#if tumblr stretches it out and makes it all blurry then click on it for notblurries | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

welllpthisishappening · 4 years

Text

But Once a Year (5/5)

This is a trick.

It has to be. Something Pan planned, or some nonsense only possible in Neverland, because one second Emma’s sitting outside the Echo Caves and wondering how exactly things could possibly get worse, and then the world decides to take her up on the challenge. She’s not where she was. Or when she was, either.

And the future isn’t entirely what Emma expects it to be, but that might not be entirely horrible and Christmas with a husband and a family that quite clearly loves her is only kind of messing with her head. God bless us, every one.

————

Rating: T Word Count: 10K — canon had to catch up, and stuff had to happen, and happily ever after requires some adjectives AN: Guys! This is a completed story! One I had absolutely no intention whatsoever of writing. For that am even more grateful than usual that you all clicked and read and said very nice things. It’s always an absolute joy to write about these two idiots falling in love. I hope your holidays were fantastic, and January is very kind to you, and I am taking suggestions as to what I should write in 2021. (Or: if I should just post a bunch of fic I’ve already written, there’s so much fic already written)

Ao3 links in the reblog, because Tumblr’s tagging system is something of a colossal joke.

————

She’s got no idea where Killian went.

Especially impressive since they haven’t left the house yet, but the house is also fairly massive and there are a lot of people and some of them have magic, and most of them have weapons, and one of Emma’s knees cracks when she crouches in front of Hope.

Who is wearing pajamas that match Lucy’s, and holding a stuffed animal whose right arm appears to be holding on by a quite literal thread, and has absolutely no idea what’s going on.

It’s a strangely positive thing.

“You’re going to be ok,” Emma tells her daughter, which she hopes isn’t the lie it feels like. “Everything’s going to be ok. We’re just—we’ll be back soon, alright?” That’s not really a lie, either. Depending on how the next ten minutes or so, go. And part of Emma expects impatience — from the other adults nearby, magical or otherwise, but a quick glance over her shoulder only shows Mary Margaret wiping away tears, and Regina’s lips have all but disappeared behind her teeth, and the overall tightness of David’s jaw cannot possibly good for any of his teeth.

Taking a deep breath is an exceptional challenge.

“For presents?” Hope asks, and it takes Emma a moment to understand the question. Nodding hurts her neck. And, like, her heart.

No one turns off their Christmas tree in this future, it seems. Colors splash across one of Hope’s cheeks, what feels like several thousand emotions and at least a dozen internal organs twisting in Emma’s center and she barely manages to rasp out, “yeah, of course,” before there’s moisture in her eyes and her vision is going blurry and at the very least it’s comforting to know that one of the steps in her parent’s house creaks too.

“Emma,” Regina murmurs, and she’s nodding again. Hair brushes the hand that’s landed on her shoulder, as warm as ever, but there’s tension in the move as well and Killian’s lips don’t shift when Emma tilts her head up.

Something’s going on. More than the obvious. And she wants to ask, she does — but the worry churning in her gut moves to the center of her throat, and makes it impossible to voice questions or demand anything more than what he’s already given, and they’ve got no idea how to get her back. Except for—

Killian’s eyebrows lift. Ever so slightly, barely enough movement that it should even count, but Emma’s become something of an expert on his face in the last few days, and she can’t blink away the tears fast enough. Mourning something that’s happened and hasn’t, and absolutely needs to.

She can’t ruin this.

Plastering a wholly unnatural smile on her face, Ruby lets out a huff of air as she marches forward and scoops Hope into her arms. “For presents,” she repeats, “Mom wouldn’t miss that, would she?” Emma shakes her head. Seriously, every inch of her aches. With those pesky emotions and magic, and she cannot fathom how she manages to stand back up without falling over, but then there are fingers tangled up with hers and she’s brushing strands of hair away from Hope’s eyes, and leaning forward to kiss the bridge of her nose and—

“I love you.”

