s spent a good amount of time with mermaids during his many years in Neverland, and they’ve never been particularly known for their modesty. Her skin, apart from her shimmering tail, is pale - pale in a way that betrays how rarely she must seek out the surface. Again, odd - most mermaids sun themselves on the rocks like lazy cats and pick up quite the tan for their efforts. The paleness of her skin makes her seem more dangerous in a way he can’t quite put his finger on - the remoteness it suggests, perhaps, or the way it displays the scars collected on her torso and arms. Perhaps the business of turning ships into toothpicks is more dangerous than he gave her credit for.

Killian realizes he’s wandered closer than he intended at the same moment that he hears her breathing minutely change, and hurriedly takes a step back. Only moments later, her eyes flutter open, scanning her surroundings with brows furrowing in confusion before settling on where he leans faux-casually against a wall.

“It’s rude to stare, you know,” she quips, rolling her eyes - also unlike any other mermaid he’s had the questionable pleasure to meet, who were all vain creatures who revelled in any form of male attention. Sarcasm and cheek were not in their vocabulary - just jealousy, pettiness, and a simpering vanity he’d quickly tired of.

(He notes, too, that this mermaid’s voice is all gravelly, like she hasn’t spoken in a long while. And who knows - way out here in this forgotten corner of the world, that just might be true.)

“Can you blame a man?” he asks, pushing off the wall to saunter closer again. “It’s not often we have such lovely ladies on this ship. Or any ladies, really. And when I’ve got one so alluring in front of me… well. I’m only human, lass.”

She makes a noise that might almost be a laugh, something that might almost be a smile tugging at the edges of her mouth, before sobering again. Killian doesn’t like that nearly as well. “You should have killed me,” she states. Matter-of-fact. Looking right at Killian, as if to best drive her point home.

It doesn’t work.

“Ah, well, you see, about that. I didn’t.” It’s probably - definitely - too lighthearted for the subject at hand. “I am, however, quite intrigued as to why you’d want that in the first place. I’ve been sitting here asking myself, ‘What kind of mermaid creates the storm of the century, almost sinks our ship and kills the entire crew, only to ask for death when she’s caught instead of smiting us all to smithereens?’ Don’t think I didn’t notice that very impressive lightning, love, because it did not escape my notice that you could have doomed every last one of us in a second.”

“The cursed kind,” she fires back. “The kind that doesn’t want to kill anyone in the first place.”

“Seems a little far fetched,” he comments, because it does. Even in a land bursting with magic, it sounds like the plot of a tall tale. A mermaid - a woman? - cursed to do terrible things against her will. How ridiculous.

“Well, it’s the truth.”

“And how did you get cursed, pray tell?”

“The usual way,” she replies, smiling like she knows just how much this crypticness is irritating him. She probably does. Finally, some way she’s like every other mermaid of his experience.

“And for those of us less experienced with curses?” He almost certainly sounds exasperated, and couldn’t care less about it.

“There was a witch. I’m sure you can piece together the rest.”

“Gods, but you are maddening,” Killian mutters under his breath. It must not be that quiet, though, as he can spot the mermaid’s mouth twitching back towards a smile. “So let me get this straight. You were cursed by a witch for some reason - I assume you won’t be so courteous as to tell me why?” She shakes her head on a smirk. “Of course not. So you’re cursed by a witch, and spend the next gods know how long forced to sink any ship that comes into your territory. Is that about right?”

“That’s the gist of it,” she agrees. “I haven’t had legs since Stephen the Second of Misthaven, if that clears matters up at all.”

Killian does the math in his head - once, then again when his first result seems too absurd to be believed. “That’s over six hundred years!”

She shrugs. “I’ll trust you on that. There’s not much way to track time, down below the surface. I’m sure you can imagine, the years all start to blend together eventually.”

He does know - better than she could have guessed. After all, he’s an almost three hundred year old man who just met the only person in existence older than him. It takes a swig from his ever-present flask to really move past that.

“So you’ve been cursed for six centuries,” he reasons out, “and not once have you tried to do anything about it? There’s no way to break your curse? No mortality clause?”

“You think I haven’t tried?” she scoffs. “I know this curse better than anything else in this realm, or any other. I know exactly where the boundaries of my bay are, the markers I can’t cross without swimming face first into invisible walls. The singing is beyond my control. I don’t need food to survive, or air, or daylight. The only way out of this curse is death, and I can’t even manage that.”

It’s horrifying to hear her speak so callously of her search for a way out of her curse by any means, but Killian supposes he can almost understand it. She’s had her free will ripped away for hundreds of years; having lived through that particular nightmare himself as a slave in his youth, he can understand how it would drive a man, or woman, to madness. The longevity of this curse really is striking; Killian doesn’t consider himself an expert on magic by any means, but he does know that generally, curses don’t last past the death of the person who cast it. It suggests other, just as impossible things - namely, that this sorceress is still alive somewhere.

“What about the witch?” he asks. “Did you ever attempt to track her down again?”

“Did you miss the part where I couldn’t leave my territory?” she shoots back in her dry, sarcastic voice. “Doesn’t leave much opportunity for searching for witches, even if I wanted to. She used to come to the island, it felt like to taunt me, but even that stopped ages ago. Decades, perhaps even a century or two.”

She had mentioned her barriers before. Killian feels like a little bit of a numbskull for not retaining it, honestly. “Aye, well, consider this my cordial invitation to assist you in such a quest,” he declares pompously, sketching an elaborate bow towards the barrel. It’s only mostly an attempt to save face - he would have offered anyways. He’s always had a soft spot for damsels in distress, after all.

She doesn’t seem to take him at his word however, snorting and rolling her eyes at the offer. “Be serious, Captain. It’s not nice to tease.”

“I assure you, milady, I’m deadly serious,” he returns.

“It’s a terrible idea. You don’t even know my name, you just think you’ve heard some sob story and want to watch it play out,” she argues.

“Killian Jones,” he replies, introducing himself as a counterargument. “Feared pirate of the seven seas - though many are more familiar with my more colorful moniker. Hook. And you are…?”

“That still doesn’t answer what you expect to get out of this.” He’s not sure if it could be considered a true deflection, but it’s definitely a blatant avoidance of his question - whether to protect herself or leave him in the dark, he’s not sure. Maybe a bit of both. The mermaid certainly seems to enjoy annoying him.

More to the point, it’s a good question she poses, as Killian isn’t quite sure what he actually expects out of this. He’s not usually given towards such generosity - rather against the pirate code, and all that. He’s not operating a charity. The mermaid in front of him though… he couldn’t tell you why, but he keeps coming back to the word interesting. He’s never met anyone quite like her, on legs or fins - an intriguing mix of danger and allure and just a touch of tragedy. Killian has been a bit at loose ends ever since he discovered that his Dark One problem took care of itself, and like it or not, hearing about the problems of cursed mermaids is a welcome diversion, as ridiculous as that feels to admit. The truth is that he wants to help her if only to see all this play out, and maybe try to figure out the woman in front of him a little along the way.

(There’s also the fact that he dislikes witches even more than he mistrusts mermaids, but she definitely doesn’t need to know that.)

That honest reason is a little too personal, however, so Killian quickly spins a different excuse. “A clear path to whatever treasure is hidden on that island would be nice,” he offers, smirking in a way that he hopes will sell his facade of being just a greedy pirate. It’s a good enough excuse, and he’s not so intrigued by their finned guest that he’s already forgotten how he and the crew stumbled into this mess in the first place.

The snort is back. Again. It seems to be his guest’s default reaction - sarcasm and completely rejecting whatever he has to say. It’s a bit off-putting, but he supposes allowances have to be made for those who haven’t had proper human interaction in hundreds of years. “If you’re searching for treasure, you’re going to be disappointed,” she confides. “There’s nothing on that island. Never was. Ages ago, witches used to meet here for coven meetings or some shit - that’s why I’m here, to protect the island from any meddlers - but that dropped off ages ago. It’s just a bunch of rocks up there - no gold, no jewels, no buried treasure. Nothing. So if that’s your reason for offering to help me, it’s not worth your time. Kill me now, or toss me back into the sea, but I can’t give you what you seek.”

That’s not it, though, not really. Yes, treasure and riches beyond all their imaginings would be nice, but his desire to keep this woman on his ship for a little while longer has nothing to do with it. Instead, he settles on bluster. “Like I said, love, I’m a simple man, with simple pleasures, and one of those is having enchanting women aboard my ship.” It must not work, however, as she fixes him with an unimpressed look - or at least, as unimpressed a look as she can manage while in such an undignified position. Still, it’s enough for Killian to quickly cave. “And, maybe, your witch hunt is the most interesting thing I’ve come across in years.”

She fixes him with a searching look for a moment longer, before finally nodding. “Alright, then, you’ve got a deal.”

“That’s what did it?” Killian demands incredulously. “Everything else I’ve said, and it’s boredom that you buy, out of all that?”

“I understand boredom,” she replies simply. “After all this time, it’s an old friend.”

Kindred spirits. He supposes he can believe that.

“In that case, welcome aboard, Miss…?”

“Emma,” she finally smiles, trusting him with her name like it’s her greatest secret. “Emma Swan.”

———

The first order of business is setting the men to work building an even larger tub for their fish-tailed guest. The original had been fine for a prisoner, but her tail doesn’t fit all the way inside, the iridescent flipper at the end obviously hanging over the edge and losing its sheen as it dries out. An invited guest deserves a bit more comfort - or at least to be able to fully submerge her tail. They’d seriously debated just releasing her back into the ocean to swim alongside the Jolly, but there’d been some uncertainty about whether her curse would allow it. After her talk of invisible walls she can’t cross, it seems like that the only reason she’s been able to leave her cove is because they’d hauled her aboard and forcibly carried her away from the bounds of her prescribed territory. He and Emma are both a little concerned about what might happen if she were returned to the water. Magic is so intrinsically involved with all of this; would it transport her right back to where it’s deemed she belongs? The larger tub may still be uncomfortable, but at least they can be sure she’ll stay put.

Somewhat more uncomfortable is the fact that the finished container is installed in the captain’s quarters - Killian’s quarters. Though ruthlessly organized, the Jolly is a small ship, and each inch is precious for storage and housing the crew. Besides the brig, only Killian’s space offered enough room to hold the container Emma would be calling hers for the indeterminable future. Between that and the windowless cell, it hadn’t really been much of a choice. It’ll be more convenient as he and Emma attempt to chart a course anyways - or at least that’s how Killian tries to convince himself.

“It’ll still be close quarters, I’m afraid. Not much privacy,” he apologizes, reaching to scratch behind his ear in an expression of embarrassment that makes him feel like some bashful youth again.

“What, are you the only modest pirate in existence?” Emma asks, mouth twisted into a smirk at his expense. “I’m a big girl, Jones, I’ve been around men before. It’ll be fine. I’ll even cover my eyes while you undress, if it makes you feel better.”

“That’s not —” he tries to protest, before sighing. “Fine. Good. Let’s do this, then.”

He’d carried her before, from the deck down here to the brig while she was unconscious, but it’s a different thing now when Emma’s awake and an ally and someone he has to be careful with. The weight isn’t an issue - he’s carried rum barrels heavier than her, though the pure muscle that makes up her tail is rather heavier than he expected of someone who is otherwise so slight - but with the woman in question awake to wrap her arms around his neck in an attempt to make the maneuver easier, it seems very intimate. One breast presses softly against his chest through her bodice and his shirt, and he’s suddenly very aware of every inch of bare skin his hand is touching along her back. It was easier to ignore such things when she was a nameless enemy - now that he’s seen a little of the woman in his arms, it just feels like an invasion of her privacy and a step in whatever this alliance is that neither of them was ready to take, especially him. The whole thing does nothing to help the blush that’s already established residence across his cheekbones, and he can feel Emma quivering with suppressed laughter in his arms.

“Shut up and watch your head,” he mutters as they begin the trek up the rickety wooden stairs, finally working a full laugh out of Emma. It’s nice to hear, though rough around the edges in the same way her voice was at first. Killian supposes she hasn’t had much reason to laugh in a long while either.

“Aye aye, Captain,” she chuckles as he begins the ascent.

It’s more than a little cramped in his cabin, what with the tub competing for space with all his regular furniture. There’s not even that many pieces - just a table and chairs, the bed, a storage cabinet and a handful of trunks - but the Jolly isn’t a particularly large ship, and the Captain’s cabin is no different; space has always been more a dream than a reality.

“Sorry about the clutter,” he offers bashfully. Embarrassment isn’t a common feeling for Killian; the pirate’s life doesn’t lend itself well to shame. Something about having a lady in his quarters, however - particularly this lady, and particularly knowing she’ll be here for the foreseeable future - brings back that youthful kind of anxiety of wanting everything to be perfect. It almost makes him wonder if he’s been put under some spell, like in the mermaid tales of old, but dismisses it as ridiculous. There’s limits to what he’s willing to believe, especially where this particular mermaid is concerned.

“It’s fine, really,” Emma replies, reclining gracefully in her makeshift tank. “It’s a nice change to be surrounded by such… human things after so long under the sea. The view doesn’t hurt either,” she adds, gesturing widely towards the square paned windows lining one wall, displaying the sea in all her dangerous glory. It’s a favorite view of Killian’s as well, especially now when the sky is just starting to turn all the colors of the sunset, each one reflected between the peaks of the waves. It’s the only thing that really sets the captain’s cabin apart from any others, except for the extra privacy.

“Aye, it’s really something, isn’t it,” he murmurs softly, allowing himself to share a moment of reflection with his guest before snapping himself back to himself. “You said you were from Misthaven? If we’re going to do this, we should set a proper course.”

“Yes, Misthaven. It was just a little village, though, it didn’t even really have a name that I was aware of.”

“If I got out my maps, do you think you could recognize the area, at least?” As Killian asks, he’s already moving.

“I think so. Worth a shot, at least,” Emma agrees.

Grabbing the appropriate map, Killian tosses it on the table top before pushing the whole thing as close as he can to where Emma reclines. As soon as the surface gets close enough, Emma rearranges herself in the tub to prop her arms on the table, splashing a little as she turns in the tub. They’re going to need plenty of towels, Killian realizes suddenly. Oh, what logistical things you don’t consider when you agree to house a mermaid in your quarters.

Quickly, he unrolls the map and weighs it down with a handful of paperweights. “Do you remember anything else? Any starting point?”

“It was on the eastern coast,” Emma replies, tilting her head in thought and squinting into the distance. “There was a little island nearby in the sound, too, but I don’t think anyone lived there.”

They continue like that for the next hour, eventually narrowing it down to three possible sites - all once tiny fishing hamlets, all now sizable towns, and in one case a bustling city. A lot can happen in 600 years, as it turns out.

They’ve got a plan, now, but Killian is left with more questions - namely, the particulars of his companion’s curse.

“I don’t suppose you want to share why you were cursed?” he asks casually, leaning against the cabinet with a smirk.

“Not unless you want to explain how a nice Navy boy became a notorious pirate,” she smirks back.

It immediately throws Killian off whatever game he was playing - probably her intention all along. She shouldn’t know anything about that. “How do you know about that?” he demands, straightening to attention.

“I’ve got hundreds of years’ experience with ships. Of course I can recognize a Royal Naval vessel, even dressed as a pirate ship,” she declares loftily. It only lasts a moment though before she relaxes back into that smirk. “And I saw all the old Naval manuals on your shelf. I figured a pirate who took the ship would most likely just get rid of them, but someone who kept them probably had a sentimental reason to.”

“So a guess,” he concludes.

“Ah, but a good one,” she winks. “So, are you going to tell me?”

“Perhaps another day,” Killian smiles tightly. Truthfully, he doesn’t have any intention of telling her; his memories of the Navy are far too tied up with his memories of Liam, and he’s not sure he’ll ever be ready to share them. “And you?”

“Perhaps another day,” she echoes.

They’ve done more than enough sharing for the day.

———

There’s unexpected things you learn when you’re living with a mermaid, as Killian comes to discover.

He learns within the first few days that she’s a voracious reader, whipping through the adventure novels he keeps beneath the window. It alleviates a lot of the guilt he feels about leaving her alone all day while he goes about the business of leading a crew above decks. She’s meticulously careful about it, too, making sure to never drip on the pages. Killian happily leaves her a stack of books in the morning, and usually she’s completed one by the end of the day - oftentimes more, especially if she picks a short volume or books of poetry. It’s one of the things he hadn’t really thought about - how she must not have heard any new stories in centuries. How lonely she must have been in her corner of the sea, he can’t help but think, starved both for companionship and any news of the outside world.

More surprising are her dining habits - or lack thereof, rather. He’d brought her dinner that first night - nothing fancy or unusual, just some fish they’d caught earlier in the day and a few hardtack biscuits to wash it down with - only for Emma to stare at the plated offerings with an odd look on her face. It’s not quite confusion, and stops shy of suspicion, but it’s definitely not enthusiasm either. As Killian really processes what he’s offered her, he flushes. Again. Gods, what is it about this woman that’s turned him back into some blushing youth?

“I’m sorry, I didn’t even think about the fish thing,” he apologizes, moving to whisk the plate away again. “That would be rather macabre, wouldn’t it? Let me get you something else —”

She waves him off, though, pulling the plate back with her other hand. “Jones, it’s fine. You are aware of how many fish subsist on other fish, right? It’s not an issue.”

He furrows his brow in confusion. “What seems to be the problem, then? I don’t mean to pry, but you seem hesitant about this meal.”

“I don’t eat,” she explains simply. “Or at least I don’t need to. I can, but it’s not necessary for my survival.”

“That seems… odd.”

“It does, until you remember the curse. It’s very determined to keep me alive no matter what - not needing food is just another way to keep me from depriving myself of it.” Starve herself to death, she means, but they’re both tactful enough not to say it.

“So when you say you don’t eat…” he trails off in question.

“I mean that I haven’t in a very, very long time. Longer than I can remember. Kelp and seaweed and raw seafood don’t make for a very appetizing meal, as it turns out,” she teases lightly.

“Then allow me to present you with the feast of a lifetime,” Killian declares with a smile and a dramatic flourish. “The finest hardtack on the seven seas. By which I mean it will still break a tooth if you’re not careful. Shall I pour some wine with dinner?”

“By all means,” Emma smiles, gesturing with a regal air from her tub. Somehow, she still manages to look like a queen, even in such a ridiculous setting.

(It’s the best dinner he’s had in a long time, despite the simple menu, and he thinks it just might be due to his new companion.)

There’s a multitude of other little things he learns as the days pass - like the way that she softly snores if she’s not submerged completely underwater, or how she loves to debate any subject he brings up (and articulately, at that, though her sources sometimes need a little updating after centuries of isolation), or the way she rolls her eyes when he spouts off a particularly clever innuendo. Maybe it’s just his own years of loneliness talking, but it’s nice, having her companionship. Someone he doesn’t have to be the captain with, who he can talk to over books or dinner and who makes him smile. It’s something he could get used to over time, if allowed, even if the idea of that - of coming to depend on someone again - is a little bit terrifying.

As well as they get along, the fact is that Emma is still a full-sized mermaid residing in an oversized tub. It’s not a lot of space, and Killian’s impressed that she’s lasted as long as she has. In her proverbial shoes, he would have long since been driven mad by the close confines - probably have been constantly plagued by cramps as well. So he completely understands when she finally caves and asks to be returned to the open ocean, if only for a little exercise.

“Maybe I’ve been a mermaid for too long, but I’m antsy, knowing the ocean is right there and I’m still here in this stupid basin,” she explains. “I know we still don’t know what will happen, now that I’m so far from where I’m supposed to be, but… I need to try it. You can stay right there to try and pull me back if you like, just… Please. I need this.”

“Of course, love.” She needn’t ask twice.

In case some bizarre magic portal does open beneath where Emma enters the water, they do make the decision for Emma to be lowered to the water in a rowboat with Killian instead of just diving off the rail of the Jolly like he’s sure she could do easily. They almost certainly make quite the picture, the mermaid and the one-handed pirate together in the little craft being lowered to the water, but any absurdity is worth the look of excitement on Emma’s face.