Whispers flood her ears, soft enough that for a second Emma truly believes she imagines them, but none of this has been the dream she’d convinced herself it had to be, and the sound isn’t as terrifying as it should be. Is like the excitement borne of picturesque Christmas mornings, and a ridiculous number of cookies, and magically-maintained snowmen.

Killian’s eyes widen, ever so slightly. Part two.

“Dor and I’ll stay here,” Ruby says, seemingly unconcerned with whatever’s happening between Emma’s ears, but Killian’s staring again and Emma’s barely breathing and she probably nods if the movement of her hair is any indication.

More instructions are doled out, plans Emma only half listens to while also trying to stay conscious and it’s only after the screen door slams behind them that she realize she doesn’t actually have a weapon. She’s fairly certain she won’t need it.

Because she’s absolutely positive this is going to work.

Well, she hopes at least.

“Don’t let go, ok?” she mumbles, mostly into Killian’s shirt and he kisses her hair. More than once, like he’s trying to reach a quota and that’s only kind of depressing, but then there’s magic stretching around them and inching up the back of Emma’s calves and she hopes she hears what she thinks she hears.

When he mutters “never” in her ear.

If there were any doubts that they were dealing with the disintegrating fabric of reality, they’re all immediately dismissed as soon as Emma opens her eyes. Trees bend in the middle of their trunks, broken branches littering the ground as what feels like genuine electricity crackles in the air, sending sparks that occasionally rain down like they believe they’re drops of water and allowed to do that.

Clouds that look suspiciously familiar, but lack that hint of magically-induced purple, blot out any sort of light in the sky. They’re puffier than they should be — the clouds, and also Emma’s eyes because she might be crying again, and she’s not particularly knowledgeable about meteorology. Still, she’s seen more than one curse broken and this isn’t quite the same. The lack of color dries out her mouth, although that may also be because she suddenly can’t catch her breath.

Magic tugs at her brain and her muscles, rising up in defense and something that isn’t really bravery. More like fear, at what the clouds can do and what they’ve already done, and the soft whoosh of Killian’s sword leaving its scabbard is far more comforting than it should be.

Wearing those pants with the sword belt is something Emma doesn’t want to forget. “Kinda looks like they’re eating everything in their way, doesn’t it?” she breathes. “Like, it’s—pulling everything up out of the ground, wrecking it at the foundation.”

“Not exactly ideal, is it?”

“You’re making jokes.” “If I don’t know, I’m fairly certain I’ll fall over.”

Scoffing, Emma licks her lips, and that doesn’t do anything except momentarily wet her lips, but her heart’s also trying to explode and the pop of Regina’s teleporting ability is loud enough to make both of them flinch.

“Oh shit,” Henry mutters, wielding his own sword. Both of those things are going to take Emma some time to get used to. Which she doesn’t have.

Not when tiny whirlwinds explode around her ankles, caking her jeans with leaves and dirt-filled snow, and she briefly wonders if that’s because of her or just bad timing on their arrival. Feels like an insult all the same.

“So, uh,” David says slowly, “what do we do about this, then?” Rolling her whole head seems like an entirely excessive response, but Emma supposes Regina’s never been one for subtlety and it is still kind of impressive when she does the flame thing. Fire jumps between her fingers, like one of those bouncing balls on sing-along VHS tapes, and really the answer is pretty simple. “Emma needs to leave. Weeks ago, if we’re being frank, but—” “—We’re not being frank, are we, Your Majesty?” Killian interrupts, low and a little more pirate than he’s been since Emma woke up here. Regina tilts her head. Her neck muscles don’t appear to be dealing with the same limitations Emma’s are.