As soon as she slips into the water, still grasping his hand and empty wrist (and that doesn’t send little quivers of some feeling quivering through his veins, not at all), it’s easy to hear her audible sigh of relief.

“Feels nice, does it?” he grins down to where Emma’s head is just peeking out of the water. If he thought her tail was beautiful in the dim light of the brig or in the cramped confines of her tub, it’s nothing to the way that the scales glisten here in the open water, their iridescence reflecting in every color of the rainbow as her tail sways gently back and forth beneath the surface, keeping her buoyant.

“I can’t even describe it,” she admits, smiling right back. “It feels wonderful.” She takes a deep breath before exhaling once again. “I’m going to try letting go,” she announces.

“Aye, alright,” Killian agrees. “Slowly? To be safe?”

Emma seems to be barely listening for the anticipation of it all, but still nods as she removes her hand from his left wrist. With a final exhalation and a nod of determination, she slowly releases his hand as well to float of her own accord, still within reach of Killian and the boat but entirely self-supported in the water.

“I think it’s alright,” she smiles brilliantly, quickly dunking herself under the surface so that her hair floats out in all directions, weightless against the flow of the water. “Better than.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Killian smiles back. “Enjoy your swim.”

He’s fully prepared to retrieve his book from the waterproof sack he’d stowed it in for the descent from the deck, but Emma interrupts him before he can reach underneath the seat. “Aren’t you coming in too?” she asks, face screwed up in confusion.

“Not today, lass,” he replies, forcing himself to chuckle in a manner that hopefully reads as lighthearted. There’s a multitude of reasons he won’t get in the water - most of them relating to the lash scars still on his back - but mostly it comes down to the fact that he doesn’t want to. Well, that and the scars and the elaborate straps of his brace.

(The wenches in the port bars never mind too much that their encounters aren’t anything more than a quick, mostly-clothed fuck, so no one has seen all the damage to his body in years - and in the case of his mangled wrist, no one ever has. It’s a lot of vulnerability to show to a person, and he just doesn’t think he can handle that yet.)

Quickly, he busies himself trying to locate the volume as slowly as possible in hopes that it’ll keep Emma from digging any further. It doesn’t work. Not that he’s surprised - he’s fielded more than a few questions from her in the past days. She’s certainly inquisitive, he’ll give her that - though it’s bordering on nosy at times. This is definitely one of those.

“What, don’t you know how to swim?” she asks, the teasing clearly evident in her tone.

“Of course I do,” he replies absently, still focusing on avoiding her gaze and fishing the bag out from where it’s gotten caught beneath the bench. “I’ve known how to swim since I was young. Liam taught me.”

He regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth, but tries not to tense up so much as to immediately give that away. It’d just been a slip of the tongue; he’d been so determined to not say anything about the physical scars he’d wanted to hide, he’d forgotten to guard against the emotional scars he’d already declared himself not ready to talk about. Maybe he’ll get lucky, maybe she’ll let it pass, maybe —

“Who’s Liam?” the silky voice cuts through. Of course she heard and wants to know more - she’s a clever one, Swan is, absorbing and processing everything around her at all times, including the things he’d rather she not examine.

It’s too late for that, though - the cat is already out of the bag, or whatever the proper oceanic comparison is. Sitting back upright, Killian takes a fortifying breath before replying. Perhaps if he answers her inquiries quickly and in a straightforward manner, it won’t hurt so badly. “Liam was my brother. Captain Liam Jones. He’s gone, now.”

Emma’s brows lower as she processes this, before something seems to click. “He was the one in the Navy.”

Killian nods. “Aye. To be fair, we both were. We were sent to find a medicinal plant, but when we discovered it… well. As it turns out, our king has more nefarious aims than we were aware of, and my brother died because of his faith in the bastard. Scratched himself with one of those damn thorns to prove to me that if was perfectly safe.”

“I’m sorry,” Emma murmurs. It almost looks like she wants to reach for him - in comfort, in companionship, in a pure human instinct that can’t be stifled even by a curse - but still doesn’t. It’s probably for the best; she is dripping wet, after all, and he doesn’t have any interest in her soaking him as well.

Killian jerks his head and shoulders into a little half-shrug, like it still doesn’t affect him in every corner of his soul. “What’s done is done,” he finally says. “But, needless to say, I wasn’t exactly eager to continue in the Navy after that, serving that evil son of a bitch. Drastic measures were taken, you might say, and I found myself the captain of a pirate ship. Spent the next several years crippling Navy ships until the king was deposed and replaced with a distant cousin.”

He expects that to be the end of it; he shares a painful memory, they both lapse into awkward silence, and eventually return to their solitary pursuits. Emma surprises him though, taking a deep breath as if to brace herself before making her own revelation.

“There was a man, once,” she tells him. “That’s what led to the curse.”

“You don’t have to —” Killian interrupts, trying to assure her that he doesn’t expect any reciprocity, but Emma shakes her head.

“It’s alright,” she tells him, “it’s only fair. Tit for tat, or something.” Another deep breath, and a smile that seems a little sad. “His name was Neal, he was a sailor, and I was… Gods, I was so in love. That all-consuming kind of love where they’re the light of your days and the center of your world. He was a crewman on a whaling ship, and I’d worry myself sick every time he left on a voyage. I was so convinced that one day, something would happen and he wouldn’t come back.

“But there was a witch in our village, too. Regina. She’d been there for longer than anyone could remember and never seemed to age a day; rumor had it that the apples on the tree in her garden granted her immortality, though I don’t know how true that was. She could do wonderful things, if you were willing to pay. I couldn’t pay, unfortunately, but I’d heard tell that she’d grant favors sometimes, if the cause was good enough. Or she’d find some other price for you to pay with. So I went to Regina and begged for a charm, a spell, something that would keep him safe. I swore up and down that we had true love, and that I couldn’t bear it if anything was to happen to him. And she agreed - with one condition. She’d grant me a little bit of enchanted cord he could wear to keep him from harm, if I granted her a strand of each of our hair so that she could bottle the essence of true love.

“And I agreed. I was so young, you know? And I believed, so much, that what we shared really was true love, the rarest and most precious magic of all. So I gave her a strand of my hair and found a strand of his and she gave me the cord in return.

“She was as good as her word, too; it worked. Not even six months later, his ship wrecked in a storm, leaving only a handful of survivors. Somehow, he was one of them. It was such a small price to pay for his safety, two strands of hair, especially since it worked.”

Killian won’t interrupt, not in the middle of something so important, but he has a terrible feeling about where this is going. It’s all a little too idyllic, a little too good to be true. Sure enough:

“I was so naive back then,” Emma continues with frustration seeping into her tone. “I thought that would be the end of the matter. I thought I was it for Neal, the same way he was for me. But only weeks after he returned, he met someone else. It wasn’t true love at all, and I suddenly hadn’t paid the price demanded. Maybe I had saved his life, but at the cost of my own. Regina turned me into this when she found out, trapped me in that cove, and I’ve been trying to find some way out of her curse ever since. You know the rest.”

“Aye, I do.” It’s an even sorrier tale than he imagined - a young woman, betrayed in love and forced to unimaginable sacrifice because of it. It makes him even more determined to find a way to free her from this, whatever it takes. “Thank you for telling me.”

“It was the right thing to do,” she says, shrugging. Killian thinks they might be alike in that way - two people just trying to rediscover that small bit of good form still left in the deepest corner of their souls, from back before time and circumstances turned them into the weathered creatures they are now. Neither one of them had particularly wanted to share the darkest moments in their long lives, but they’d unintentionally struck an agreement that first day - she’d share if he would - and Emma had stuck to that. Their alliance may have started tentatively, but it’s holding.

He’s more confident that ever that they’ll be able to break this thing.

———

Things shift, ever so slightly, in those days following their afternoon in the water. There’s a new trust between himself and Emma, born of those revelations and fostering a greater familiarity between the two. That’s something Killian hasn’t had in a long time. Sure, he has his crew, but he always has to wear the mask of “Captain” around them; when you’re supposed to be the man in charge, there’s no real room for emotional intimacy. Swan is different though - a guest, really, someone he doesn’t have any authority over and doesn’t need to. It’s refreshing, and offers him something he hasn’t had the opportunity for in years: friendship.

It’s the ease of their interactions that makes this so special, Killian realizes one night as he prepares for bed. Emma is settling down in her basin as well, setting whatever book she’s reading today aside and allowing herself to slide more completely beneath the water’s surface. He’s a little surprised that she’s so ready to go to sleep; she’d been unusually tired this afternoon, to the point that she’d napped in the cabin for several hours earlier. He’s surprised that she could still be tired after that, though he supposes if she’s that tired it would likely persist. Remembering how graceful and peaceful she’d looked that afternoon, one hand delicately draped over the edge of the tub as she emitted a soft whistle with every breath, Killian can’t help but smile - something she doesn’t miss, of course.

“What are you smirking at?” she demands, her own voice teasing.

“I think that seems a little harsh of a description,” he shoots back, sharpening what had actually been a relatively soft smile into a cocky grin. He likes this banter; they’re rather good at it, Killian thinks. “Personally, I think it was more of a dashing smile.”

“Fine then,” she huffs dramatically, even as a smile continues to pull at the corners of her mouth. “What are you ‘smiling dashingly’ about?”

“You, of course.” That part is the truth, even if he knows she won’t take it seriously.

Sure enough, she scoffs in response. “Please.”

“It’s true! What, I can’t smile about having a pretty lass in my cabin?”

“I bet you say that to all the women,” she replies, rolling her eyes.

“Only the ones I like,” he winks back.

It’s just a witty little thing to say, a spur of the moment comment, but it gets him thinking later, once all the lamps are extinguished and Emma has slipped below the water. It’s not possible that he fancies Emma Swan, is it? It shouldn’t be. They’ve known each other for such a short while, and even if he does feel a strong connection to the mermaid in his company, that’s probably just because she’s the closest human bond he’s had in ages. Killian doesn’t think that he’s ready for anything more serious, anyways, not when he still remembers all the pain of his Milah’s death. Emma will want to leave once her curse is broken; he can’t afford to get more attached to someone temporary.

Killian forces the matter from his mind. It can’t be anything deeper; that’s nonsense. If nothing else, it’s a matter for later.

With that, he rolls over to face the wall and drops into sleep.

———

In retrospect, they should have been more concerned about the water.

There hadn’t been any immediate, visible reaction when Emma had dived into the ocean, even if she was beyond her magically-imposed borders. All he could see was the relief as she stretched, executing lazy flips and twirls before surfacing again. After they’d moved past the downer of their mutual revelations, Emma had spent hours just swimming around, just because she could. She was beautiful like that, and free in a way Killian had never seen. The rest of the afternoon passed in a lazy haze with her in the water and he in the rowboat, no sign of danger to come on the horizon.

Even in the days immediately following, there’s no cause for concern. Sure, Emma is a little lethargic, but neither of them thinks anything of it; Killian is sure he’d be a little slow too if he was forced to sit in bed all day, every day for days on end.

Emma gets steadily worse as they get closer to port, however, until she’s a shivering, sweaty mess, as if struck by a fever. Her skin still holds that fish-like coldness, however, and she assures Killian that never once in her centuries of cursed life has she ever gotten sick. This is something else.

It’s easy connecting the dots after that. They’d been so foolish to underestimate her curse - after all, what else could this be? Maybe the curse didn’t have the power to magically transport her back to within the boundaries of her cove, but it turns out that it does have the power to slowly poison her should she enter unsanctioned waters, and that’s horrifically worse. Their mission had always been important - striving for someone’s freedom is the most noble cause, after all - but now it’s deadly crucial that they succeed, before the curse completes its own deadly aim.

“I’m alright,” Emma assures him once the Jolly makes landfall and he’s preparing to search out their witch. It’s a lie, and an obvious one at that; she’s sickly pale and trembling. Even an utter idiot could see that she’s far from fine. At least they know they’re in the right place; time is of the essence, but Emma had recognized the landscape and the curve of the coast beneath all the new population and its structure and monuments. “Go, find Regina. Her cottage was on the highest bluff, you should start looking there.”

When Killian reaches that bluff, however, there’s no cottage left to see. A tall stone fireplace still stands tall amongst the wild grasses and flowers, but that’s all that’s left to see. Nature has almost entirely reclaimed the site. Killian thinks he can spot the edges of bricks poking through the low mound that must cover the remains of the house, but even that seems a stretch.

Asking in the village-turned-city for the witch Regina doesn’t help either. No one has heard of a living person of that name and occupation, but they do all know of a legend, peculiar to this part of the world. In other circumstances, Killian might almost have enjoyed the tale: the story of a witch, alive for centuries, who fell in love with a common thief and ran off with him, taking nothing more than a sack full of the apples that had lengthened her life for so long before destroying the tree and letting her home crumble to rubble behind her. Unfortunately, he also knows that the best stories have their basis in truth, and there are just too many details that point to this fable chronicling what has happened to Regina, from the apples that kept her alive for hundreds of years to the house she supposedly lived in on that same bluff. A handful of old ladies even claim to remember her from their youth. It’s her, and it’s a dead end.

“She’s long gone, Swan,” he reports back to Emma, failing to hide the disappointment and sorrow and concern in his voice.

“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised,” she murmurs, gazing blankly into the middle distance. Still, she tries to smile a weak smile as she turns to meet Killian’s eyes. “Thank you for trying.” Despite the smile, her voice is resigned. It’s obvious she thinks this is the end.

“I’m not giving up so easily,” Killian fires back. “There must be someone who can undo this.”

“Who?” Emma asks. Her voice is edged with desperation in a way that Killian doesn’t like at all. “Witches can’t alter each other’s curses. Hell, this should have ended when Regina died, but it somehow didn’t. We are out of options.” She slumps back into the water as she finishes, clearly exhausted.

“I won’t believe that,” he insists. “I know a fairy, one whose specialty is True Love. Maybe she can help. Isn’t it worth trying, at least?”

“Fine,” she agrees, “but if it doesn’t work… it’ll be okay, Killian. I’ve lived a long enough life, and if this is how it ends, then so be it.” It’s the first time she’s called him by his first name, and it kills him that it’s in the middle of such a bleak moment.

“I’m not giving up so easily,” he repeats for lack of anything better to say, before moving to order his crew to set a new course.

This has to work.

———

Even if Killian does know every back way into Neverland, all the little cracks between realms and waterways unknown even to Peter Pan himself, he never relishes having to make that trip. He’ll go to his grave believing that cursed island to be Purgatory itself made real in the world. However, the Jolly now makes the journey faster than he thinks it ever has, all for a chance to save Emma before it’s too late.

Talking to Tink is a longshot; she’s technically not even a fairy anymore, having long since lost her wings in an incident she doesn’t like to talk about. Something about trying to help the wrong person find their true love. There’s also the small fact that she’s probably also furious with him after Killian left Neverland for good without taking her with him. In his defense, he had to take advantage of a rare moment when Pan was absent from the island and time was of the essence to escape before he returned. Come to think of it, it will be dangerous for Killian to return to Neverland at all, lest the demon Pan trap and possibly torture or kill him for the transgression, but that’s a risk he’s going to have to take. Tinkerbell knows more about True Love than anyone else he’s aware of, and he’s willing to risk anything, from feminine rage to Pan himself, if it will break Emma’s curse and save her life.

Emma herself has taken a decided turn for the worse, her condition deteriorating with every day and every hour. She’s started slipping in and out of consciousness, her waking moments still dominated by the feverish shaking that first plagued her. On top of everything, she’s constantly parched when she’s awake and aware, and her very skin seems incapable of retaining moisture. A mermaid lives and dies submerged in water, or should; now, it seems to have no effect. He can practically see her shriveling before his eyes as her skin turns rough and tight across her bones, her tail like sandpaper to the touch in places.

Killian has found himself spending a lot of time reading to Emma in her sickness, something that seems to calm both of them. There’s no telling if she hears his voice while she’s unconscious, but their adventure tales are one of the only things that can make her smile even a little bit anymore, so Killian keeps on doing it regardless of her conscious or unconscious state. It calms him a bit, too; he’s frantically worried about Swan nearly every hour of the day, and the reading at least lets him feel like he’s doing something. The depth of his concern had surprised him - after all, he’s only known Emma for a matter of weeks. However, after all the time they’ve spent together, all their talks, the way they were able to reveal things about themselves - hell, he even told her about Milah, the loss of his hand, and all the subsequent years in Neverland after that magical-seeming day in the water - he feels like he knows her, in a way he hasn’t known another human being in a very long time. Time is no hindrance to true emotional closeness and trust, and he knows beyond a doubt: Emma Swan trusts him, the same way he trusts her right back. He never would have thought that would be true after such a rough start, but somehow, it is.

She hasn’t woken at all today, and it scares him half to death. She’s still alive - there’s still a pulse in her wrists and neck. Killian checks periodically, and holds himself back from doing so any more often because of the way she whimpers at even the most gentle touch to her skin. They don’t have much time.

“Captain?” Smee interrupts, poking his head around the doorway and into the cabin. “We need your assistance on deck, we’re about to slip into Neverland.”

“I’ll be there momentarily, Mr. Smee.” As the little man hurries away, Killian leans in to check Emma’s pulse one more time. Still there, and still fighting. “Hang in there, darling, I’ll be back as soon as I can,” he murmurs, brushing a lank curl away from her face before heading on deck.

———

Sneaking into Neverland is the easy part; Killian knows how to navigate these waters better than anyone else, and could practically steer them along the hidden currents straight into a hidden bay with his eyes closed. That’s not hard, not anymore, not after hundreds of years. He can handle the wheel with a practiced hand, and the crew knows these routes just as well as he does, moving as one body in a synchronized effort.

No, the hard part is traversing through the dense tropical jungle that covers almost every inch of this accursed island. When Killian had been here and forced to traverse the island regularly, there’d been a set of paths that he made sure to keep cleared. However, even the foliage has a mind of its own in a place so steeped in magic as Neverland, and vines, flowers, and all manner of other flora would quickly overtake even the most established of trails if not regularly traversed and cleared. After an absence of several years, the trails have become nigh on impassable, and Killian is forced to hack his way through the greenery with his sword with every step he takes, doing his best to avoid vicious thorns and especially the variety of intoxicants that grow so prevalently. He knows what each of them induces - vivid hallucinations, unconsciousness, unbearably heightened libido and all manner of other things - and knows he doesn’t have time for any of their inconveniences. Time is of the essence, with Emma’s condition worsening by the minute.

Tinkerbell’s home should be just ahead, if he remembers right, and he’s spent far too much time trekking along this path through the years for him to remember incorrectly. Tink may have lost her wings, but she’s never stopped longing for the freedom she once found in the skies, and her abode reflects that: a series of platforms and reed walls nestled within the branches of the tallest tree for miles around, offering one of the best views of Neverland. It’s only topped by the cliffs of Deadman’s Peak, but Killian won’t go back there for anything - too many memories of Liam collapsing from the Dreamshade’s poison to make even the most beautiful view worse the effort to get up there and the pain, both emotional and physical, it evokes. Tink almost certainly knows he’s here already - Killian is quite familiar with the sightlines the treehouse offers, and there’s a clear view of the harbor where the Jolly has dropped anchor. Hell, she probably even saw him and Smee rowing over, maybe even can spot where the mousy little man waits with the rowboat on the sandy beach. Regardless, he’ll need to be on his guard; he can’t imagine he’ll be treated to a warm welcome from his former ally.

Sure enough, he’s barely stepped into the clearing she so carefully maintains around her tree before there’s the press of cold metal against his throat - a knife point, its wielder seemingly having materialized from the depths of the jungle. “You’ve got an awful lot of nerve coming back here after what you did to me, Hook,” she hisses, venom dripping from every syllable of her words. “Did Pan catch up to you after all? Or are you just back to make nice, because let me tell you, it won’t work. Save your pretty words.”

“Neither,” he croaks in response, doing his best not to move his throat too much. Already, there’s a trickle of blood creeping its way down his neck from where the point of her weapon had pricked him, and he doesn’t relish the thought of that little dagger digging any deeper. “I’m not here for me, or for you. I’m here on behalf of someone else.”

“And why should I believe you?” Tink demands, pressing in closer. “Everyone knows that Captain Hook only cares about his own interests.”

“Because it’s the truth!” He doesn’t have any better answer than that, but somehow, Killian knows it won’t be enough. “Because I’ve told you of my past, and you know I used to be a man of honor. Because I’ve never told you a lie. Because I wouldn’t come back to this hellhole without a damn good reason. Because a woman doesn’t deserve to die because you can’t bring yourself to believe me!” His voice rises with each excuse without his conscious decision until he’s yelling, and it’s only Tinkerbell’s slight step back that keeps him from being stuck like a pig.

“This woman,” she asks, finally sheathing the knife back at her waist, “you love her?”

“Most certainly not,” Killian huffs and crosses his arms into a defensive posture - as if the words of one petite blonde fairy could physically harm him. Fool. “But I do care for her. She deserves to live her life, and a good one at that. Isn’t that enough?”

“Sure it is,” Tink replies easily - though Killian does spot a knowing, almost mischievous twinkle in her eye. Bloody fairy probably didn’t believe a word he said. “Where do I come in, though? You haven’t been particularly… illuminating in this defensiveness.”

“As if I could get a word in edgewise with that damned knife to my throat,” he mutters.

“Like I’m the first one to try that. Now talk, pirate.”

And he does. He tells Tink all about Emma and her curse, True Love gone bad and their failed attempts to find the woman who could reverse the whole thing. He’s barely touched on the illness now causing Emma to waste away before his very eyes before Tink starts shaking her head.

“I can’t do anything for her, Hook,” she tells him, voice dripping with regret. “I’m sorry.”

“Why in the hell not?” Never mind the fact that her tone is honest, sympathetic even, offering no indication that she’s telling anything but the unfortunate truth. “You’re a fairy —”

“ — a former, disgraced fairy —”

“Semantics. This is a curse, brought on by True Love. You’re supposedly an expert in that very phenomenon. And you’re saying that you can’t do anything?”

“Curses aren’t like other magic,” Tink explains. “They’re very specific to the caster, and designed to last. Any meddling that I, or anyone else, would attempt would only make an already bad situation worse. As for True Love… it’s the most powerful magic of all, and any curse infused with it would be doubly strong. I can’t imagine what bottled love gone sour would do, but I can’t imagine anything good. The thing about True Love is that there’s nothing else like it - there’s no substitute and it can’t be replaced. I know you think that I know everything there is about True Love, but I can’t fix this.”

“Well what about fairy dust?” Killian demands, not even attempting to hide the desperation in his voice anymore. There has to be something, anything; he doesn’t want to admit that they’re staring down defeat.

“Fairy dust is… That’s not what it does. It’s a structural thing, a tool; it can enchant objects, or lend extra power to potions or enchantments, but that’s it. It’s useless for the kind of curse breaking that you want.” Despite all the threats that started their interaction, Tink’s voice is gentle as she reiterates her apology. “I’m sorry, Killian. I wish I could help her, but there’s just nothing I can do.”

Killian nods in response, his mind going numb as the reality of those words sinks in. This was already their last wild hope, and all for naught. It’s the end of the line. “Thank you for trying,” he hears himself say distantly. “I’ll, uh… I guess I’ll…”

“Go to her,” Tink finishes. He can’t quite read the odd, soft little smile on the fairy’s face, and frankly, he’s too exhausted to try - both physically and emotionally.

“Gather your things, if you like,” he offers before turning to leave. “We’ll be happy to take you away from here.”

As Tinkerbell bustles off to pack whatever odds and ends she wants to keep, Killian begins to make his way back through the woods along the newly remarked path. There’s half a temptation to move slowly and put off having to convey the full extent of his failure for as long as he can; Killian doesn’t relish the thought of having to crush Swan’s hopes yet again, if she’s even well enough to hear it. It’s a selfish thought, though, and he does his best to push it aside. It’s obvious that Emma doesn’t have much time left, and after all her years alone, if she’s going to die, she deserves someone holding her hand until the very end. With that in mind, Killian forces himself to hurry, rushing through the jungle as quickly as he can without tripping on any vines or stray roots.

As it is, he’s terrified that they’re too late when Starkey, one of his last sailors from the Navy days, meets the rowboat as soon as it’s hauled aboard.

“It’s not looking good, Captain,” he says. “We’ve got the cabin boy down there trying to keep her hydrated, but.. It’s not looking good, Captain.”

“I’ll make that judgement for myself,” he all but snaps. He’ll have to apologize to the man later, but panic and fear has a way of removing the niceties from one’s speech. What’s more important is getting down to his cabin and assessing the situation for himself.

It’s just as bad as he’d been warned, however. Emma looks almost grey in the skin and scales, and as much as young Hawkins is obviously trying to pour fresh water over her skin, it’s obvious that she’s absorbing none of it, every inch of her flesh dry, cracked and flaking. He’s terrified to check for a pulse, half convinced he won’t find anything. He supposes that the boy wouldn’t be trying his best to keep her comfortable if he didn’t still think she had life in her though. Speaking of which:

“Thank you, lad, that will be fine for now,” Killian says quietly, a little afraid to break the quiet that dominates the sickroom his cabin has become. “Close the door on your way out, please.”

“Aye, Captain,” young Hawkins replies, hopping into motion as soon as the cup he’d been using is replaced in the bucket of water next to the tub, but Killian barely hears him, not even processing when the heavy cabin door shuts with a soft thud.

Her breath is just a fluttery little thing now that he can barely feel on the back of his hand held close to her face. Killian is suddenly struck with the sudden urge to hold her close in these last minutes and hours, provide her with some of that deeply human comfort she’s been denied for so long. It’s obvious that the pool of water isn’t helping anyways; she’s dry as a bone, no matter how thoroughly she’s submerged or for how long. Knowing that, it’s easy to cave to the urge.

She’s so much lighter now than she was a mere month ago, the magic and the fever it’s caused eating away at her form. It barely takes any effort to pluck her from the tub and settle both of them on the edge of his bunk, her tail draped limply across his lap. No doubt they’re soaking the bed linens, but that doesn’t matter right now.

“I’m so sorry, darling,” he murmurs, running his hand gently down her arm in what he hopes will register as a comforting touch. “I wanted so badly to help you, to help you live the life you deserve, but I failed you, and I only hope one day you can forgive me from wherever you end up. I wanted so much better for you.” His throat is becoming suspiciously tight. When did he become so attached to Swan? “I think that I might have come to love you, given the chance,” he admits, “but I guess we’ll never know. Whatever happens, I just want you to know that I’m here. I’ll be here until the very end. It’s alright, if you’re ready to rest.”

He holds her for a while longer, rocking her body back and forth and stroking her hair. When her pulse is so slow as to be almost indiscernible, Killian blinks back the tears to try and give her a proper goodbye.

“Thank you for everything, my Swan, all the trust you’ve placed in me. I’ll never forget you,” he murmurs. “Godspeed.” And in a final gesture, Killian leans down to place a soft kiss on her lips - a tender sealing of all the things that might have been.

That’s when it happens.

It starts as warmth, a gentle glow that seems like it’s suffusing every pore and fills him with a sense of peace that he never expected to feel in this moment. That warmth increases and expands, however, until it’s no longer contained just within his body and instead washes outwards over the whole room in a bright flash of rainbow light that he pulls away from Emma’s form just in time to see. Under other circumstances, Killian might take the time to investigate, to wonder exactly what just happened —

— but in that same moment, Emma stirs in his arms.

“Swan?” he queries softly, barely daring to hope.

Sure enough, though, her eyes flutter open, clearer than he’s seen in days and fully alert. “Jones?” She croaks. “What happened?”

“I… I don’t know,” he stammers back, stroking his hand along her cheek in wonder. What had only moments ago been sunken, dry, and grey is soft and warm again, healthily plump in the way that cheeks should be. “I thought you were doomed. I thought it was any moment now, and I —” he blushes, realizing how that kiss might sound now — “well, I moved to kiss you goodbye. But then there was this flood of warmth of light, and you woke up. I don’t know how.”

“You kissed me?” Emma doesn’t sound outraged, like he expected; rather, she just sounds curious. Maybe a little confused too.

“Yes, I kissed you - just a little kiss, mind you, nothing untoward - but then you woke up, and —”

It seems to strike them at the same time - the implications of what those two undeniable facts put together might mean. True Love’s Kiss. Emma’s eyes are blown wide with an emotion he can’t quite name - shock? Fear? Something else entirely? Whatever the case, Killian is certain that he must look much the same, as he knows that his thoughts are racing in a chaotic mess at the revelation. Emma scrambles to sit upright as it sinks in, bracing herself on his shoulders and scooting her bottom underneath her.

That’s when they notice the other revelation.

“Are those…” Killian murmurs in wonder before Emma completes his thought.

“Legs.” She pats frantically - nay, excitedly - at the limbs, beaming up at Killian with her own joy suffusing every bit of her countenance. “My legs. My… naked legs.” That’s another thing they both notice at the same time - her unclothed state. Both flush a furious red, and Killian hurriedly drags a blanket over her lower half.

“That’s better,” he mutters, trying to subdue the bright crimson staining his cheeks like some untried lad with his first paramour. Emma doesn’t even seem to hear him, though.

“I’m free,” she breathes, smiling a brilliant smile like he’s never seen before. It suits her, like a piece he didn’t know was missing in his perception of Emma Swan. “I can go anywhere.”

“Anywhere you want, and I’ll take you there,” Killian vows. Almost as soon as he says it, though, he’s struck with a spike of uncertainty. “That is, if you want me to.”

He almost expects her to say no. He’s a pirate, and he’s acting a bit presumptuously, and he’d understand entirely if she’d rather seek different company or even no company at all.

But Emma surprises him, shyly returning her hands to his chest. “I’d like that,” she declares softly.

With those words, Killian’s heart feels like it’s about to fly right out of his chest in fluttery, hesitant joy and optimism. “Then we’ll do exactly that.”

———

And they do.

There’s things to do, and stops to make, but now, almost a month after Emma’s miraculous cure, they’re finally faced with the open sea and no plans to speak of.

Killian can’t wait.

Things with Emma are… evolving. They’re both fully aware of the power of that kiss, and what exactly it means, but it’s still terrifying to admit that. They’ve both been hurt by love, scarred in physical and emotional ways that they carry with them to this day. This feels different, and Killian will be the first one to admit it - light and hopeful and genuine, all feelings that he’s all but forgotten in the past three hundred years - but he still carries that memory of how deeply love can hurt when it’s ripped away from you. It’s terrifying to commit to that - to hand over such a power to another person again.

Still, they’re evolving. They spend their nights telling stories and searching out different constellations before Emma retires to his bunk and Killian to the cot placed where her ridiculous tub had once sat, now just a bathing vessel again. They’d tried sleeping apart - the crew had gladly cleared out a cabin for Emma and Tinkerbell to share as they ventured back towards a town where Emma could procure new clothes - but had both discovered that they’d come to find a comfort in the other’s presence, even in the short amount of time they’d travelled together on their search for a cure. After that, they’d quickly agreed with barely any discussion to bring the cot in instead. Killian insists Emma take the bunk, even if it’s likely not any more comfortable. It’s the least he can do, especially since he’s trying to rediscover how to be a gentleman again.

(For her - all for her. It’s funny how, even at his most hesitant, Emma makes him want to be the kind of man she deserves again.)

As slowly as their relationship is developing, Killian like learning how to enjoy all the little gestures of blooming affection again. Every brief touch sends butterflies into flight in his stomach, every smile carefully catalogued to see how he can elicit it again. They’d had an almost perfect day when they’d stopped in a small village to restock supplies and procure Swan some clothes of her choice, as Killian was able to grasp her hand and twine their fingers together to lead her through the market. When he’d bought her a flower on a whim, a soft pink Middlemist rose, Emma had blushed prettily before taking it with a small smile and gentle fingers. In that moment, he’d finally started to embrace the hope that the two of them could truly become something together. He’d even given her a kiss on the cheek goodnight.

(Tink had teased them mercilessly after that, even more than she already had, but it had been easy enough to ignore her behind his haze of happiness. Still, it’d been a relief to leave the smug fairy at the port of her choice to try and find a way to earn her wings again. Killian wishes her the best of luck.)

With Tinkerbell gone and no more curse or impending death hanging over their heads, there’s a sense of peace about Killian that he thinks Emma feels too, especially now that they’ve reached open waters once again. Privately, he wonders if she’ll miss her tail one day - not the curse itself, but the ease in the water that her scales had brought. It’s far too soon to broach the topic though, and Killian has a plan anyways - he’s heard before of bracelets from Glowerhaven that can grant the wearer the tail and powers of a mermaid for as long as they wish, and he’ll be happy to buy them both such a bauble if that day ever comes.

Emma waits at the deck’s railing, surveying the waves as sunlight bounces off their peaks and glitters in the clear day. She looks so beautiful like this, so human and happy that Killian can’t help but stop for a moment just to watch. There’s still something of the siren in her, with her lovely blonde curls and long legs in soft breeches and boots calling to him, but he knows that now, that’s only because he’s utterly enchanted in the most mundane, non magical way. True Love - if he’s brave enough to grab it. With that thought bouncing around his head, he finally takes the finally steps forward to stand next to Emma, his hand and hook placed on the rail alongside Emma’s. She casually - a little too casually - twines her pinky finger around his, almost short circuiting his mind, especially with the small smile she offers him after he stares in awe at their entwined fingers a moment too long. That brings him back out of it.

“Do you know where you want to go, love?” he asks. That’s another thing to get used to - learning to mean every letter of those little nicknames he’s tossed around so casually with other women again.

“Everywhere,” she grins back, the note of teasing in her voice belied by the fact that he knows she really does want to explore the entire world and somehow try to make up for 600 years trapped in the same place. Maybe tonight he’ll test his luck and kiss her again - it’s hard not to want to when she says things like that.

“As you wish, love,” he replies, moving to squeeze her entire hand.

They’ve got an awful lot of world to see, and ocean to cover, and the rest of their forever to do it in.

#cssns #captain swan #cs ff #my writing #A Drowning Soul Will Clutch at Any Straw #mermaid!Emma

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hollyethecurious · 5 years

Note

The art you made for shireness-says’s fic is GORGEOUS!! Love the overall color tone and the specific images you chose!

Thank you!! I am so pleased with how it came out. You always hope to do the story justice, especially one as wonderful as A Drowning Soul, but sometimes you can be limited by what images are available. I really lucked out in finding images that matched what was in my brain as I’d read @shireness-says words.

Thanks again for taking the time to drop into my Ask Box with your lovely comments. If you haven’t already, please share some of that love with Devon. Her story is amazing and she deserves all the flails!

#lovely shipmates #a drowning soul will clutch at any straw #adswcaas #fanart for fanfic #scientificapricot

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write-nerdy-to-me · 2 years

Note

For someone first getting into the ship, what would you say your favorite captain swan fanfics are? I guess I'm asking you because I've read the tags on some of the captain swan posts you've reblogged, and what seems to draw you to them as a couple hits me too. I lay myself at the mercy of your taste 🙏

oh gosh, i'm honored. captain swan have held a special place in my heart for years, and i'm delighted to hear that you've boarded the ship. but to be honest with you, i only started reading ouat fics semi-recently, so my rec list will be small. even at the mercy of my taste, if you don't vibe with any of these that is totally okay. (i know i am a picky bitch, which may or may not play into why the list is short.)

thank you for the ask, anon! 💜

(fics listed in no particular order below the cut)

something suspiciously like hope | rated G The moment Captain Hook opens himself up to the possibility of love (Season 2, Episode 9)

all love is time travel | rated T Killian has long been a captain, and so he does not show weakness or indecision unless he wishes to. Still, the desire to vouch for their chances of success is difficult to balance with the pressing need to school those uninformed of Neverland’s horrors as to the dangers that lie ahead. All this, under the sneer of Cora’s daughter and the reptile stare of his greatest enemy. All this, before Emma Swan.

wait for the morning (i'll be waiting for you) | rated T When Emma still feels like danger is just around the corner, even after Pan’s curse is averted, she takes to wandering Storybrooke’s streets at night. She’s not the only one. Differences in timing and circumstance can change everything - but some things are inevitable.

keep your heart beating | rated G A short missing/extended scene of Emma returning Killian's heart. A little angst, a little fluff. For anyone who watched that scene and needed it to be a million times longer.

learning how to breathe | rated G Set soon after Dark Hollow at some nebulous point. Emma confronts her parents about Neal, and it leads to a heart-to-heart with a certain pirate.

it would kill me (if you didn't know) | rated M (Blatant disregard of canon to follow--don't make me rewatch the show, please) They saved Henry but all got separated in the process, and when they finally made it back to the ship, Emma realized that they were down a man. She's just gonna have to save him. This features some pretty awesome Emma/David bonding, too. This is a classic 'Killian's been taken while saving them and now he's being tortured and Emma isn't gonna stand for it' fic. I've read them all, and I just needed more. POV switches 3rd person between Killian and the others.

killian, persuaded | rated T AU — Storybrooke — When a stunning betrayal forces Killian Jones to reevaluate his life, he finds himself unexpectedly rescued by his estranged brother. Traveling to Maine to meet the family he didn’t know existed, he immediately comes face-to-face with the woman he pushed away a decade before. This time around he’s determined to be a better man and, if he’s lucky, win back the only woman he ever loved. Basically a Hallmark movie with OUAT characters. (The Romance One)

in the offing | rated M AU - Storybrooke - Emma Swan is drafted to help Liam Jones clear his brother’s name in the disappearance of a former flame. As she digs deeper into the rash of missing person cases, she risks losing more than just her heart as she uncovers the truth. (The Mystery One)

a drowning soul will clutch at any straw | rated T Though this is far from Killian Jones' first encounter with a mermaid, he's never met any quite like this blonde siren. Together, can they break a cruel curse?

sea-foam eyes and a salt-water smile | rated T Killian Jones has seen a lot of things in his job as a private investigator for supernatural beings - but the selkie who walks into his office asking for help is something new and mesmerizing.

#anonymous #captain swan #fic recs #captain swan fic #thank you anon <3 you're so sweet #as always please be mindful of the tags and warnings #(ngl going through my bookmarks made me realize maybe i should make notes about what the fics are bc i lichrally forgot them lmao)#(it's been a hot minute)#nerdy replies

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perseusjackson-jasongrace · 3 years

Note

Hi I dont know if you want jercy requests at the moment but i had an idea for one :

Dark percy murdering calligula as a revenge for jason

Hello angel! Whew this request was willldddddd and I had soo much fun with it. There isn't any jercy per se (in fact Annabeth and Percy are together in this) but Percy is furrrrrious about Jason and he exacts a very twisted sort of revenge for his friend's honour. Basically this was an excuse to write dark!percy and by gods I hope I delivered!

CW: revenge driven, grief, graphic depictions of violence

Burning Maze Spoilers

he used to be nice.

He used to be nice.

Percy had been digging around the weapons room when his name had been shrieked like a dying animal. He had been looking for protective gear to give to little demigods in his sword-fighting class, when a scream like broken bones cracked through his body. He had been starting another calm, routine-controlled day at camp half-blood when he heard the news that made him snap.

*Two hours earlier*

“Jackson,” Annabeth knocks at his cabin door. He hears her voice carry through the open windows, and over the continuous sound of the ocean. “Pers, we have breakfast in half an hour and you have a sword class to teach today.”

The event had been printed on her wall of “to-dos” so that neither of their adhd brains would have the chance to forget. But he groans at the reminder, not wanting to escape his warm bed, or the duvet that wraps around him like a hug, or the pillows that hold his head as if he is a god. Sometimes he wishes he was a Hypnos kid. Their whole thing is sleeping . The knock sounds again.