“How do we do that, though?” Ella asks. “We’ve—I mean, we’ve tried just about everything haven’t we? Zelena’s spell didn’t work.” Regina hums. Looks a little smug, but with a hint of worry that’s also oddly comforting in a slightly vindictive way and there’s no warning before Tinker Bell appears in front of them. Smaller than usual, with wings that move as quickly as a hummingbirds and Emma’s eyes widen so quickly they manage to water even more and it’s easier to hear Killian’s soft laugh when he pulls her against his side.

What looks like sparkles, but may actually be pixie dust floats in the air, Regina’s sigh of impatience barely passing her lips before Tinker Bell is a full-sized person again and that full-sized person looks as terrified as the situation demands and— “Wonderland’s gone too,” she announces. “I only just got out.” Emma’s eyes are going to fall out of her face. It will be gross and undoubtedly uncomfortable. “Out. What does—what does that mean, exactly?” “What it sounds like. It was—” Shuddering, Tinker Bell wraps both arms around her middle, as if she’s trying to ensure she doesn’t fall apart either, and guilt appears to be the prevailing emotion threatening to sever Emma’s spleen at the moment. She’s only partially confident as to where her spleen even is. “Those,” Tinker Bell continues, pointing up at the clouds advancing on them, “they’re…cannibalized versions of magic.” “Oh,” Henry says, “gross.” Mary Margaret sniffles before she kisses him on the cheek. He’s holding Ella’s hand very tightly.

“It is,” Tinker Bell agrees, “because it’s all wrong. Broken, even. The opposite of what you’ve created here. Anything unified is gone, shattered from the inside out and—” “—That won’t stop, will it?” Emma asks, already knowing the answer. It’s been the same since the start, but it was so easy to fall into this start and live this life and she’s hardly noticed Regina. Lifting her hands towards the clouds like she could fight them, or stop them and her electricity metaphor had been almost accurate before.

Lightning explodes from Regina’s palms, feet a bit wider than usual while a muscle jumps in her temple, and the first brush of Killian’s thumb against Emma’s wrist makes her flinch again.

The clouds pause. For a moment.

Seem to shudder against the force of Regina’s power and strength, but there’s another crack and a branch that slams into the ground with an alarming speed, shaking the ground under yet a different pair of Emma’s boots, and, well—

That’s that, as they say.

Only they don’t ever mention the shadow-type vines that also explode from the ground. And for a breath, Emma’s not there. She’s sitting on different ground, in an entirely different realm, while her sword half hangs from the makeshift belt on her back and lights dance in front of her eyes. Blinking doesn’t do anything. Breathing heavily only makes the sound echo in her ears and air heave out of her lungs, and Emma can’t get her bearings. Is being twisted and torn until she’s certain she’ll be ripped apart. Right there, in the in-between, and—

No.

Giving in isn’t an option. She’s got people to save, and a kid to get back and a life to live. And the hand squeezing hers is tight enough to pull her back from a variety of edges. In any version of reality, she’s sure.

Head falling forward, Emma slams into something solid and that’s probably not another metaphor. Blades flash at the edge of her vision, both David and Henry moving quicker than she’s ever seen, while Mary Margaret slings arrow after arrow at something that isn’t entirely substantial and Killian’s hook moves under Emma’s chin.

At one point she might have thought that was a threat. She’s the world’s biggest idiot, obviously.

“No,” Tinker Bell replies, far later than is conversationally acceptable, honestly. “It won’t. Nothing will last if you don’t go back, Emma. It all hinges on you. That’s why Pan did this in the first place. He knew what you meant, to the whole world.” She groans. Like a goddamn hero.

“That might be a little heavy, Tink,” Killian mutters, and Emma makes another noise. Disbelief and charmed and wholly endeared, plus that other thing that she knows will make all the difference and at least eight of her knuckles crack. When she curls them into his shirt.

Patterned, naturally.

“Are you quoting things?” He nods. “You think it’s very cute.” “I’m not sure you could ever really be cute.”