“Seaweed Brain, come on,” His girlfriend sighs, “You promised we’d talk to Chiron about the—"

The loud and obnoxious cry of a harpy sounds somewhere in the distance and whatever she says next is drowned out completely. He knows though. Knows what she’s going to say and what they have to do. So he drags himself out of bed, like the last sack of potatoes on the crate. Heavy and bruised and discarded for the most desperate of the lot.

“I’m up,” He manages to rasp. He doesn’t like talking to people till he’s brushed his teeth, and eaten something, and spent at least half an hour staring at an empty coffee cup. A New Yorker through and through he supposes.

“Okay,” He hears Annabeth call, “I’ll see you at the dining hall then.”

He makes a sound half way between a grunt and a yawn and hopes she understands because that’s the best she’s getting out of him. The morning routine is quick, even done at the speed of a stubborn toddler. Soon he is sitting at the Poseidon table, scarfing down eggs and toast, and washing it done with a second cup of coffee. The buzzing in his veins is completely normal. And he’s definitely not speaking at a thousand miles an hour. This is how he always talks. Why on earth they allow coffee in a camp full of adhd kids, he’ll never understand. But it works in his favour so he isn’t going to complain.

By the time him and Annabeth are done talking to Chiron about introducing therapy to the camp, he feels like his eyes are moving faster than his sensory receptors can process and his thoughts are moving faster than his ability to process at all. So when his girlfriend, smiling at him about something, stops outside their training room he looks at her with furrowed brows and asks, “What are we doing here? Are we training for something?”

She frowns, “How much coffee did you have this morning?”

“Only three cups.” He shrugs, and clenches his hands in his pockets as if she can see through the fabric to the shaking body underneath.

Her grey eyes widen as if she’s about to scold him, a petulant child being chided by their ever tired caregiver. It makes the part of him still attempting to function slightly wild. He squishes that part down with the force of a thousand ships. Someone calls Annabeth’s name so with a quick peck to the cheek she leaves him in front of the training room and jogs towards the middle of camp and out of sight.

He stares at the room, trying to get his brain to stop focusing on things he doesn’t need to focus on right now, like the three lines of a song he heard at the grocery store a week ago that he hasn’t been able to get out of his head.

He used to be nice.

Entering the training room he scans the schedule and sees he’s teaching a class of small people, campers younger than ten who are just learning the ropes but should disaster ever strike will be ushered to the Cabin 9 bunkers to wait out the storm. It is a rule that no-one under the age of twelve be subject to war if they need not be. And he will make damn sure the need never ever surfaces.

He gathers swords of various shapes and sizes, along with a few daggers, and the straw dummies that have seen better days. It boggles his mind that they’re at a camp for children of literal greek gods but somehow there’s no funding for basic necessities like extra cots in the Hermes cabin, and better dummies to stab.

Muttering to himself he moves aside metal and stacks of straw, trying to find protective gear in the pile dumped at the corner of the training room. When he doesn’t see any he lets out a long suffering sigh... he has to go to the weapons room, which is more of a broom closet with deadly devices than anything else.

The room smelt musty, and the reek of rust slams into his nostrils at dizzying speeds. It reminds him of blood, and it made his skin itch with the need to get out. But still he bends down and searches through the mess of celestial bronze, and gold and—

The scream cauterizes his happiness. He is panic and pain and death and everything brutal in a single awful instant.

“PERCY!” His name has never sounded so full of agony, each syllable holds the stages of grief.

He is running towards the anguish before he’s even fully realises what’s going on. But what he sees when he crests the hill is enough to make the warmth of his heart run burning cold.

Annabeth is curled on the ground, tears like rivers of woe streaming down her cheeks and a purple flag clutched tightly in her fists.

“What happened?” His voice is soft. If he hears himself too loudly he’s going to shatter.

Annabeth cries harder, her whole body shuddering. Grief is overwhelming. Grief is all consuming. Grief will make itself known like thorns in your thumb or bullets in your heart.

“What happened?” He repeats.

And someone, far away, right next to his ear, inside his head, says, “It’s Jason, Jason Grace. He’s dead.”

He used to be nice.

It takes him three days. Three days of non-stop travelling, by foot, and air, and sea, to reach Caligula’s home. A palace. A grave. It is three days too long. Too long for a murderer to be walking free as if there are no consequences to his vile actions. But still he is here now and he will see the fall of a great, and watch how he bleeds just like everyone else. Not gold, the colour of the emperor’s one true love, but red, the colour of his victims.

Percy's eyes are almost black with violence, green so dark it reflects the night sky. His hands clench and unfurl as if practicing to wrap around a throat and squeeze till the symphony of breathing plays its last note. His body is strung taut, a bow string waiting to release. He is murder. He is nothing. He is your worst nightmare.

“Caligula.” He scrapes. It is the exact sound of a sword sparking against stone. “Come out, come out, wherever you are.”

Nothing but scared silence greets him. He can feel the fear coating the walls of this burial ground like a fresh coat of paint. He will make a playground of the blood he spills, will invite all manner of creatures to use it as a park. He will revel in the slaughter he is about to participate in.

“Caligula!” His voice is the sharp edge of a small knife. Unassuming but deadly. ‘“It is no use hiding. There is no place you could go where I couldn't find you.” He feels the earth sway underneath him, and he grins. Oh this is going to be fun.

“Fine Emperor, if this is how you want to do it.”

With a shrug, he flings out an arm and turns three columns to dust. He watches the stone crumble, feels the sand on his palm as if he was crumbling the columns in his hands like soft cheese. With a small stomp of his foot a crack rivaling the river Thames splits the marble floor in half. The entire structure shudders, creaks right above him. His grin only gets wider, more dangerous.

“I will level this place to the ground. I will erase it from history as if it had never been. You will not exist Caligula, because you will go with it. Will be crushed under the weight of your own wealth.”

“You’re a fool,” A voice, reedy and nasalled in a way that has his soul curdling, shouts from somewhere on the far side of the room. “You will crush us both."

Percy laughs. He laughs and the sound widens the cracks in the floor. It is deep, and wild, but in the way a wild thing is caged: snapping at it’s bars, hissing to be free. He laughs.

“You are a fool Caligula. A fool if you think i am not willing to die if it means you suffer. A bigger fool still if you think it will not give me great pleasure to spend my last moments watching the life leave your eyes,”

The distant sound of bubbling starts to fill the room. Percy wonders if he can make blood boil. His mother has certainly said so enough times.

“Leave now half-blood,” The Emperor spits. There is still something of arrogant, misplaced bravery in his voice. It amuses Percy. “Leave now and you will not face the consequences.”

“And pray tell,” He contemplates, “Who you think will deliver your consequences if i leave?”

A scoff that echoes into the pathways of his brain comes from the back of the room. “I do not need consequences dealt. I have done nothing to deserve them.”

The sound of bubbling is getting louder. He looks curiously at the cracks still spidering around the room. “Ah Emperor,” He tuts, “That is where you are wrong. People who deserve consequences hardly ever get them. It is those who don’t think they deserve them that become the unlucky bearers.”

“What are you going on about, boy?” He snarls.

The bubbling is loud enough now that Percy almost checks to see if a small brook has carved its way through the floor. There is nothing there except ever growing cracks, turning to rifts and canyons before his eyes.

He used to be nice.

“We can do this one of two ways Caligula.” He starts, honey bees with a sting a little too sharp to be defence. “You can apologise and I’ll kill you quickly, or…” His smile is sickening. “And this is my preferred method, I could watch you die slowly, watch the life drain from your body and into the soil of blood-crops that will grow here, and your dying words will be the mercy you will inevitably beg for.”

The bubbling spills over the cracks, leaking salty water onto the dying marble floor.

“Better choose soon oh dear Emperor,” He giggles, “I am the only thing holding this room together. As soon as I let go the floor will split like your loyalties. You will be crushed to death by your own greed. And if that doesn't happen you will surely drown.” To emphasise his point water starts gushing from the floor, no longer a bubbling stream but a raging river. His laughter is carried along the ripples that hit the walls, already leaking with the all encompassing ocean. “Wouldn’t it be a pity Caligula? To drown in your own home, surrounded by all the things you killed for, watching as they drown with you?”

“Shut up half-blood,” He screeches, “You do not have the power it takes to kill me. You are nothing compared to the centuries I have been alive.”

“Do you know who i am honouring Caligula?” He asks softly, a stark and terrifying contrast to his smile a moment before. “In all your centuries can you remember but one demigod, a dear friend of mine, but just another victim of yours?”

“Does it matter?” He scoffs, “They are all the same in the end. All bleed, and cry, and piss, and die the same.”

The grin Percy lets loose starts hurricanes. It is the absolute wrong thing to say. ‘“If it is all the same to you Emperor,” He becomes terror. “Then i think i’ll spill your blood at his altar.”

And before the doomed emperor could react an invisible hand wraps around his throat and he was being dragged to the middle of the room. His eyes wide, popping out of his head; hands clawing at his neck as if trying to remove the grip they cannot feel; feet flopping helplessly underneath him.

“Apologise for killing Jason Grace.” It is a command.

Caligula glares, attempting to spit at his feet.

Percy tilts his head and with a single crook of his finger he slams the emperor into the wall. The crack is deafening. It makes him grin.

“Apologise for killing Jason Grace.”

Caligula produces an ancient roman gesture, passed through time as if centuries cannot dismantle the insults of humans.

Percy twists his wrist and the emperor’s body contorts into something unrecognizable, bones snapping and shattering to fit their new mold.

“Apologise for killing my friend.”

“Fuck you,” He manages to choke out.

A wave of ocean water alarming in its beauty rises behind him. He is its god. And with a wink he shoves all of it down the emperor’s throat. The column of that pale neck bobs as if attempting to take the water down. He can see the body trying to retch it all up, unable to handle the sheer amount, the salt that comes with it.

“Watch Caligula,” He motions to the palace sinking under the weight of his ocean, “Watch as everything you have ever cared to love drowns.”

Percy grabs a shard of mirror, uncaring of the gash it sweeps across his palm. He holds it up to the ancient powerful Emperor, who is convulsing into nothing. “Watch.”

He used to be nice.

Sometime later when Percy Jackson walks up a hill, and into the fading sun there is nothing but content mania lining his features, and behind him where a grand home once stood, is a trickling river and a single spear carved with the words, “Neo Helios”. The only sign that Caligula, Emperor and murderer, ever existed,

He used to be nice.

Until someone killed his friends.

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

[image id: printed text that reads, "I used to be nice." end id]

#Percy Jackson #Jason grace #Annabeth Chase #Caligula #PJJG fanfic #He used to be nice #Firerose requests #PJJG asks #burning maze spoilers #toa spoilers #trials of apollo spoilers

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hazymultiverse · 5 years

Note

Not sure if this is allowed but, ★★Reader being railed by Purple Haze because Fugo is sexually repressed, but reader doesn't know Fugos feelings OwO

Oh its allowed.

And encouraged. Send me all your stand fucking asks, I’m literally asking you nicely please send stand thirst thank you.

Warnings for: NSFW, rough sex, slight dub con??? Bc reader doesn’t know if Fugo wants it (but he does.)

—

“I think Fugo hates me.”

Mista shifted the phone from ear to ear, and you could hear the rub of the speaker against his hat, “Why would you say that?”

“Come on man, you heard what happened with Purple Haze.” You wince slightly, recalling the earlier events.

The stand had charged towards you as soon as he was summoned, paying no heed to Fugos panicked demands to stop. He had been wrestled before any true damage was done, but you’d been knocked to the ground, driving the wind out of you, and the mission had nearly been compromised. Fugo had been mortified, refusing to talk to you afterwards, the entire drive to the safe house was kept in suffocating silence.

Even after arriving, he insisted on you staying back while he went to pick up food, which gave you ample time to call Mista.

“Stands are just manifestations of the soul, right? So if Haze keeps attacking me, that means Fugo has some subconscious hatred going on.”

Mista bit his lip, he knew Fugo didn’t hate you. Quite the opposite in fact, the guy was in love with you, but apparently all the book smarts in the world couldn’t teach you how to man up and talk to your crush.

“Well, it doesn’t always work like that.” The gunslinger offered instead, “I mean, look at the pistols! They don’t always act like me. A lot of stands have their own sentience and independence, maybe it’s just that they’re a bit disconnected.” Mista was grasping at straws at this point, partially trying to dance around spilling his friends deepest secrets, and partially from trying to put rhyme or reason to stand logic. (An oxymoron if he ever heard one)

“So, maybe it’s just Purple Haze that hates me?” You theorized.

“I wouldn’t say he hates you, I don’t think you’d be alive if he really hated you. I just don’t think he knows what’s what. Fugo doesn’t exactly let him out much.”

“So, he’s just not used to me, maybe?” You frowned, then shot your attention to the door as you heard the rattle of keys, “oh, Fugo’s back, gotta go.”

“Alright, take care- and uh, don’t worry about Panna’ hating you. Trust me, if he did? You’d know.”

—

Fugo had excused himself to one of the bedrooms as soon as he was done eating, and with not much else to do, you did the same, taking the room next door.

It was quiet, you had heard some pages turning through the thin wall, but they’d stopped, so you assumed he’d finally gone to sleep.

What was the problem? You’d never seen Fugo -or his stand- act like this around anyone else, but whenever you were around it was like he couldn’t get any control over Purple Haze. Had you done something wrong?

Shutting your eyes, you sighed, worrying about it all night would solve nothing, better to just go to sleep, and see about talking to him about it in the morning-

The air felt different.

Loud, rasping breaths hit your ear, warm air hitting your face.

Slowly, you opened your eyes, freezing in place as you saw Purple Haze standing over your bed.

You stayed, eyes locked, for what felt like ages. No sound in the house but his breathing, and the pounding of your heart.

“H-hey bud.” You finally croaked, “What’s wrong?”

A firm hand grabbed your shoulder, pushing you farther down into the bed, on instinct you went to push it away, but the thought of the capsules made you pause, gently placing your hand on his wrist instead. At the contact, the stand let out a low whine.

“Are you okay? Is something the matter?” You asked quietly, perplexed by the whole situation at this point.

With a growl, Haze leaned in closer to you, carefully nuzzling against your face and neck, steadily crawling onto your bed.

“Oh- alright- uh, not quite sure what this is, but uh, did you come here to spend time with me?”

The stand was fully on top of you now, hands wandering and rubbing at any part of you it could reach, pressing a hand firmly on your chest to hold you down when you began to squirm.

“I’m gonna be honest here, I have no idea what’s going on and- oh.”

Haze slid a hand under your hips, angling them up just enough to align with his pelvis, where in the dark of the room, there was definitely something rubbing against you.

Your mind raced, did stands have dicks? Or genitals at all? What the hell was happening? Is this why Haze kept jumping at you? Thank fuck that this hadn’t happened during the mission, if Fugo had seen, you’re sure he would have died of embarrassment.

“Hey, Fugo, are you awake?” You said, not quite a normal volume, knowing the walls were thin, but got no response, “So you just came out on your own?” You whispered to Haze, who simply gurgled and continued to rub against you.

Taking a deep breath, you attempted to assess the situation.

There was a highly dangerous stand with violent tendencies dry humping you like a horny teenager in your bed. The user of said stand, who would usually keep it from even reaching you, was asleep.

Your body had gotten undeniably warm from the rubbing and grabbing the stand had been doing, making your mind wander. You couldn’t quite see in the dark, but whatever was grinding against you was big, and tempting.

Your deliberation was taking too long however, and with a loud growl, you felt strong hands begin to tear your clothes off of you, unheeded by your pushing against his chest, and your lower half was quickly laid bare, cool fingers grabbing and poking at you.

When you felt a blunt tip of something that definitely wasn’t a finger poking at your slit, you quickly lunged forward, “No no! Wait!”

That caught his attention, and in what little light there was, you saw Hazes pleading, confused expression, accompanied by a garbled whimper.

“You have to be careful about this, just, if this is gonna happen, you can’t go in dry.” You felt crazy, when had you agreed to this? But something about the situation just drew you in, “Help me get my fingers wet?”

Drool and spit dripped down onto your fingers, oddly warm from the stands mouth.

“Thanks.” reaching down, you rubbed your spit covered fingers against your entrance, slowly sliding in a finger, then two.

Haze grumbled, clearly impatient, garbling and poking your hand.

Drawing your fingers back out, you sat back a bit farther, propped up on your elbows, a low anxiety building in your gut, you were excited to do this, and couldn’t deny the fact the stand had always intrigued you, but there was no way you could overpower it if things got out of hand, you’d never been able to, it was always Fugo.

Fugo.

“H-hold on, is your user really okay with this? I know you’re basically him, I don’t wanna do anything without his- oh god!”

Your time had run out, and Purple Haze thrusted inside of you, giving you no time to adjust before beginning a brutal pace.

You bit your hand, struggling to not cry out, Fugo was sleeping on the other side of the wall, and if he woke up and walked in on this? He’d never speak to you again.

On the other side of things however, you hadn’t been quite thorough enough in stretching yourself, unprepared for the stands sheer size. Thankfully, he seemed to have learned quickly, having slicked up his cock similar to your fingers beforehand.

The bed creaked loudly, and the loud wet noises of your pussy accompanied by the slap of his hips was near deafening in the still house. Blunt fingertips digging into your thighs as he rammed into you, drawing choked gasps from your lips.

The stretch quickly dulled into pleasure, your voice straining against your hand as pressure began to build deep in your core.

“Fuck!” You yelped out, clutching onto his shoulders, scrabbling for anything solid as you were sent hurtling towards your climax, “fuck, fuck fuck fuck- yessss~”

Haze seemed unaffected, continuing to snarl and pound into you at the same frantic pace as before, still holding you down and gripping your hip tight enough to bruise. Any thought of staying quiet had vanished quickly, though subconsciously, you prayed Fugo wouldn’t wake up to stop this.

Your orgasm wracked through your body with unmatched intensity,a low moan tearing from deep in your chest. No matter how tightly your walls clenched around him, he didn’t let up, nothing seemed to get through to him as you wailed and spasmed in his grip. Your hands pushing wildly at his chest, struggling to get enough breath to beg him to slow down just a bit as your oversensitive walls burned hot from the merciless treatment.

“Please- wait- fuck I can’t!” You yelped, and he let you go, pulling out and sitting back on his haunches. You whimpered at the relief, rolling over to bury your face in the cooler part of the sheets, “Thank you, good boy, so good, thank you.”

Familiar cool hands pulled your hips up once more, and with a groan you gripped weakly at the sheets, “again?”

The spit ladened howl said enough as he entered you again with a slick thrust.

“Alright, fine, but just take it easy. Ah!”

He did not.

Rutting into you like his life depended on it, Purple Haze hunched over you, voice far more pronounced, snarling and growling like a rabid animal.

Mind still numb from the previous orgasm, you gripped your pillow desperately, letting your mouth run.

“There we go big boy, you like that? Yeah? Oh come on, I know you want it so bad- you’ve just been trying to do this for weeks? Is that all?” You let out a disbelieving laugh, “Nearly got us killed earlier just to try and get your rocks offfffffffuck! Oh there we go baby there we go, right there.”

The praise seemed to strike a chord, one of the stands strong arms wrapping around your torso and pulling you close, wet slaps of his thighs against yours drowned out by the breath in your ear, panic inducing earlier, but comforting now, grounding you in a rhythm.

“You’ve got a lot to work out huh?” A growl in response, “Yeah, thought so. We’re just gonna be here a while then.”

—

Fugo sat, heart racing, ear pressed against the wall, listening to your sweet moans, cock in hand. Someday, he vowed, he would finally talk to you, and be on the right side of things.

But if this were the first step? Feeling the phantom warmth of your pussy around his dick, begging and praising his stand so sweetly, welcoming it with open arms and pulling it closer?

He could live with that.

#Asks #not sfw #inappropriate use of stands #Purple Haze #Pannacotta Fugo

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whirlybirdwhat · 4 years

Text

East Sea of Monsters - Chapter 22

Jimbe has always dreamed of suns

Shoutout to the wonderful @soccersarah01 who beta’d this fic for me - love you!!!