“Is this honestly happening right now?” Regina snarls, sweat dotting her brow and Emma barely notices. Can’t really pull her eyes away from Killian when he’s smirking at her like that. “Flirting at the end of the world?” “Seems as good a time as any, doesn’t it?” Emma challenges. More pixie dust falls on the forest floor, shining brightly for a few prolonged seconds. That’s something of a confidence boost.

For Emma. And her feelings. And her plan, half-cocked as it may be.

“Expand on that for me,” Killian grins.

Keeping her head lifted is one of Emma’s more major successes. At least recently, and while her muscles don’t entirely appreciate it, the jut of her chin makes it easier for Killian’s fingers to ghost over the edge of her mouth and push into her hair and—

“Your eyelashes are unnaturally long,” she says, and the grin widens. “It drives me nuts.” “Does it just?” “Yeah, from like—the get, really. At first I thought it was a fairytale thing, y’know…have to be painfully attractive to be part of the story, but—” “—You end up in the book eventually.”

Heart explosion is not nearly as painful as Emma assumed it would be. If anything, it just makes her feel like she’s floating a bit and her magic gives her a buoyancy that leaves her lighter and softer and she turns into the palm cupping her cheek. “Spoilers,” she chides. “What do you—what do you think happens?” “When you go back, you mean?” Emma nods. Doesn’t really want the answer. Might actually be terrified of the answer, because the timeline is as knotted as it’s ever been and time travel is way more trouble than it’s worth. She’ll probably kick Peter Pan too, just to cover all her bases. “Will you,” she whispers, and holding Killian’s gaze is something of a rather disappointing miracle, “will you all—” “—I don’t think so.” “You don’t even know what I was going to ask.”

One side of his mouth tilts up, eyeing her with passing amusement and that other emotion and his fingers trail towards the chain hanging around her neck. “Between the vaguely twisted compliments and the actual insults, I’m not entirely sure this is going to work, love.” “What isn’t going to work?” Henry asks sharply, swinging his sword through a shadow.

Grunting, one of Regina’s knees buckles as she continues to fight against the cloud and Ella’s back pressed against hers only just manages to keep her standing. “Get on with it, already,” she hisses. “Or at least try it.”

Nerves explode under Emma’s skin, racing up her arms and threatening to drown out the magic that’s as strong as it’s ever been because the magic is clearly smarter than her, and it’s unreasonable to think she’d be able to deal with that exact shade of blue in Killian’s eyes.

“You make sure I’m alright.”

He blinks. Fair, honestly. Words keep tumbling out of Emma without much thought, but she needs him to know this and this might be the crux of everything else and she’s nodding again. “Over and over,” she continues, “when we’re on the Jolly, and I’m—” “—In the crew’s quarters doing pull-ups.” “You remember that?”

“I’m rather attracted to you, you know that right?”

Laughing with tears in her eyes is as patently absurd as it is nice, and the shadows inch closer. “Could probably do with some reminding every now and then,” Emma admits, “but I, uh—that’s what happened before, too. Sitting outside the Echo Caves and you were supposed to be asleep. Showed up anyway, to make sure I was alright. You always do that.” “Something of a habit.” “So you’ve mentioned.” Humming, there’s not really any way for Killian to get closer to her, but he certainly tries and Emma hopes she doesn’t forget that either. She’s not entirely sure how her memories will deal with everything they’ve been through in the last few weeks. And, like—her life, but that sounds kind of melodramatic. “You don’t need me to take care of you,” Killian says softly, “but it’s—making sure you’re alright is like…making sure we’re following the right course.” “Am I the star in this analogy?” “Several times over,” he replies, “and it’s easy to follow.” “Oh, what was that about backhanded insults?”