Read the entire series on Ao3 for better quality and author’s notes, especially warnings for content within the fic!! Tag “Ficart” on my blog should also show some fanart and podfics for this fic, as well as the link to translations! give them some love!

Sun - Jimbe

Jimbe is the first son of the sea, and he has always dreamed of suns.

Bright, red and bloody – passionate declarations of dreams and something better. A cry of understanding, in the one burned onto his chest, and a shout to the dream of a queen, a race, a kingdom - heralded overhead in bright colors, lighting up the sky.

Suns are red, and yellow, and orange.

Suns mean freedom – mean something better than this.

In his dreams, Jimbe is always reaching out to them. His webbed hand reaching and reaching – for the horizon, for a flag, for his queen, for Fisher Tiger, for something more.

He never seems to reach it.

All he has, when he wakes up, is his hand clutching his own heart, his own personal sun.

It isn’t the same. He’s never grasped that red sun.

Yet now –

Now, in a battlefield beneath a darkened sky, in a war with death in every heartbeat, in a massacre, a hell, Jimbe holds a dying sun.

This sun – it is not red, or bloody, or bright.

This sun is dark, and dying, and a supernova of the deepest pits of hell.

Jimbe holds Luffy as he explodes into something Jimbe can’t quite see, ripping past the Veil and into oblivion; watches Luffy erupt into grief covered by a brother’s blood, holding a sun brighter, and darker, and far more terrifying than anything Jimbe’s eyes have ever seen before.

(There’s something wet running down his face. He thinks his eyes are bleeding.)

Portgas D. Ace dies in his brother’s arms, a burning hellfire finally flickering out, and Jimbe can finally hold the sun.

(As men die and admirals fall, and the world is shaken apart by a grief and monster with insatiable hunger, he wishes he couldn’t.)

When Jimbe fights him for the first and last time, Ace is as the sun incarnate - the sun burning - even as he chokes on his own ashes and flares through sea water.

Jimbe had wondered, at first, what kind of strength it took for a devil fruit user to use his powers through the hate of the sea. It wasn’t a kind of strength he had attributed to the young warlord.

Then, Jimbe remembers the bones shaped into the hull of the Spadille; remembers the way Ace cracks apart in the corner of his eyes, and thinks it isn’t strength at all.

He knows the stories of the East. Every fishman does – the way waters corrupt, the way the waters are dark, and the way that monsters lurk beneath their surface, far deadlier than those at the bottom of the sea.

(They say the East has no seafloor – that it aches, forever, a wound into the world’s side, dark and infected. That it was the void from whence all hell poured forth, that it was death.)

Fisher Tiger had told him more, when he could bear to speak of it – monsters in chains, the way slaves and guards alike went missing in the night, the way people had sharper teeth than any animal, there, and were twice as bloody.

(Fisher Tiger hears the story of the bottomless East and laughs.

Dark waters, he says, eyes far away and hands aching for a weapon, are not endless. But you don’t want to know what’s at the bottom. Better it be endless, bottomless, then to know what’s there.

He doesn’t speak of the demon from the seafloor he met at the tower of gods.

Jimbe doesn’t ask.)

By the fire in Ace’s eyes and the unholy fire cracking from underneath his skin, there is no other sea that he could have possibly come from.

(A demon – a demon, a son of the devil-)

Jimbe fights Ace for five days. He hungers, and he thirsts, and he’s so tired, but Ace does not falter in the face of Jimbe’s sea, so he must keep going.

Jimbe burns, ropes of fire winding their way up his arms and down his back. Haki is useless when every hit cracks apart Ace’s skin, molding to his fists because of inhuman capability instead of any devil fruit, and the sea fears nothing but the devil.

(And it can only drown false ones.)

Ace lands a punch on the third day, one imbued with haki and fire and false fire. It hits Jimbe on the side of his face, and even as Ace stumbles and chokes on the way his skin cracks apart, Jimbe burns.

It cracks into his skin, searing apart scales and flesh, and he is marked by hellfire.

The other burns will fade, the ones littering his hands and feet, the ones made by false fire, devil fruit fire. The one on his face, burned into the side like a flame, and the ones wrapping around his forearms by scorching hands, will forever remain.

A reminder, some will say, but Jimbe will remember the way the flag burned at Fishman island by hellfire, and will know it is a sign of war to come.

Ace burns away the fog around them, on this island, showing the secrets of the world, and Jimbe fights surrounded by monstrous spades.

Monsters in human shape that tower above the trees, monsters without faces, monsters with too many teeth and too many limbs, monsters that smiled and cheered as their captain burned through saltwater.

Jimbe falls on the fifth day, a smile gracing his face toward an enemy that is so much more than him.

It is a miracle when Whitebeard arrives.

Otherwise Jimbe thinks he might have followed that sun to see where it may have set.

After Marineford, Jimbe shakes at night. He can’t speak of what he saw there, when the sun fell from the sky and became red and dark; when gouges were scarred into the ground and left bloody men in their wake.

After Marineford, Jimbe has another scar from a demon.

This one is not a mark of war.

It is a claim, directly around Jimbe’s heart, as if his future captain understood that the sun there was more precious than anything else.

(A dream)

It scares him, sometimes, that he wants to follow the man who fell the Navy - who ate the hearts and souls and flesh of admirals and spit them back out as dead men walking.

It scares him that he wants to follow Straw Hat Luffy, who wears a crown made of straw - made with room for the horns that sprout off his head -who will be king and who lives a trail of hell in his wake.

Jimbe does not remember Marineford well.

He does not remember –

(The island’s name no longer exists in his memory.

Don’t bring him there, Rayleigh had said, as they followed a submarine towards Amazon Lily. You will all be dead come morning.

Rayleigh smiled like a creature of the deep sometimes.

Jimbe wondered why he didn’t trust it.

Aye, Jimbe, fresh from a war, had agreed, and they didn’t go to Amazon Lily.

They went to–)

The aftermath, beyond the words that fought whatever beast lived in Luffy’s chest, born of loneliness and hell.

Jimbe shakes after Marineford, but now, under the sea, he will not forget the demon who saved an island.

(The brother of the demon who burned their flag.)

Luffy soars overheard, and defeats a legend made of wood and an army made of flesh. 1,000 men are unaccounted for in the aftermath.

Jimbe does not question it, and offers his blood to a demon who doesn’t need it.

(In the end, it wasn’t about blood anyway. It was about the things that bind men, the things like suns on Jimbe’s chest and the vows that still ring in his head.)

Luffy, full of teeth and bloody fangs, smiles at him, then, and Jimbe no longer belongs to himself.

In Impel Down, when Ace is chained to the wall next to Jimbe, the very first thing the demon does is laugh.

“It stayed!”

The scar on Jimbe’s face burns.

“You couldn’t bother to say hello?”

Ace laughs again, sparks flying out of his throat despite the sea stone wrapped around his limbs, and Jimbe knows that all the legends are true. “Why would I? There’s more important things going on.” He dismisses, and he is smiling, mouth glowing, despite their situation.

“Hmph,” Jimbe huffs, and settles down for the long wait.

Next to him, the breath of a demon settles into something slower, and though Jimbe’s eyes are long adjusted to the dark, the soft glow of Ace’s heart beat is a comfort.

(He wonders, when Fisher Tiger was chained next to monsters, if he ever felt this way.)

He does not sleep that first night in a cell with a demon. Jimbe, instead, listens to the thrumming of the sea outside his cell, and tries not to think about how the stone sinks around Ace and the hotness in his cell.

He tries not to think of the wet spots all over the walls, the gouges in the corner, and the way men enter and never leave Impel Down’s cold, cold walls.

Across from him, a man made of sand smirks, his hair still impossibly greased and jewels still lining his hand.

“So,” the Crocodile drawls, “They caught you too? A little hunger, picking us off one by one.”

Jimbe has heard how Monkey D. Luffy saved a country on the behest of a single friend; how the Crocodile was the first to fall and Moria didn’t come long after; how even the Marines whisper that he is hungry and Monkey D. Garp laughs at the lists of missing marines following Straw Hat battles.

A man, who hungered for the top.

Who hungered for dreams.

Odd, that Crocodile would assume Jimbe was next.

“No.” He says at last, the word drawn out. “No,” he repeats, and it echoes around the room, “he did not get me.”

The Crocodile cackles then, and it is nothing like Whitebeard’s Gurararara or King Neptune’s Hohohoho – it, instead, is dark like rumbling sands at night, without form or shape in the dark, and Jimbe shivers. “You will,” the Crocodile says. “You’re already marked for it.”

Jimbe has never met Monkey D. Luffy in his life, and the burn scars that arc about his face in a flaming pattern of death are invisible to his beloved crew, to the king, to anyone who isn’t–

Oh, Jimbe thinks and doesn’t say aloud, looking at the Crocodile once more. Oh.

He is glad Ace is the demon he is sharing his cell with.

Then, at the very least, he knows his heart won’t be ripped out of his chest while he sleeps.

On Fishman Island, at the bottom of the sea that is brighter than the East, there is a feast, and then a pirate challenges an emperor.

Jimbe is not surprised.

He cannot be.

(Hey, Jimbe, did’ya know I have a little brother?)

He can only watch, as a ship of dreams, of monsters, sails off into the sea without him; can only know that his home, his captain is leaving him.

(Aladine says Jimbe is different after Marineford – that every man who set foot upon that island is. It was war, Jimbe dismisses, but they have fought in wars before, have fought admirals before.

It’s different, fighting a demon, fighting with a demon, fighting for a demon.

It’s different when a demon eats you whole.)

Jimbe wants to go home.

Jimbe sees Garp the Fist once before Marineford.

It is in Impel Down, and he is crying from a thousand different eyes.

“Ace,” the grandfather of a dying child says, and it hurts. “Why, dammit! Why!”

His voice is like a choir of growls out of harmony. Still, Ace relaxes in his chains as if it were a lullaby.

“Gramps,” Ace acknowledges, and there is no anger there. “You know… you know why.”

Son of the Devil, Jimbe knows, but it’s more than that, isn’t it? More than Jimbe can see with two eyes made of mortality rather than death.

Garp crumbles, and it is as if Jimbe is seeing the fall of something great.

It’s horrible.

It won’t be the last one he sees today.

Garp leaves after that, to the chuckles of the Crocodile and the howls of the other inmates. There’s bloody marks and gouges on the ground where he was, but there is also something in Ace’s grasp.

It isn’t a key.

Jimbe can’t exactly see what it is, only that when Garp left Ace lunged for some empty spot on the ground, hand slipping out of a cuff with the ease of someone made molten, of someone with scars running down his hand due to a missing pinkie.

(How-?)

When Ace leaves, he leaves behind ash marks and burning droplets at Impel Down. He also leaves something feather soft, that Jimbe can’t quite see, but feels like the comfort of ages.

(Later, when Luffy arrives, he will look into the cell and see not Jimbe, but the place Ace left behind. He will pick up what Garp, what Ace, left between cell bars and he will not smile.

Instead, he will put it into his pocket to the sound of the Crocodile’s jeers.

Did’ya know I have a little brother? Ace had asked Jimbe.

(He knows, now.)

On the way up, when men are eaten alive, the Crocodile will slink next to Jimbe and whisper,

Did you know that the hungry one isn’t the first demon to break out of these walls?

And Jimbe will be left with the reminder that Impel Down has never been able to hold the monsters of the world–

And that they roam free.)

At Marineford, Jimbe stood with an emperor against three admirals (stood with men against a monster).

(Or so he is told.)

Now, he stands before an Emperor and does not shake.

A man who is to follow the future king of the pirates, a man who is to follow Luffy, a demon who has daggers in his mouth and boiling blood in his veins, cannot afford to be afraid of a mere emperor.

Big Mom’s eyes are hungry as she stares into Jimbe, but he does not flinch.

He is claimed - by marks around his own personal sun, by a king, by a monster, by a conqueror.

He is not Big Mom’s any longer.

He never was, from the moment Luffy looked into his eyes and took him.

(Jimbe cannot afford to be afraid of a mere hunger any longer. )

An emperor rages, a deal is done, and Luffy laughs so bright and loud it burns like the sun, as chaos reigns again, conforming to his will.

Jimbe has never felt so alive –

(Not since before Marineford – not since before the world fell apart.)

Jimbe sees Luffy and Ace together twice in his lifetime.

One is at Marineford, when brothers fought together, when the sun went out and the world went black.

(He does not remember it well – Ace’s smile was something almost too private to bear, even as blasts of Conqueror’s Haki illuminated the truth.)

The second, again, is at Marineford, but in it’s bloody aftermath.

When Luffy rings in an era, blood scarred on to his arm by his own hands - a call to his crew, to his family - he stops by the place where his brother died.

Jimbe wonders if this was what Loguetown was like, to see a king stand in ashes.

(The Devil King did not cry at Loguetown, only laughed.

Luffy is crying.)

He sees Luffy cradle bits of Ace’s bonfire in his arms, the only person who could bear to touch it, and sees brothers reunite for one last time.

(There is a chill over Marineford, as Luffy draws in the ashes of Ace’s own body turned funeral pyre. Jimbe can’t read what he writes, but there is a spark, somewhere, in Luffy’s eyes, and something in the air breathes more easily.)

Days after, Marineford sinks to the bottom of the sea, its ravines and cracks from a monster's grief too terrible to sustain – Luffy’s rage, his echoing cry for a new era, is its final send off.

Jimbe wonders if the Eastern sailors found their way home, at the bottom of the sea.

(There’s no sun down at the bottom of the sea.

Jimbe would hate to drown like that.)

In the middle of a raging ocean just off of an Emperor’s domain, Jimbe is home, he’s home he’s home he’s home, aboard this ship of dreams but–

He can’t stay.

He can’t.

There is an emperor chasing them, and Jimbe is not scared and he is strong, but his crew–

His beloved crew–

They love him.

He cannot abandon them here, to the mercy of hungry monsters.

(He cannot take them with him, to the crew of a hungry demon.)

Jimbe tells Luffy, soaked and shaking, as such.

“I CANNOT ABANDON THEM NOW!”

And Luffy–

Luffy, who Jimbe held dying in a battlefield that hazes from his memory, who Jimbe watched rise, who went a dark supernova–

Becomes a sun again.

“JIMBE!” Luffy says, and his teeth are snarling and his eyes are hungry, “I AM YOUR CAPTAIN NOW!”

And Jimbe finally holds the red sun of dreams in his grasp.

(Jimbe is the first son of the sea, and his dream is the sun.

Red, bloody, and free.)

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welllpthisishappening · 5 years

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Get Some Cake, Tell Devon She’s Awesome & Then Read Her Fic

Or: yesterday was Devon’s ( @shireness-says ) birthday, I spent most of it driving across New York state, but she deserves several worlds and we should all talk about how good her fic is.

A Drowning Soul Will Clutch at Any Straw Rated: Teen Words: 13K Though this is far from Killian Jones' first encounter with a mermaid, he's never met any quite like this blonde siren. Together, can they break a cruel curse?

You like supernatural elements? You like really creative curses and mermaids and a little bit of snark? You like real good romance? You like those things together? Then read this - from this past CS Supernatural Summer.

hashtag holiday party Rated: Teen Words: 3K This isn’t Emma’s company, or her holiday party, or her idea of a good time. Is there any good to be salvaged from the worst date ever?

Listen, when Devon shared the story this fic is based on, I was like...this is going to be so good. And, spoiler alert, it’s even better than that. Christmas in March? Yes. It’s a gift for all of us.

Echo Rated: General Words: 2K Sharing a heart has unexpected side effects - but maybe they can help say the things that need saying.A 4a heart-sharing AU, expanding upon a drabble by @welllpthisishappening.

I am admittedly biased here, but Devon took the original idea and raaaaan with it. I’ve got a lot of thoughts and feelings about the thoughts and feelings here and if you were ever like: hey, wish they’d done more with THAT, here’s what they should have done.

Ear-resistible Rated: Teen Words: 2.5K Emma may be out the night before Easter as a favor to Mary Margaret, but she didn't expect to see Killian Jones in the center of town. After midnight. In a rabbit suit.

We should all base more one-shots on Vicar of Dibley episodes. And then we should all watch the Vicar of Dibley too. Even if you haven’t seen this show (which, seriously, what are you doing???) the concept is a delight, with small town shenanigans, flirting and the Easter bunny.

But Never Inconstant Rated: General Words: 32K, 12 chapters Persuasion AU. Killian Jones and Emma Swan were wildly in love, until he broke their engagement, ostensibly to preserve her family ties. Eight years later, the former lovers meet again. Can they mend their relationship and right their misunderstandings, or is it too late?

I know you guys like Austen. Devon also likes Austen. Devon writes Austen AUs like it’s the greatest talent in the world. Pining! Misunderstanding! More pining! It’s gold.

This is only the tip of the fic-writing iceberg for Devon, who is just an absolute delight and ridiculously talented and seriously, if you haven’t already told her, go forth and inform her how wonderful she is. And then head to her Ao3 and read all of her fic and tell her nice things again.

#cs fic rec #cs ff #seriously click the links! read the things!#you will not regret it

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snowbellewells · 5 years

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CS Fic Rec Monday: Fics I Loved in 2019 /// July - September

Continuing my goal to celebrate the fics I most enjoyed last year, here comes by third list of great fics for 2019. Again, I am sure there were even more, but these were the ones I remembered or found in scrolling by through my history...

“Break Me” by @thisonesatellite

It’s hard to believe it’s really only been about six months since I discovered and started reading Stephanie’s incredible and affecting stories! And this one was the one that reeled me in! An amazingly unique, heartwrenching, and thrilling supernatural fic that you just won’t be able to put down. I certainly couldn’t! (I also discovered her older short MC “it’s our scars that give us character” during this time frame, for a bonus suggestion. :)

“A Drowning Soul Will Clutch at any Straw” by @shireness-says

This one shot was written for last year’s @cssns event, and features a pirate Killian and his discovery of a mermaid Emma. Where they go from there is so beautifully well-done it reads like a true classic fairy tale. It’s lovely and inventive, and I can almost guarantee you’ll want to go back to it again and again.

“Sadie Hawkins Dance” by: @searchingwardrobes

Okay, so I just had to list this particular fic from Melanie’s Fandom Birthday Playlist separately, as it was written for my birthday!! ;) <3 I loved every little bit of it, but it feels particularly special since Emma and Killian are teachers like me in this modern au version, and it’s so touchingly sweet and perfect how they go from friends to more. (Other birthday playlist highlights in this time period: “If I Fall” and “Your Love is a Song”)

“Just Human, Volume 2″ by: @donteattheappleshook

This touching story is also from last summer’s @cssns event, and a take on the BBC’s show Being Human, with Emma, Killian, and David as the ghost, vampire and werewolf roommates. I love how emotionally affecting this was. It has really stayed with me ever since reading it.

“One Day” by @darkcolinodonorgasm

Another @cssns fic that just reeled me in right from the start and hasn’t let go of my imagination since! I love the version of a cursed Storybrooke the author has created, and her Henry just struck me right in the heart. This WIP has me hanging on every update to see how things will finally be put right.

“Historical Inaccuracies” by @thejollyroger-writer

This is a lovely July 4th flavored fic with a fun CS and Charming family feel and just a happy modern au one shot. Such an entertaining read with an adorable little Leo Nolan for added irresistibility. :)

“Rainbound” by @profdanglaisstuff

This one shot sees Emma and KIllian stranded at his remote cabin, thinking they hate each other, but over the course of their time there, they find they have more in common than they’d realized. It’s beautiful how they come to this, and the connection that flares between them.

“On What They Fall” by @profdanglaisstuff

This story of Emma and Killian as younger versions of themselves in a non-magic AU will tug on every single one of your heartstrings all throughout the course of it! You will ache for Emma and for Killian both, even as they cause each other more pain with misunderstanding and self-doubt. It makes the hard-earned ending all the more glorious a reward though! Plus, there’s lovely CaptainBook in this one as well - which I always love! ;)

“The Very Witching Time” by @profdanglaisstuff

Oh my goodness!! This entry to last summer’s @cssns event features a witch!Emma and perhaps the most completely adorable version of Killian I’ve yet read. I don’t want to spoil all the lovely thrills and chills of this one, but if you missed it, you’re in for a supernatural treat!