Warm air brushes her face when he exhales, nosing at the tear stains her over-abundant emotions have left behind. “I have no idea what will happen,” Killian whispers, as if he’s speaking only for Emma and she supposes that’s at least partially true. “I doubt we’ll disappear, not when it appears time’s much less of a straight line than I originally anticipated, but Her Majesty was right. Nothing’s set in stone, love. That’s half the fun.” “Sounds like a hell of a gamble too.” “Aye, but you’ve also got a pirate who’s rather willing to cheat on your behalf.” “Did you use weighted dice?” He kisses her hair. The edges of her eyes. Down the bridge of her nose and just above her mouth, which is really a very cruel tease, but if they were running out of time earlier, then they’re operating on borrowed minutes now, and Emma’s calves almost audibly object when she pushes up on her toes.

“Just sleight of hand,” he says, “it’s very impressive, I know.” “Something like that, yeah.” “This wasn’t fair to you, Swan. To—to be thrown into this, and I can’t…”

Shaking her head, she’s never actually let go of his shirt, so Emma doesn’t have an excuse for how much her fingers tremble. “No, no, no, if you apologize I will step on your foot, I swear to any God you can come up with.” “Several, actually.” “Nerd,” she insults, and it’s as far away from that as it’s possible for a four-letter word to be. Killian’s eyes have gone glossy. “This wasn’t what he thought it’d be. Pan, I mean. He—he thought he’d take me off the board, keep me locked here because I’d be so tempted to stay and I—” A tree branch falls dangerously close to her right foot. “Well, obviously I was, but…” “But?” Emma presses her lips together. Ignores the ache in her legs and the area directly around her heart, taking more pleasure than she should in the overall circumference of Killian’s eyes while her magic practically sings. Soars out of her, until the ends of her hair light and the shadows don’t retreat, but they freeze for a second and that’s all she really needs. “Seeing it all,” Emma starts, “living it, that’s why I can go back. Because I want to live it. No cheating, no advancing to Go. God, fuck—am I really making Monopoly jokes right now?”

He beams. Stares at her like she’s that star, and a few other constellations for good measure. Possibly the Sun too, but Emma’s the one who’s all too willing to orbit around the whole lot of them, and she kisses him before she can think better of it.

“You make sure I’m alright,” she repeats, “ten-thousand times over, until I end up here. And it’s just not better, babe, it’s—it’s a life, a real one. The kind I used to think was some great, big joke, but that house is so big and our kids are so good, and it’s—” Killian wipes away the tears. For the best, really. Since Emma isn’t entirely sure she can unclench her fingers. “I love it,” she breathes, “I love—”

In any other situation, she’d almost resent being interrupted. As it is, being interrupted with the press of Killian’s mouth against hers is one of the better things that’s happened to her. Like, ever. And she’s already pressed up on her toes, so really the whole thing is pretty practical.

Tilting her head, Emma’s grip threatens to rip his shirt and her spine isn’t all that pleased at the arch she’s put it in, but his hand is flat against her back, the kind of steady presence she’s sure she could build everything around. They’ve gotten better at this, she thinks — less frenzied than it was in Neverland, but somehow even better, like they’re sitting on simmer, a low heat that simply exists and isn’t as overwhelming. She’s not sweating, at least. She’s wrapped in cashmere blankets, and comfort and some other word that starts with ‘c’ because Emma’s ability to linger on the alliterative in times of heightened feeling is actually pretty impressive.

At least until Killian’s tongue swipes the seam of her mouth, and they drift a hint closer to frenzied, and somewhere in the realm of desperate and she genuinely does not notice the first band of light.

Or the second, quite frankly.

It isn’t until the colors arch over them, and several people gasp, that Emma realizes they’ve done something fairly tremendous. Beams of glistening magic curl around them, some hanging from the bend of Emma’s elbow and the curve of Killian’s hook, draping either one of their shoulders and falling off the sleeves of their respective leather jackets.

“Holy shit,” Emma breathes, fully expecting Killian’s smile and hoping for his laugh and she’s done more hoping now than she has in the first twenty-nine years of her life.