“Time and Again” by @kmomof4

This engaging and completely romantic take on Killian and Emma as soulmates destined to meet even in a non-magical modern AU is wonderful!! It has mutiple chapters, but you’ll want to devour it all in one go to see as our lovely OTP’s connection strengthens and their True Love grows.

“Sick of Love” by @spartanguard

This one was such an interesting take on the whole idea of soulmates and how they find each other. I could feel Emma’s pain and how torn she was all throughout it and how much Killian wanted to reach out to her. Neither of them could ignore how drawn to each other they were - really amazingly well-written!!

“Mistress of the Sea” by @let-it-raines

This lovely short series of one shots has such an appealing take on the Captain Wench version of Emma and Killian. I love how they meet, how they completely charm each other - changing the course of both their lives up to that point - and set out together on their own new adventure! You don’t want to miss this one!!

“An Education in Southern Gothic” by @searchingwardrobes

Man alive! This entry into the @cssns19 event has just the right about of thrills and chills without becoming too much for a definite chicken like me. I honestly can’t resist Killian as a teacher/professor, which Melanie gives us here, and the mystery surrounding the school, as well as the still very real threat reaching its claws into the present will make you unable to stop reading this one until you reach the end. There’s friends to love romance, pining, suspense, supernatural danger, both Captain Cobra and Captain Book friendship, and just everything you could want in a fic really!

“Took My Soul, Wiped It Clean” and “Echo” by @shireness-says

Two lovely, feelsy and AMAZING one shots I discovered during this time period. “Echo” is a much more deeply layered and affecting take on heart-sharing, and “Took My Soul, Wiped it Clean” has one of the most heartwarming daddy!Killian versions I’ve ever read (and one of the most engaging and perfectly formed CS kids I’ve read as well!)

“Until the Day Breaks and the Shadows Flee” by @searchingwardrobes

This alternate take on the Cupid and Psyche myth also brings to mind previous of versions of the Beauty and the Beast fairy tale and gives nods to elements of the OuaT 5b Underworld arc (but much more affectingly written!) I loved Emma’s bravery in this one, and how she and Killian tentatively move toward affection and genuinely knowing each other’s hearts. Achingly lovely!!

“Life Meant Nothing Until You Used My Toothbrush” by @let-it-raines

This one shot first written for last year’s @csseptembersunshine event is one of my favorite of Raines’ MANY awesome stories. I love the cozy small town feel of it, how it’s a bit of a mash-up with Gilmore Girls, and the friendship Emma and Killian have and the way it finally becomes romantic for them as well. :)

#cs fic rec monday #csfrm #fics I loved in 2019 #july - september

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cssns · 5 years

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Event Roundup Time!!!!

I am SOOOOOOO sorry y’all!!! I completely forgot to do an event roundup!!! Please forgive me!!! Fanmail from @killianjones4ever82 brought it to my attention and I’m so glad she did! We had an incredible summer and we need to have a post that can be easily accessed with all the fabulous fics and gorgeous artwork that dropped for the event! So without further ado, here we go!!!!

Under the cut, because this is gonna be a LOOOOOOONG post!!!

Here is a link to the entire collection of fics on ao3.

@welllpthisishappening opened us up this year with her first fic for the event, All the Subliminal Things. Rated T with four chapters. COMPLETE. Artwork by @resident-of-storybrooke.

Emma Swan does not believe in soulmates.

Or so she says. Because if her soulmate did, actually, exist, he should have shown up by now. So, she must be a fluke, a broken cog in a system that really doesn't make much sense anyway. It is, she figures, why she agrees to meet David's friend before Regina and Robin's wedding. This guy doesn't believe in soulmates either.

She's intrigued.

Until she hears him talk. And everything flips after that.

At the end of June, Laura posted All Was Golden In the Sky. Rated M and we have five chapters left. Artwork by @resident-of-storybrooke, extra artwork by @distant-rose and @optomisticgirl can be found on Laura’s chapter blog posts.

Magic is dying.

Emma knows it. She can feel it, the emptiness rattling around in her, like it’s trying to make sure she disappears as well. What she doesn’t know is what to do about it, because, suddenly, there is a man in Storybrooke claiming she’s the Savior and a seeress certain a prophecy promises the same and the last thing she expects is for her minimal amount of lingering power to pull her away.

To New York City.

And another oddly familiar man with blue eyes and a smile that sinks under her skin and makes magic bloom in the air around her. Things are about to get interesting.

@darkcolinodonorgasm posted One Day, a LadyHawke AU with artwork by @sherlockianwhovian. Rated T and we are two chapters in.

By day, Emma is the beautiful swan gliding over the waters of Misthaven's pond, but when night falls, the voice of the wolf the people living in the little town hear is Killian's cry. The curse was meant to be forever, to keep them always together yet eternally apart. No force in Heaven would be able to break such spell, nor any force on Earth. Or so Emma and Killian thought.

Towards the end of June Sara posted Hidden Paths Between the Moon and Sun, the sequel to her Hades and Persephone AU, Until the Stars Are All Alight. Artwork by @sherlockianwhovian. Rated M with one of six chapters so far.

The King of the Underworld has never taken a vacation before, not a proper one and not one that lasted more than a few months. Now that his firstborn is capable enough to take the throne ad interim, Killian can finally show his beloved Queen the world, giving her the honeymoon they never had the chance to have. But the King’s plan doesn’t stop quite there.

@allons-y-to-hogwarts-713 posted original art Killian Falls for Siren Emma

Come all you pretty fair maids, whoever you may be

Who love a jolly sailor bold that ploughs the raging sea,

My heart is pierced by Cupid, I disdain all glittering gold, There is nothing can console me but my jolly sailor bold.

and Paranormal Photographers/Reporters.

When you hear the knell of a requiem bell Weird glows gleam where spirits dwell Restless bones etherealize Rise as spooks of every size

@donteattheappleshook posted Just Human Vol2, the sequel to her submission last year, Just, Human. Artwork by 1 2 by @djlbg. Rated M with five chapters. COMPLETE.

A continuation of last years CSSNS story Just Human. Now that Killian is a ghost and Mary Margaret knows everything, what does life have in store for a group of supernatural misfits? With the threat of Gold gone, Emma learns that sometimes just being human is the most complicated challenge of all.

@thislassishooked posted Wake Me Up Inside. Rated M with three chapters so far. Artwork by @tennant-the-tigger.

Killian Jones has lived longer than any man has a right to live. Most would argue that what he was doing was not living, but merely existing. The day he lost the love of his life was the day he lost the will to live, but instead of ending his life he inadvertently became the strongest being on earth and unfortunately indestructible. His mortal enemy followed him into immortality and craves the power only Killian possesses. With his brother by his side and the help of a quirky, blonde hematologist, who makes him question whether he is ready for death after all, he will fight against evil, but more importantly, for the cure.

@let-it-raines posted Not Your (Soul)Mate. Rated M with sixteen chapters. COMPLETE. Artwork 1 2 3 4 5 6 by @captainsjedi.

Killian Jones doesn’t like the idea of soulmates. He sees how happy his friends are with theirs, but he still doesn’t like the idea, not when he’s found love and lost it time and time again only to still not know his sign. He has no markings on his skin, no voices in his head, but then one day he meets Emma Swan and everything changes. Because, well, he may not have ink on his skin to tell him who to love, but the very first time that he hears Emma’s voice he knows that she’s the one for him. Then again, that could simply be his desire talking. After all, for every word she speaks, he becomes aroused.

It’s not the worst thing in the world to be incredibly attracted to a beautiful woman, but things aren’t that simple when she doesn’t have any interest in being his soulmate.

He’s screwed. And not in the good way.

@shireness-says posted A Drowning Soul Will Clutch at Any Straw. Rated T one shot. Artwork by @hollyethecurious.

Though this is far from Killian Jones' first encounter with a mermaid, he's never met any quite like this blonde siren. Together, can they break a cruel curse?

@snowbellewells posted her first fic for the event, Face to Face in the Broad Daylight, her sequel to last years Run to Me (In the Dead of Night) in early July. Rated T with five chapters so far. Artwork by @branlovestowrite.

Here we have a sequel to my werewolf, alternate season two and beyond fic from last year’s CSSNS. You probably want to read that story "Run to Me (in the Dead of Night)" first, or it might be a bit confusing in places. This second story in the same universe partially exists just because I wanted to revisit these couples and enjoy a bit more of their fluffy happily ever afters. However, we may also see them get into some new surprises and challenges, and of course we need to see if Rumplestiltskin is still under control or back to his usual scheming and plotting. I hope you will enjoy.

Marta also posted at the end of July A Story Told at Last. Rated T with three chapters. COMPLETE. Artwork by @branlovestowrite.

Historical Literature Professor Henry Mills has the chance of a lifetime before him. He might finally uncover the truth of a folktale that has intrigued him for years. But, when the whole story comes to light, will he be able to accept the story that needs to be told?

@thejollyroger-writer posted her first fic of three for the event, Love After Death: The Afterlife Hotel. Rated T one shot with artwork by @captainsjedi.

Emma Swan has spent sixty years in the afterlife believing she was never going to meet her real soulmate, after believing in the wrong name tattooed on her wrist. But when she keeps seeing the same new guest of the Afterlife Hotel around, might she be able to learn how to love again?

Megan’s second fic for the event was What Happened in Berkshire. Rated G with two of three chapters posted. Artwork by @captainsjedi.

When Emma’s boyfriend leaves her for the woman he’s been cheating with, she accepts an offer from her hospital to move to England. While she is out celebrating her thirtieth birthday with her friends before they head back to America, she drunkenly kisses the statue of Captain Hook in front of Eton College, and he comes to life. Together, he and Emma try to figure out what this curse means for them by searching for the witch that cursed him in the first place — are they really True Love, as he wants to believe they are, or did Emma’s magic go awry?

Megan’s third fic for the event was Falling Paws Over Heels. Rated T one shot. Artwork by @captainsjedi.

Captain Killian Jones -- the notorious Captain Hook -- has heard all kinds of stories during his travels around all of the realms. But the story that has always interested him the most is that of the enchanting sorceress of Storybrooke, a small town in the Enchanted Forest's Misthaven, the sorceress who takes men to her bed, but will only give her heart to the man who befriends her cat. Will Killian be the one who finally has what it takes?

@gingerchangeling posted Luck of the Irish. Rated M with one chapter of seven so far. Artwork by @resident-of-storybrooke.

Emma needs parent volunteer hours. So she offers to chaperon Henry's upcoming field trip to the museum. Its just a pack of prepubescent angst ridden children, an exhibit about dead people, and a rock used in blood sacrifices with a curse carved into it. What's the worst that could happen?

@jarienn972 posted A Simple Spell. Rated T with six chapters so far. Artwork by @cocohook38.

This story is my entry into the 2019 Captain Swan Supernatural Summer event and is my first venture into AU territory. Storybrooke remains our setting but I've switched up some of the characters and familial relations to better suit this tale of prodigal witch Emma who returns to her birthplace to learn lots of secrets about herself and cast a spell that could change everything.

@profdanglaisstuff posted The Very Witching Time. Rated M with six chapters. COMPLETE. Artwork by @gingerchangeling. Extra artwork by @mariakov81 can be found on Saira’s chapter posts on her blog.

Emma Swan is a hereditary witch, last in a long line of wise women who for centuries have guarded the coast of Maine and the small village of Storybrooke with their homemade cures and their ancient magic. She holds the delicate balance between magic and mundane, but now that balance is threatened by a new foe, one capable of bringing an end to everything Emma is and everything she loves. To defeat it she will need all her power, help from her friends and neighbours, and the loyalty of a very unusual dog who answers to the name of Killian.

@searchingwardrobes gave us the first of two fics for the event, An Education in Southern Gothic. Rated T with two chapters. COMPLETE. Artwork by @hollyethecurious.

Fact: there’s a graveyard between the football field and the science building. Debatable: a ghost haunts the halls of Misthaven Hills High. Emma Swan is about to get an education. Killian Jones is about to get a whole lot more.

Melanie’s second fic was titled Until the Day Breaks and the Shadows Flee. Rated M with eight chapters. COMPLETE. Artwork by @hollyethecurious.

Every night, she traces the contours of his body as Killian whispers words of love against her skin. But can Princess Emma ever be fully happy with a husband who only comes to her in utter darkness? A Captain Swan AU of the Roman myth of Cupid and Psyche.

@spartanguard posted Sick of Love. Rated M with three chapters. COMPLETE. Artwork by @sherlockianwhovian.

If Emma’s not careful, she just might bump into her soulmate. Physically. And while she might like the idea of what comes with that—an almost psychic connection whenever they make skin contact—she’d rather not deal with the awful withdrawal sickness that can come when they inevitably leave her; she’s got a son, so she doesn’t have time for that. So she keeps herself covered and thinks she’ll be okay. Until she meets Killian, who does the same thing. Will their barriers protect them, or just hurt them more?

@snidgetsafan posted Whom the Gods Love Die Young. Rated G (for the moment) with one chapter so far. Artwork by @tennant-the-tigger.

The bride bit into the shiny red apple as everyone cheered around her, the wedding ceremony ending with this ritual gesture. The clapping and hurrahs soon turned to screams of horror as Snow dropped the apple, choking and clutching her throat as she fell in her groom’s arms, a last I love you leaving her lips before she died, David’s screams the loudest of all.

David and Emma travel to the Underworld to claim back Snow after her untimely death. In order to do so, they're going to have to face the dark and mysterious God of the Underworld and complete his challenges.

Seems simple enough until you add magic, divine quarrels, and the worst thing of all: feelings.

@eastwesthomeisbest posted original artwork, The Love of the Samodiva Pts1 and 2.

In Bulgarian folklore Samodiva is an ethereal female wood nymph. She is unearthly beautiful and eternally young. Her hair is blond and long, her waist is thin and petite, her eyes can bewitch and dazzle or even kill. Any man who lays eyes on her instantly falls in love. Samodivas’ attire consists of long white gowns and shirts and a rainbow-coloured or green belt. They have a white mantel, also called a shadow, in which their power lies. They like to ride deer, using twisted snakes for reins and often carry with them bows and arrows.

If a huntsman accidentally kills a samodiva’s deer, she will make him blind or give him a disease which will inevitably lead to his death.

The wood nymphs live in dark forests, in big old trees, caves or forgotten huts which are near water sources, wells or rivers.

Samodivas can be spotted from spring to autumn. In winter they live in the mythical village Zmeykovo, which is located at the edge of the world and is a home to many mythical creatures. When they are on earth they are active at night and disappear immediately when the sun comes out, because they fear it.

At twilight, the samodivas go to fresh water sources, strip naked, wash themselves and their clothes which they lay out to dry in the moonlight. They keep a watchful eye on their drying clothes, because if a man steals their mantle, where their power lies, they turn into normal women and have to obey the man. After washing themselves and their clothes, the samodivas gather around and start singing and dancing. It is known that the samodiva’s songs are the most beautiful and their dances are the most graceful. If a late traveller sees the samodivas’ dance, he is enticed to join them and dances with them from midnight to dawn. When the sun’s rays appear, the nymphs disappear in haste and leave the traveller to die from exhaustion. The samodivas love music and often kidnap shepherds, so that they can play kaval (shepherd’s pipe) for them while they dance.

Samodivas are not always harmful. Sometimes they appear like normal working women and help with the harvest. They would especially help women with children. If a man does something good for a samodiva, she becomes his patron or a sworn sister. Sometimes, a samodiva can fall in love with a human and bear him children, who grow up to be great heroes.

Samodivas are forest creatures and therefore knowledgeable about herbs and cures. However, they never share their secrets willingly. The only way to obtain their knowledge is to eavesdrop on one of their gatherings.

@courtorderedcake posted two fics for this years event. Hallow rated E with eight chapters so far with accompanying artwork 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11.

"The Goblin King was prepared to host the Darkness, stealing Fae women away to their corrupted lands underneath the ground as concubines. The Darkness chose another in his stead, but not before this selected vessel enacted a devastating attack in its vengeance, revealing its hatred & rage. The battle was a lesson the old kings had forgotten; never underestimate an opponent. Many more lives were lost as they razed over any who dared defy The Goblin King's will. Only the pure love of our rulers united in matrimony, breaking the Vorpal Dagger, sealed the darkness and the Goblin menace away. The light flourished under their fair rule, and the queen bore a child as pure as moon beams, swan feathers, and starlight. They lived happily ever after, and shall be written in history as Heroes for All Time."

This is the history Princess Emma memorizes from the day she is born, paraded about and presented only with the highest protection. The palace is a cage she wishes to escape, desperately. Not careful what wishes she made, Emma discovers history is written by the victors - The Dark One has an entirely different version of the events that took place.

Roses, rated E with two of four chapters so far. Artwork by @eastwesthomeisbest.

A CS retelling of Tam Lin, the classic fairytale. Liberties taken. Magic and Fae BS in play.

@pirateherokillian posted Wanderer Redeemed. Rated T with just the prologue so far. Artwork coming soon from @tennant-the-tigger.

Emma, Goddess of Hope and Happy endings, finds herself in need and her only real chance of ever getting what she desires comes in the form of Killian Jones, a shunned outcast of their kind. A Modern-Day Gods Captain Swan AU written for CSSNS.

@ilovemesomekillianjones posted The Soldier, the Witch, and the Dragon. Rated M one shot with artwork 1 2 by @spartanguard.

When soldier Killian Jones shows up on witch Emma Swan's doorstep, two worlds will collide. He will learn of worlds and wonders he never imagined possible and she will learn that true love might just be in the cards for her. Witches, Dragons and Magic, Oh My! A CS story for the 2019 Captain Swan Supernatural Summer event.

@whimsicallyenchantedrose posted Until the Stars Are All Alight. Rated T with two chapters of twenty so far. Artwork by @clockadile.

CS LOTR au: When Emma Swan steals a yellow Volkswagen Beetle, she has no idea it will lead her toward an adventure filled with danger and intrigue, sacrifice and a love stronger than anything she could imagine. Tasked with bringing the Savior home, the elf, Killian Jones of Misthaven travels to the Land Without Magic. Can he convince Emma to fulfill her destiny before the Dark One regains power and takes over all of the Enchanted Forest?

And last but certainly not least, @teamhook posted Rionnag Dorcha Gorm (Dark Blue Star). Unrated with two chapters so far. Artwork by @hollyethecurious

It is said that evil is not born but made. This is how an act of kindness is twisted into a story about revenge. Emma and Killian are childhood friends until a tragedy separates them will another reunite them.

I’ve read all of these fics and they are all absolutely FANTASTIC!!! It’s been so much fun reading all these wonderful fics and staring at the gorgeous art that went with them!! Be sure to let them know how much you’re enjoying their hard work! The WIP’s will continue updating until they are finished and I will be back at the end of the month with everything that has updated in September! Until then folks!

#cssns #event roundup #cssns2019 #CSSNS 2019 #2019 #Captain Swan Supernatural Summer 2019 #Captain Swan Supernatural Summer #2019 event #2019 roundup #2019 event roundup

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side-effect-of-the-meds · 5 years

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SoC Au Part 1 of ?

So, ya girl is getting tired of writing this bc this is far more work than I thought it would be. Everything up until Kaz starting college is going to be in fic form which is why it’s taking me so long. Anyway, here’s part 1. Hope it’s alright.

Alone in the back of the bus, Kaz stretched out across the seat. There was a chill beginning to set into the smoggy Baltimore air. With the chill, came the aches. It had been years since Kaz had lost his footing on the ledge of his windowsill, plummeting to the ground. Nathan and his men had themselves quite a laugh when Kaz had dragged himself through the front door.

“Sure you don’t want a doctor?” Nathan asked. Standing on the ladder that led up to the attic, he rested his arms on the door’s framing and rested his chin on them. A wicked light danced in his icy eyes.