Henry clicks his tongue. “Oh you can say it, huh?” “I’m your mom, that’s how it works.” More laughter, as out of place as ever, but the light doesn’t disappear immediately and Killian’s jaw has gone slack. “Has that not happened before, then?” Emma asks him.

“You called me babe.” Regina groans again. Henry snickers, ducking his head into Ella’s shoulder, and Emma’s not sure what her parents do, but her mom is definitely crying and she’s crying and there’s something shimmering on the other side of Tinker Bell.

“Told you it’d work,” she says with a knowing smile. “She just needed to get there. And, y’know, be willing to walk away. Which doesn’t sound as romantic as it is, now that I think about it, but might be kind of in the spirit of Christmas.”

Killian rolls his eyes.

“Yeah,” Emma nods, “that’s—” She cuts herself off that time, Killian’s fingers lacing through hers so he can give her hand three quick squeezes and that number was probably random. Maybe. True Love’s goddamn Kiss.

“Falling in love with you probably isn’t very easy, is it?”

The tears fall. Drop from the corners of his eyes onto cheeks, one of which has a scar on it and Emma wants to know how that happened. Wants to learn every single thing about him, and them and collective pronouns don’t quite terrify her anymore.

“Not always,” Killian agrees, another strange way of doing it, “but I do always think it’s worth it. For everything we get.” “This?” He nods. “And then some. Because you’re the single most stubborn lass I know, and Pan’s an absolute fool.” “Call me lass again, and see if I kiss you anymore.” “I’m almost confident on that front.”

Smiling doesn’t hurt. Doesn’t affect the muscles in her face, or the overall state of her heart, and that may have something to do with its exploding tendencies from earlier, but Emma’s eyes keep flickering towards that portal and everything ahead of her, and the wave of determination that crests her consciousness doesn’t take her by surprise.

She’s going to get this all back.

Like a Christmas present, waiting under the tree to be opened, and another promise and Killian squeezes her hand again. Before kissing her once more, in a way that doesn’t feel like a farewell, but has a hint of promise and expectation and Emma hugs Henry. And her parents. Glances at Regina, and goddamn Tinker Bell, and hugging Henry again simply makes sense. “Come save me, huh?” he murmurs into her hair. “That’s the plan,” Emma promises. Twisting her neck, Killian’s not more than an inch behind her, but the shadows threaten again, making it difficult to see him and eventually she’ll argue that’s why she doesn’t entirely notice when his hand moves, darting towards her pocket and back so quickly it’s not much more than a blur, and her lips barely brush his before they’re pulling away from each other.

To get back to each other.

“I’m going to love you an absolutely ridiculous amount,” Emma promises, and Killian’s eyes brighten. Brand themselves on all those memories, and even more feelings. “More than I do now, even.” “I look forward to it.”

Bumping her chin against her chest when she nods, Emma’s next inhale is shaky at best, but her steps are sure and she doesn’t feel anything when she falls backwards, or notice the way Regina’s hand shifts ever so slightly.

Her feet slam into the ground. Ground that hasn’t exploded with glowing, vaguely evil plants yet and that’s all it takes to set her plan into motion. He hadn’t remembered, after all. And Emma can only sort of remember now.

Smoke on the water, her thoughts drift through a haze that’s far more metaphorical than she entirely appreciates, and she makes it all of eight larger-than-usual steps before those same feet land on boots and she barely stops herself before she collides with Killian.

A Killian who looks at her like he’s surprised to find her there, but not entirely opposed to it, and whatever thoughts continue to cling to the forefront of Emma’s brain know what else he wouldn’t be entirely opposed to, and that’s not bad, might even be good and great and she can’t remember why her lips feel like they’re tingling. That’s—