“I’m fine,” Kaz snapped as he dragged himself into bed. Nathan laughed.

“Hey, fine. I’m Nathan.”

“Please don’t,” Kaz said. His bed lay deep in the shadows of the attic. He hoped that the darkness was enough to hide his burning ears. He’d made a fool of himself tumbling down the roof.

He doesn’t care about you, Kaz reminded himself. You’re just an investment. No matter how many times he said it, the words still felt like a knife twisting in his gut. Ahead of him, Kaz heard the cheers and laughter of his team. Winning tonight's game had won them a place in the semi-finals. Their rowdiness grated on Kaz’s nerves but he figured they’d earned it. Not once had he joined in on his team’s festivities, something he knew they constantly complained about, but no one dared cross him.

Digging noise-canceling earbuds from his bag, he popped them in. Blissful silence enveloped him. Leaning his head back against the cool glass, he closed his eyes. Behind his lids, he found highlights from the game replaying themselves. The silence granted to him by his earbuds served as a blank canvas. The sound of feet pounding on the court, the ragged breathing of exhausted players, the sound of the ball rebounding off the walls painted themselves into the most magnificent picture of all. From his place in goal, Kaz had the greatest seat in the house.

Exy was a bastard sport and Kaz, the Bastard of Baltimore. Crawford claimed that there was nothing quite as serendipitous as that. Money might have been Kaz’s one true love but Exy was a close second. From the slamming of the bolts on the court doors to the clacking of racquets against one another, nothing made Kaz’s heart race the way Exy did. It made him feel alive. From the moment that the court doors slammed shut to the ringing of the final buzzer, Kaz was no longer truly the Bastard of Baltimore. He was Kaz Rietveld, son of Klaus and Tess, and Jordie’s baby brother.

Klaus had been a cold, callous father who’s heart only seemed to warm when he stood upon the court with his boys. Kaz had fought hard for his father’s love. It was a battle he hadn’t had time to win. A small part of Kaz hoped that, wherever his father was, he was proud of him. Nathan certainly wasn’t. There was little Kaz could discern about Nathan’s hatred for the game that he held so close to his twisted little heart other than it had something to do with Nathaniel.

Nathaniel. The very name sent a wave of anger crashing over Kaz, destroying the beautiful reminiscence of his game. For the last eight years, Kaz had fought to win a place in Nathan’s heart only to find that, when Nathaniel had left, he’d taken Nathan’s heart with him.

Kaz unlocked his phone to find something to drown out the thoughts in his head. A thousand messages of congratulations greeted him, all cleared from his notification board with a single tap of his fingers. There was a snap from Leena, captain of the cheer squad. Kaz scowled. It was undoubtedly another sordid attempt of hers to get his attention. Leena was traditionally beautiful. Her round face was set with sapphire eyes and framed by long locks of gold. Her long legs and generous curves were always on display. Anyone else might have jumped at the chance to be with someone as beautiful as her but the very thought of someone, anyone touching him sent shivers of disgust down Kaz’s spine.

With shaking fingers, Kaz navigated to his music. Stuffing down all the memories threatening to overwhelm him, Kaz wrapped his jacket tighter around himself as he huddled cold and alone in the back of the bus.

Kaz didn’t know when the rowdiness of his teammates had subsided nor when they’d even started onto the road, only that they were currently pulling into the bus lot by the school. Ripping the buds from his ears, Kaz tossed his phone into his bag. He was standing before the bus had stopped. Sliding his cane from beneath his seat, he waited for the rest of his teammates to disembark before making his way down the aisle. Cheers greeted him as he stepped off the bus. The sea of players parted around him when he moved through them. All of them congratulated him on the win, claiming they wouldn’t be anything without him. Their cheers were wasted. He didn’t care what they thought of him as long as they played.

Kaz made his way to his car, waving away their congratulations. A small smile tugged at his lips as he unlocked the car door and got in. He turned to toss his bag into the back seat before situating himself in his seat. Starting the car, he found a familiar form illuminated by the headlights.

Kaz groaned in exasperation as he let his head fall onto the horn. He heard a knock at his window and picked his head up. Rolling down the window just a crack, he prepared himself for whatever it was Leena was going to try to pull this time.

“Hey, Kazzy,” she cooed as she pressed up against the window, her chest smushing against it.

“Don’t call me that,” Kaz said, not even trying to disguise the annoyance in his voice.

“How about I call you ‘mine’ instead?” Kaz could hear the mischief in her voice.

“How about you move before I run over your foot?”

“You wouldn’t.” But Kaz would. And he did. His smile grew wide at the crunching of her bones beneath the tires of his Aston Martin. Flying down the street, Kaz dropped the windows to feel the wind on his face. It was a short drive to the Wesninski House. Pulling into the drive, Kaz found Nathan’s car gone. His shoulders sagged just a little.

“You’re just an investment,” he whispered to himself before cutting off the engine. Hauling himself out of the car, he grabbed his stuff and walked up to the door. He let himself into the dark house and headed down the corridor. It was three flights of stairs up to his room. With a grimace, he hobbled up the winding staircase to the third floor. He’d have to climb the ladder up to the attic before he could finally rest.

Arriving on the third floor, Kaz found himself drawn to the door that stood beside the ladder up to the attic. Don’t, he told himself as his gloved hand wrapped around the doorknob. The door stood ajar only a hair’s width. Hoping against hope, Kaz pushed the door open. Laying on the bed was the last person he wanted to see today.

“He’s gone to find his son,” Lola said from amid the rumpled sheets of Nathan’s bed. Kaz watched as she shifted in the bed, suddenly aware that she wasn’t wearing very much. Turning to face him, her soft brown hair fell over her face but did little to hide the sharp, crooked smile growing across her face.“His real son,” she clarified. Kaz had been living in the Wesninski house for six years now but the words still cut him sharper than any knife ever had.

Set to inherit Nathan’s territory as the Butcher of Baltimore, Kaz was raised in the Wesninski House. As such, many thought him to be the bastard child of Nathan himself. He wasn’t, a truth that Kaz desperately wished wasn’t one at all.

Kaz felt no remorse for wanting to replace Klaus with Nathan. The Rietveld family had been a broken one. Klaus’s cold nature had driven Tess to take her own life rather than live her life bound to such an unloving man. It wasn’t that Klaus had not loved his wife. It was that he hadn’t known how to show her that he did. Both his sons bore a striking resemblance to their mother. Living with Jordie and Kaz was a constant reminder of the wife Klaus had lost. Bouts of anger overtook him often. How dare she abandon him like this? How dare she leave her darlings here to mock him incessantly with their thatches of dark hair and black coffee eyes?

Klaus took to beating his sons until their skins were mottled with bruises and he could no longer see their pale, porcelain skin. Purple marred the sharp planes of their faces but not a soul spared them even a passing glance. It wasn’t until the accident in the field outside the house that the Rietveld boys finally escaped the little farm town they’d grown up in. Waves of memories surged up, threatening to drag Kaz beneath them once more.

“I’m not the one missing my Daddy” he snapped, focusing back on the present. Lola’s nostrils flared and anger flashed in her hazel eyes. Scrambling to wrap the sheets around her, she made for the edge of the bed. Kaz backed out of the room, right into a man who seemed to have materialized from the shadows.

“You better watch that mouth of yours, you little bastard,” he sneered. That voice… Kaz knew it immediately. Turning his gaze up to him, Kaz felt his heart stop. That was the final straw. The memories crashed down over Kaz, forcing him under.

Suddenly, Kaz was 6 again. Manic laughter echoed through Kaz’s head as he knelt above the spazzing body of his brother. Jordie’s eyes were bright, too bright. His smile was stretched too wide. Clutching his brother’s hand, Kaz saw that his nails had turned black. Tears poured down Kaz’s face, mixing with the thin sheen of sweat blanketing Jordie’s face. At the time, Kaz had been vaguely aware of someone screaming. Now he knew it to be his own desperate cries for help. Everywhere Kaz looked he saw people. Dead people. Every one of Jordie’s friends had been Opioid addicts. Every one of Jordie’s friends was now dead.

A voice sounded from the other end of the alley. Just as Kaz was about to call for help, he heard the man talking to another. They were going to incinerate the bodies. Throwing himself over the twitching body of his brother, Kaz lay as still as he could as the footsteps drew near. Laying atop Jordie, Kaz heard his brother draw one final shuddering breath before his heart finally gave out. Stunned, Kaz let himself get manhandled and thrown into the back of a truck. He landed atop a pile of lifeless bodies, all in various states of decay. The sweet smell of rot filled his nostrils and made him gag. Scrambling to the body of his brother the second the tarp was thrown across the pile of bodies, Kaz clung to Jordie. Tears continued to flow down his face. A few slipped between his parted lips. Their salty taste mingled with the overly sweet taste of death.

With each shuddering breath he drew, Kaz found himself struggling to stay in the present. Kaz squeezed his eyes shut and focused on one single memory. Curled in the limp arms of his brother, Kaz imagined that they were back in the little motel room they’d found themselves. He heard his brother’s voice singing as he drew Kaz close. Kaz remembered the way the steady beat of his brother’s heart had lulled him to sleep so many times and choked on a strangled sob. Every passing second drew another ounce of the warmth of Jordie’s body from him. Even now, he knew, that the arms wrapped around him weren’t really hugging him close.

The truck came to a screeching halt and the pile of bodies lurched forward, burying Kaz in them. He opened his mouth to scream only to allow the hand of a rotting corpse to enter. Staring up at it with wide eyes, Kaz saw the corpse. It was a burly, young man with beautiful brown eyes, now empty and lifeless. The light filtering through the tarp turned the man’s blond hair into a halo of gold. Flesh peeled from his face to reveal the decaying muscle beneath. The angels of old were said to be hideous and terrifying to look upon. Fear and awe paralyzed Kaz as he gaped at what he was certain was an angel.

Men called back and forth around Kaz. Suddenly, the tarp beneath Kaz began to lift. The bodies shifted once more and Kaz was effectively buried beneath the mass of bodies, the angel pressed right up against him. The bundle of bodies swung and then thudded heavily on a wooden deck. A barge horn sounded and Kaz felt the roll of waves beneath him. They were on a boat. Kaz didn't know how long it was before he realized that he was struggling to breathe. Thrashing about in the tarp, he found a sharp earring decorating a severed ear. Using it, he tore through the tarp. The mass of bodies spilled forth from the bag, forcing Kaz to claw his way through them. Making it to the edge of the boat, Kaz saw the waves crashing down against the sides.

It would take a miracle to survive that fall. If only Kaz had an angel. Raking his gaze over the pile of corpses, Kaz easily picked out the form of the burly young man. Dragging the man over to the railing, Kaz inspected the decaying body. It was more than a little worse for wear but it was his only hope. Hauling it over the rail, Kaz slipped between the bars. A man cried out for him to stop but it was too late. Kaz was already falling. Wrapping himself around the body, Kaz managed to tuck into some semblance of a dive. Beneath the water, the lights of the city blurred and danced. Kaz began kicking towards the surface, the body in tow. Breaking the surface, Kaz gasped for air. The body floated beside him on its own. Latching on once more, Kaz summoned the dregs of his energy. Kicking towards the shoreline, Kaz clung to the corpse of his angel.

Washing up on the shore, Kaz lay face up. The rising sun cast a soft orange glow on everything it touched. Exhaustion hit Kaz as the adrenaline wore off. Surviving the turbulent sea was nothing short of a miracle. Beside him, the waterlogged corpse lay. It had grown far more grotesque with its exposure to the saltwater. Kaz’s limbs ached from fighting so hard to make it back to shore but he had one last job to do. With his bare hands, Kaz dug up the loose sand on the empty stretch of beach he’d landed on. Making sure no one else was around, he carefully rolled the body into the shallow grave he’d managed to carve for it. The high tide swept in, stopping just short of the grave. Yet another miracle, Kaz thought as he packed sand over his angel’s body. Scouring the shore, Kaz found several smooth, flat stones and arranged them in a cross at the head of the grave before finally collapsing.

Kaz woke several hours later with the sun beating down on him. Hauling himself to his feet, he stumbled back towards civilization. Snagging some money from the pockets of passersby, he found enough money to take a bus back downtown. The entire ride there, all Kaz could think about was Jordie’s dealer. He was a tall, muscular man with a deep voice. A scar ran down the length of his face, through his left eye. It had turned a milky white as the scar tissue built up. Sleeves of tattoos raced up and down both the man’s arms. Stepping off the bus, Kaz swore that he’d have his revenge. That man and everyone he loved would pay for what he’d done.

“Brekker?” the man asked. Kaz was once again in his own body. Standing before him, the man wore a look of concern. It mocked Kaz for he knew that, ten years ago, it had smirked down at him as he’d snatched up Jordie’s money in exchange for a little bottle and a needle.

“I’m fine,” Kaz hissed as he stumbled away from him. His cane was the only thing keeping him up now, but even that shook. Kaz couldn't let the man see. It had taken Kaz ten years to find this man. Ten years hunting high and low, but it was all for naught seeing as the man had waltzed right up to his doorstep and entered his home.

The man frowned at him before entering Nathan’s room. The door shut loudly behind him. From behind the door, Kaz heard Lola shouting. The man spoke in a calm, even tone too low for Kaz to make out the words. Retreating back to his room, Kaz collapsed on his bed a shaking mess.

Exhaustion wore at his body, but his mind was racing. The sun’s rays were already slipping between the blinds of Kaz’s windows before he’d managed to quiet the thoughts in his head. Shutting his eyes, Kaz knocked out and slept the day away. He didn’t wake until the sun began to dip beneath the horizon once more.

Dragging himself back out of bed, he grabbed his toothbrush before taking a quick shower in the makeshift set up Nathan had helped him install. He was dressed and down in fifteen minutes.

There wasn’t a soul in the house, save the dogs. Both of them barked eagerly from their kennels, begging to be let out. Fury burned in the pit of his stomach. Lola knew she couldn’t lay a hand on Kaz so she sought out the things that he loved and punished them for his actions. So far, Kaz had come home to three broken racquets, a large pile of ashes that had once been his collection of old maps, and his poor dogs locked in their kennels without food or water.

“One of these days, I’m going to set you two on Lola,” he said as he let the dogs out of their cage. They bounded out and greeted him with sloppy kisses. The weight of them toppled Kaz to the ground. “Stupid mutts,” Kaz grumbled but he made no effort to stop them. Kaz set out food and water for them before moving rifling through the fridge for food. Snagging last night’s lasagna, he set the pan in the oven to reheat. As he waited, he checked the security cam feeds. Lola and the man had left the house only an hour before he’d gotten out of bed. Letting himself relax, Kaz grabbed the tray from the oven and headed upstairs, quite a feat considering the pan in his hands and the dogs following at his heels.

On the third floor, at the end of the hall, stood Nathan’s office. Balancing the tray in one hand, Kaz withdrew a key from the pocket of his sweatpants and let himself in. Kaz didn’t need really need a key. The first thing Nathan had taught him was how to pick a lock. No, the key was a symbol. It was an open invitation into the room. It meant more to Kaz than he preferred to admit.

Setting the pan on the table, Kaz dug through the drawers until he found a fork. There were always dishes and silverware scatter around the house, the result of Nathan refusing to sit still for very long. Taking his food with him to the bay window at the far end of the room, Kaz snagged his laptop from atop the snare of charging cables where it lay.

Booting it up, Kaz finally dug into his food. It was only after the first bite that he realized how hungry he was. Both dogs sat at his feet, waiting for him to drop them bits of meat. Kaz hated being predictable but the hellhounds would always have a place in his twisted, little heart. Joseph and Micheal were from the same litter and had arrived just in time for Kaz’s tenth birthday. The pair had earned the nicked names 'hellhounds’ for their fierce appearance and penchant for wreaking havoc throughout the house. Many thought the pair to be monstrous menaces but the truth was they weren’t half bad. Neither of them could help their appearance but the damage they wrought upon the house was just them using up all the energy they had after being cooped up in cages all day.

Kaz pulled up his email and felt his heart stutter. There was an email from Nathan dated yesterday. Opening it, Kaz found that Lola was right. Nathan had left in search of Nathaniel but at least he’d thought to tell Kaz. It did little to soothe Kaz’s wounds. No matter what Kaz did it was never enough. Nathan would never care for him as he did for Nathaniel. Kaz was just a placeholder until Nathan got his own son back. A few years ago, Kaz had slipped into this very room to find a wasted Nathan slumped in the seat behind the desk.

“Nathaniel?” Nathan asked, perking up. As Kaz stepped out of the shadows he saw the way Nathan deflated. “Oh, it’s just you, Kaz.” Just you. The words made Kaz feel so small. “I don’t know how I could mistake you for him,” he continued. “He was such a little shit. Nathaniel was always picking fights with everyone, especially Riko. God, he wouldn’t have survived at Evermore. Not like you.” Nathan looked over at Kaz. “Nathaniel was never going to take over Baltimore, he was too soft. You’re so much stronger than he was. So much smarter. Sometimes, I wish you were my son.” Kaz felt his soul leave his body.

“You don’t mean that,” Kaz whispered, the cracking of his voice barely audible

“I do,” Nathan replied. “It would have made everything so much easier. Greed, Kaz. Greed is all you need to manipulate a person. The Moriyamas don’t allow lines of succession. Successors must earn their place, not inherit them. They gave me two choices. Either I could send Nathaniel to Evermore or… I could kill him. I couldn’t do it,” Nathan whispered, his voice cracking. “I tried. I really did, but I loved him too much. I was greedy. I thought I could have my empire and Nathaniel’s love. He was my life, Kaz. I’d give anything to have my Nathaniel back.

“I gave him my heart and what did he do? He crushed it. I gave him freedom and what did he do? He ran. I’m going to slit his tendons so that he’ll never run from me again. I’m going to carve the flesh from his skin so he knows what it’s like to lose his own flesh and blood. I’m going to tear out his heart and crush it with my bare hands just as he did mine.”

Revenge. That was what drove Nathan and Kaz. Surely, he’ll understand, Kaz told himself as he rose from his seat. The dogs watched as he drifted over to the large desk at the other end of the room. Slipping behind it, Kaz knelt before the cabinet. Sliding a hidden panel open, he found the safe that Nathan stored his business ledgers in. It was a simple model, opened with a 5-digit pin. However, any wrong attempt to open the safe would incinerate its contents. Normally, Kaz would dust for prints and attempt to decode the pin but he knew Nathan wiped the keypad each time he used it. Kaz had one chance. Sucking in a deep breath, he punched in a code.

11987

The light turned green and Kaz let out a sigh. Nathan might have been the cruelest man in all of Baltimore but he was still a man.

Kaz stuck his hand in and withdrew a laptop and a box full of thumb drives. Stacking his haul atop the desk, Kaz settled into the chair. He threw open the lid of the box to find the drives ordered by year. Maybe Lola is good for something, after all, he thought as he recognized her neat handwriting on the cards. Combing through the tabs, he found the ones from just before his arrival. He spent the night searching through the drives for any hint of the man. His phone buzzed in the early hours of the morning, alerting him of motion in the front-drive. Lola was home.

Scrambling to return everything to safe, Kaz wiped the keypad before whistling for the dogs. Making sure he locked the door behind him. Kaz ushered them up the ladder to his room. The front door banged open just as Kaz made it up the final rung of the ladder. Kaz cursed as he remembered that he’d left his cane in the other room. Hopefully, Lola wouldn’t enter the office until he had a chance to grab it himself.

His phone chimed. Lola had texted him, demanding his presence in the kitchen immediately. Grumbling to himself, Kaz grabbed his spare cane and headed back down the stairs, leaving the dogs to wander about the attic.

Lola had made a run to pick up some men that owed Nathan money. Descending the stairs, Kaz felt his heart jump into his throat. At the bottom of the stairs, the man from last night stood.

“Brekker,” he said in lieu of hello. In the harsh lighting of the basement, Kaz finally inspected the man’s features. His lips jawline was nearly as sharp as the blade in his hand. His nose was crooked as though it had been broken and reset incorrectly. His lips were small but plump. His remaining eye was a beautiful hazel and his hair a soft brown that matched it. A sharp, crooked smile grew across his face. “We’re going to have quite a bit of fun tonight.” He barked a laugh that nearly sent a shudder down Kaz’s spine.

“I never got your name,” Kaz replied. With a name, Kaz’s search would probably go much smoother.

“Oh, it’s Malcolm. Romero Malcolm.” the man said. Kaz’s blood ran cold.

“Malcolm?” he asked more to himself than the man. Then Kaz saw it. The eyes, the hair, the smile.

“Come on, before Lola gets mad,” Romero said before moving to join his sister by the table. The rest of the night was a blur of blood and the screams of the men mingling with the laughter of the Malcolms.

#just a pipe dream #SoC/TFC au #six of crows au #all for the game au #SoC au #aftg au #the foxhole court #six of crows #all for the game #kaz brekker #soc kaz #reveal to me your deepest desires

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heesgf · 5 years

Text

apollo. musician! hyunsuk au.

in which choi hyunsuk’s exterior is bright like apollo, and you skim beneath his surface.

plot: choi hyunsuk is a charming guitarist, and you’re tasked with reviewing his performance for your school’s journalism column.

word count: 3k

pairing: reader x choi hyunsuk

a/n: i’d like to dedicate this dreamy fic to my lovely suk biased mutuals/followers! might be one of my fav pieces ever... it’s a little new for me, but i hope u angels enjoy anyways!!!💞 i hope you’ll give it a chance, and ur support means everything to me!!! ｡：ﾟ(｡ﾉω＼｡)ﾟ･｡

warnings: choi hyunsuk being a flirty baby and lots!!! of pining!!! mostly fluff, but some angst here and there, underage drinking???

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Beneath the incandescent glow of sputtering stage lights, Choi Hyunsuk’s was the face that launched the yearning heart.

The perfect muse.

The boy clad in white chiffon garments, in gold and silver chains. With those hoops that hung loosely from his ears and shimmering pendant that so effortlessly framed his collarbone; in the same way those sunny locks of his hair did his eyes. It was the door to his sweet and everlasting gaze, to his soft and celestial smile.

On stage, there was an air of extravagance in the way he rummaged through his hair. The way he strummed long and taut fingers against the string of his guitar, a desperation in the twinkle of his eyes, and a mystery on his lips—a mystery you wished to solve with your lips against his, with your hands in that hair, and your grip fixed on his sparkling neck—he was the kind of boy that might inspire the statue David. Entice your aching soul, and make you want to sculpt his every curve in stainless marble. On stage, you swore he was like Apollo.

Off stage, you knew he was trouble.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

In your eyes, Choi Hyunsuk had always been kin with the sun.

Although now he stands before you in a cobalt gleam.

The yellowed hue of stage lights shines brightly onto the pale blue of his messy dress shirt, untucked and wrinkled. He sits alone on the cherry coloured wood, body coiled, and eyes glued to the scribbled pages of sheet music. It’s the way you see him wherever you turn; the way he seems to light up the darkness around him that makes you realize he looks so much more like the moon.

It’s then you understand the misconception, and it’s then you pull toward him; tidal waves to the empyrean sky.

You pull the camera hanging around your neck up toward your eyes, and feel the dampness of your palms against the pads of your fingers. The camera flashes when he looks up with an inquisitive glance, then he shoots you one of the those smiles. The kind that makes your knees weak. The kind that screams trouble.

“Like what you see?” He questions, eyebrows raised and gaze tender.

There is the soft rumble of jazz music droning somewhere in the distance, but it’s minute compared to the soft drawl of his voice, so much softer, and sweeter than you imagined.

You spare a glance at his beaming smile, then at the photograph on the dingy screen on of the camera. There’s a gasp in the back of your throat that yearns for release, and with a sharp cough from the chest, you ignore it. He is much more than alluring. Blonde hair that curls at the back of his neck, deep set eyes with chocolate coloured pupils. He is sweet like his voice, and he is much more than alluring. You look up from the photo and back to his eyes.

“No...” You ponder, scrunching your nose. “No, you’re blinking.”

His expression soon matches yours, and in a second, melts into another glorious smile.

“Guess you have to take a few more then, huh?”

The words are so simple, and yet, you can’t seem to shake the eruption of chills at the small of your back. His bottom lip is wedged between his teeth, and that’s when you give him a curt nod, turn your back, and walk away briskly, refusing to glance behind and absorb his bewildered expression.

“I’ll see you later?” He shouts after you, but you’re halfway out the auditorium door.

It’s when Choi Hyunsuk smiles. When his eyes are wide, and kind, in that mixture of confusion and amusement, that you understand he is neither the sun, or the moon.

He is much rather the cosmos.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

“I don’t trust him.”

Sitting on the campus coffee shop, you’re tossed between drinking the rest of your half melted iced caramel macchiato, and delving off into the serenity of the cafe’s decor. There are green potted plants at the base of every crystalline windowsill, and large-scale murals on the plane of every wall. You have half the mind to walk into one of those paintings. Kim Junkyu’s loud mouth brings you back.

“You.” He says vaguely before taking a swig of tea. “—don’t trust anybody.”

While you attempt to reply, there’s a knit in your forehead that tells you he might be right. You shoot him a concerned glance, then you bury your head in your hands.

“This piece is going to be awful.” You groan. But Junkyu takes it upon himself to flick you against the forehead, drawing your attention back to his stern expression.

“Listen, [Y/N]. Do you think I like spending my Friday nights watching sweaty Lee Byounggon play basketball? Let me answer that question for you: NO!”

The ferocity in his eyes makes your face twist in amusement, and you nod your head understandingly. Junkyu goes on.

“I do it because I like writing for the sport’s column. And you, are gonna be completely fine writing for Hyunsuk. He’s really not all that bad.”

You grimace. “But he’s such a flirt!”

“Being friendly never hurt anybody.” He argues, then he stifles a giggle. “Besides, I think you could learn a thing or two when it comes to flirting.”

“I will throw this hot tea at you, don’t test me!”

Junkyu playfully maneuvers his body away from you, though you simply roll your eyes in response. With a small jingle of the door, there’s an influx of bodies, and a strong gust of air that hugs tightly onto your skin. You’re still focused on using Junkyu’s tea as a weapon by the time his mouth parts in surprise. You don’t quite understand the mystified look in his eyes; that is, until you hear the gentle whisper of his name.

Suddenly, as if with the sweep of Spring air, he stands against the cafe’s greenery; against copious vines of growing plants and the plush expanses of verdant leaves—like walking art, Choi Hyunsuk seems to appear in a myriad of bustling colours.

You’d be lying if you said it didn’t take your breath away.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

He is better than art in that you can feel him.

His presence, as if some force in the ether has a divine clutch on your body, is absolutely mesmeric. There are more goose bumps on your arms, calves, thighs than you could possibly count, and a hesitation in the back of your mind that coats your thoughts thickly. It’s a clouded sense of worry, but now your eyes are closing in on him, and only him. He is calling to you in open silence, and it’s a sensation unlike any other; you almost don’t notice the creeping hand of Kim Junkyu, which wraps around your arm, pulls you upward, and then forward, toward him.

“Good luck.” Junkyu whispers into your ear, voice airy from the lull of gentle winds, sodden with excitement.

“I don’t want to.” You’re hissing back at him, but it seems it’s too late. Hyunsuk looks toward you with a dip between his forehead, and he stands by the rows of sugar packets in a way that’s far too picturesque. He drowns in the splendor of a plain white t-shirt, like satin between your fingertips, and you turn away before the feelings linger. He looks to you once more, this time with a fervent wave.

“It’s you.” He says brightly, lips perched in a small smile.

He is unnervingly gentle, magnificently striking.

You nod. “Uh yeah, I guess it’s me.”

“You’re the one writing my piece for journalism, right? Is it [Y/N]?”

Your name from his lips sends your heart into full bloom, and you think Kim Junkyu might be the worst friend you’ve ever had. You want to stay calm and collected, but the longer your mouth parts, the faster you realize the words won’t come out. You nod numbly at his inquiry, and groan inwardly at your frailty. His smile grows wider.

“I read your piece about the 101 Things not to do at a Basketball Game the other day, and I couldn’t put it down. You’re an amazing writer.”

You pause.

Then your rampant heartbeat slows.

You almost grin.

“Oh, I didn’t write that piece.”

His smile falters.

If there was a hulk of chains strapped to your chest when Hyunsuk first walked in, those very chains feel like they’ve unraveled. Perhaps they’ve now claimed refuge on the withering boy in front of you, whose lips purse in confusion, whose cheeks burn a dusty rose. Choi Hyunsuk is a smooth talker to say the least, but now, he is bashful, and the playing field seems even.

“Trying to talk your way into a good review?” You ask playfully.

“Depends.” He bites his lower lip and squints eye. “What do you value more? Flattery or humility.”

You look to the iced coffee that sits on your abandoned table. Kim Junkyu stands not too far away, avidly staring at a drink menu despite having ordered moments ago. You calmly take the drink into your hand, twirl the straw in your cup, and flash him the most candid look you can muster.

“How about… honesty?”

For a moment, he is silent.

Then he looks to you with a subtle sense of curiosity. There’s a hand running slowly through his hair, and a wild glint in his eyes; you can feel the thumping in your chest return once again.

“Honestly.” He breathes. “I think you’re breathtaking.”

You know you should say something. You know more than anything that you should say something. But you’re not sure where this boy ends and begins, not sure what lies past his even-tempered veneer, still, not sure if you can trust him.

“I-I’m sorry. Was that too forward?” The hand is back in his hair, and this time, it’s erratic. “Can we just, uh, start over?”

“Hmm, I don’t know.” You tease. “That was quite the first impression.”

Sunlight shines through the cafe’s wide paneled windows and straight onto Choi Hyunsuk’s perturbed face. Now, he tilts his head and knits an eyebrow, still a blinding smile on his lips, but he’s less animated, more perplexed.

“Good or bad?”

You scrunch your nose. “I’ll sleep on it.”

“You?” He repeats. “Thinking of me before you go to sleep? Yeah... yeah I can work with that.”

Choi Hyunsuk is nodding his head when you turn around to face the cafe’s double door entry. There is a pool of emotion that fosters in the depths of your soul, and still, you think it’s best to leave it untouched, to dissipate. But you’re still thinking of him when you push past the door. Still when the crisp morning air latches onto your barren skin. Still when the bright morning sun offers you warmth and comfort. He is more charming than you imagined.

You realize Choi Hyunsuk’s artistry isn't the only thing you should stay weary of.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

The first time you hear him play the guitar, you swear it’s the sweet sound of the lyre.

It echoes against the concrete walls of the music room, up to the high peaks of the ceilings, and back down again; cups at your ears and nestles in the cracks of your conscience.

It’s a sound you want to reach out and touch.

When he finishes, he looks to you for approval.

“You gonna play that at the showcase?” Your words come out in a breathy mumble, though you blame it on the rapid movement of his languid fingers, on the harmonious tune, on his rhythmic humming.

“Nah.” He says loosely. “Probably not.” He stands abruptly from his position on a music room chair, and places his guitar back onto its stand. “They like pop songs.”

“Who’s they?”

He shrugs. “The audience. I don’t usually play my own stuff.”

“Where’s the soul in that?”

It’s the way his face falls into itself that makes you think you’ve said the wrong thing, and suddenly, you feel a plummeting in the pits of your stomach; feels like your heart is sinking. An apology teeters at the tip of your tongue, but Hyunsuk looks back at you.

There is a tenderness in his face you’ve never seen. Sentiment.

You swear he’s never looked so beautiful.

“I guess...they don’t ever really wanna hear me, you know?”

You fight the urge to look at him with complete astonishment.

Never in your wildest dreams had you imagined a somber tone in Choi Hyunsuk’s speech. He is blinding rays of iridescent sunshine, toothy grins in boisterous hallways, jaunty cheers of joy and happiness—there is a complexity in his tone, vulnerability in his facade that now, more than ever, beckons for your attention.

You swear he’s never looked so beautiful. And he is far more hypnotizing when he tells the truth.

“I wanna hear you.” You reply bluntly, and your wonderment grows tenfold when you catch the uncertainty flashing through his eyes.

He grins down at his fingers, and when he looks up at you, he’s nodding his head.

“How about you let me take you out on a date?” He starts suddenly.

“How about you write me a song?”

His tongue darts out of his mouth to wet his pinkish lips, and then his eyes crinkle, along with the ghost of a small laugh. He nods his head again.

“You know, if you never give me a chance, you’ll never know what you’re missing. I could be the guy of your dreams.”

You spare Choi Hyunsuk a single glance, and it’s now that you acknowledge his close proximity. He sits across you, sparingly, on the music room’s wooden bench, with his eyes wandering. You catch his stare at your lips. You know that you should move, and yet, you find yourself looking deeper into his starry eyes.

“That’s what scares me.”

Choi Hyunsuk leans in to kiss you.

You rush out the music room door.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

The only part of Lee Byounggon’s beach party that isn’t swarming with drunken teenagers is the downstairs balcony.

From the comfort of your stranded lawn chair, you can hear the remnants of Kim Seunghun’s beer pong game, and the shouts of your friend Park Jihoon, who has everyone convinced he can freestyle to Eminem’s ‘Rap God’. (You smile to yourself knowing that he can’t.)

The night sky, speckled with gleaming stars, cowers over the small area in a cool toned haze. You are sipping on the watery mixture of orange liqueur and soda in your cup when the clumsy body of a tipsy Choi Hyunsuk barrels through the balcony doors.

“You’re here!” He clamors, sliding into the chair next to you and lying roughly against the chair’s upward slope. You find yourself leaning into his embrace, his touch, his warmth; and the brush of his fingers against your bare back is almost sobering.

“Y-Yeah, I’m here.” It’s a stutter when you first speak, but you can’t bother putting in the effort. Speaking with Choi Hyunsuk makes you want to stutter and the ease alcohol procures strips you down to your true self; it feels better this way. Much, much better.

“Thinking hard?” His head clumps down onto your shoulder. Silken strands of his hair skim the sensitive skin on your shoulder, your arm is ridden with goose bumps, but you stay put. This time, not pulling away. Instead, you lower your head alongside his, and you wonder if he can feel your heartbeat pulsating in your temple.

“Not really.” Your reply is absent minded, and he releases a vibrant giggle.

“Where’s the soul in that?” He repeats mockingly, and now, you start giggling too. “Seriously, [Y/N]. What’s your story? You’re always searching for answers with me. It’s my turn.”

There’s a creeping sensation at the base of your neck. And you wonder how long he’s carried that thought, and how much longer it must’ve taken to muster the courage, and release it. Your mind is blank, and your body quivers, although the warmth he provides is mollifying. Your lips are more relaxed than you would’ve thought.

Your forehead pinches. “I don’t really have one.”

“Bullshit.”

You bite your lip.

“School... Family... Love.” He continues. “What’s your story?”

“Love.” You start shakily, whispering into the crown of his head. “Love is hard. I-It’s scary. Unreliable. I-I don’t like feeling that way.”

Through the falling strands of your hair, you can feel his gaze fixed up at you. You cannot meet his eyes; you’re staring straight up at the moon, still so bold and resilient. Qualities you wish you could mirror.

“I disagree.” He mumbles. A raw pitch in his voice that dries the moistness in your sweltering eyes. You look down.

“Yeah?”

“I-I think when you’ve found the right person, loving them is easy.”

It’s half past midnight when you push your hands onto Choi Hyunsuk’s broad chest, and half past your breaking point when you wrap yourself in his embrace, and press your lips vehemently against his.

It’s half past his grandest dream when Choi Hyunsuk closes the balcony door behind.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Choi Hyunsuk is most heavenly when his nose is bumping into yours, and his lips soothe over in batches of giggly kisses.

By now, you have your hands tangled in wavy locks of his messy hair, and your thumb is pressed firmly on the smooth curve of his jaw. It’s then that you cradle the cusp of his face and skim over the tan skin of his neck. He is kissing sloppily onto your lips, and then at your cheeks, and when you turn your face into the crook of his neck, he places more at the base of your exposed collarbone. You breathe deeply into his sultry skin, and it’s a mixture of fading ocean water, and the sweet smell of vanilla.

Weeks spent swearing Choi Hyunsuk is art reach their peak in this moment; because now, you know that he is.

When his lips lose their fervor, and his body clumps onto yours, together you travel to the neighbouring living room and lie instinctively on the couch.

Choi Hyunsuk is most heavenly when you’re falling asleep to the gentle thumping of his heartbeat.

You are most heavenly when you place sleepy kisses on his rounded cheeks.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

If sound had colour, you think Choi Hyunsuk’s morning voice is misty baby blue.

A sound that’s as soft as the sky at daybreak, and as wistful as the distant moon, barely visible in the nomadic sky. There is a rasp in the centre of his chest, and a soreness of the throat that seems to melt away with a few kisses. Radiant morning light spills into the disheveled room, like snowy milk into freshly brewed coffee, and you bask in the comfort it provides. Hyunsuk has an arm wrapped firmly around your waist, and another, perched tentatively at your blushing cheeks. He runs the back of his fingers over the patches of scarlet red, and as if to take the heat away from your face, murmurs into your fingers.

“Wish me luck tonight.”

Begrudgingly, he moves his body upward, and you, along with it. He broadens, as if to stand up and straighten his wrinkled clothing, prepare for the big day ahead, but with a sudden spur of your tightly woven heartstrings, you grasp tightly onto his wrist, and face him with glossy eyes.

“You won’t need it.” You say onto the warmth of his skin. A timid grin makes its way onto his lips, and you wonder how it tastes.

You pull him back onto the couch.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Choi Hyunsuk greets the stage with the blinding luminescence of his acoustic guitar.

There, under those sputtering stage lights, you recognize a new found fluidity in his presence; a sentiment in his eyes that is much deeper than the likes of his flawless exterior. It is the sheer rawness of his performance, the subtle melody of instruments, the deep lyrics of the soul, the voice of silver and gold; these things, amplified for the room to hear—not just to spectate, but to absorb.

On stage once more, there is an air of extravagance in the way he rummages through his hair, the way he strums long and taut fingers against the string of his guitar, a desperation in the twinkle of his eyes, and a mystery on his lips—a mystery you continually solve with your lips against his, with your hands in that hair, with your grip fixed on his sparkling neck—Choi Hyunsuk is the kind of boy that might inspire a change from within. Entice your aching soul, and make you want to become the version of yourself that lives in faraway lands, lives in glorious dreams. On stage, you swore he was like Apollo.

Off stage, you knew he was something deeper.

You greet Hyunsuk backstage, when his performance is long over, but the crowd still cheers in his radiant memory. You first wrap your arms tightly around his neck, then push his guitar to the side, and pull his face downward. For a moment, you simply stare. He is dreary eyed and heavy breathed and he’s looking at you with such fondness; you gulp in the back of your throat and blink away the tears.

“I’m guessing that was worthy of a good review?”

You smack his chest, and with a playful roll to the eyes, pull toward him at full speed; your lips hovering over his teasingly.

“Just kiss me, you moron.”

His lips meet yours in a kiss you’ve imagined a hundred times, and still, it knocks the wind out of your lungs. You lunge deeper. And deeper. And deeper; into him.

Over the time that you’ve known him, Hyunsuk had been the boy delved deep in his persona, overpowered by public pretense. But it is now that you understand Choi Hyunsuk has galaxies of emotion. Now that you understand, he may never have been the sun, nor the moon, but rather, someone that made you feel; made you learn. The touch of his lips against your cheek, the song of his soul mending the loosened strings of your heart; it’s now that you strike a divine realization in its own right;

Choi Hyunsuk’s love is cosmic.

And you love him to the moon and back.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

hello lovely angels, thank u for taking ur time out to read this!!!💖💖 i know it can be a bore to read at times, but i hope u enjoyed for the most part, because i genuinely loved writing it :’)) some of my fav imagery yet <33 as always, feedback is appreciated!!!! (pls///!)

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