Strange, that’s strange. As is the number of times she blinks, and his hook flies to her waist. To keep her steady. Or something. Magnets, maybe. “Swan, are you—” “—Fine, fine,” she breathes, only just able to keep from kissing him. Hard. His lips part slightly when she keeps staring at him, eyes tracing across his face like she’s recommitting it to memory, and she supposes she is, and he was coming to find her. All over again. “You’re here though, right? This isn’t…this is real?” Hair threatens to fall into his eyes, head at an angle that Emma is sure simply exists to torment her. “Why wouldn’t it be?” “I—I don’t know,” she admits, and it only sort of sounds like a lie. Emma shakes her head. That doesn’t help, really. “Is my mom still ignoring my dad?” “Very much so. You shouldn’t be out here, you know.” “Neal’s not dead, though?” “No,” Killian says, lips forming a perfect circle on the second letter. Emma’s staring at his lips. Again, or always. Or whatever, honestly.

“Ok, ok, that’s—that’s good, well maybe not the ignoring part, but we’ll figure that out and we’re going to figure this out.” “Wasn’t a question.” “No it wasn’t.” His eyes narrow, neck remaining at that angle. “Good. It shouldn’t be.” “Awfully confident of you.” “No, no, I’m only confident in you, love.” Something flutters at the back of Emma’s brain — part memory and even more desire, and this feels like something they’ve done already, but that can’t possibly be true and those particular words in that particular order are as honest as Emma’s heard. She must have fallen asleep.

“C’mon,” Killian continues, hand reaching for hers and she doesn’t pull away. She lets his fingers tangle with hers, and every squeeze against her palm is enough to settle her pulse and her magic, and he doesn’t let go of her until they get back to camp. Neither one of them mention how she doesn’t pull away, either.

They plan. Plot, and discuss and Neal’s something of an issue — as is her mother’s pointed and unnecessary romantic advice, but Emma knows her objections fall on deaf ears, especially when that same mother keeps ignoring her father, and she’s not sure she’s ever known fear like she feels in Dark Hollow.

If asked — and Emma can’t imagine why she would be, but she’s at war with her own thoughts and some sadistic childlike-monster who’s already fucked with her more than he should be capable of — she’d argue it was because of what Killian tells her. When I win your heart plays on loop in Emma’s brain, but it’s also because, somehow, she knows he will and does, and fire bursts out of her in the middle of yet another shadow attack.

“How did you do that?” Neal asks, sounding far more surprised than he should and something in Emma’s center recoils at the tone. “Regina. She’s teaching me magic.” Not entirely a lie, not really. But Killian’s eyes snap towards her, and she’s apparently just as good at ignoring things as her mother. “She’s teaching you magic?”

“Yeah,” Emma nods, gripping the coconut in her hand a little tighter. Six months ago, that would have felt like the most absurd sentence in the world. Now it just pisses her off. “I guess she is.”

There’s more, because of course there is. Wendy Darling and Neal are something of old friends, and she’s somehow an even worse liar than Emma, but the truth means Henry’s death and she can’t breathe. Can hardly stand, but is also standing closer to Killian and she keeps calling him Killian. In her head.

His hand squeezes hers; exactly three times.

“It’ll be fine, love,” Killian murmurs. Naturally, it’s not.

Watching Henry hand over his heart is a nightmare Emma will see for the rest of her life, wholly unprepared for the way her kid drops to the ground and the strength of her ensuing magic threatens to blind her.

Regina’s not much better, honestly. Her mouth opens, but nothing comes out and then there’s magic and a wave of her hand, and—“He’s not dead yet,” she tells Emma, like that’s acceptable, but she’s got no idea what else to do and the growing feeling that she’s forgotten something very important.

Preservation spells are as freaky their name implies, it turns out.

Henry doesn’t blink, doesn’t move, but he also isn’t dead and Emma figures that’s at least one positive. While she’s attacked by a tree, and taunted by Pan and Regina’s admission leaves her reeling just a bit. That is until it turns out Peter Pan is also Gold’s father, and the absurdity of it all makes Emma want to scream and cry and they somehow save Henry’s heart.

In Pandora’s Box.

Really, the rest is a blur — adrenaline mixing with magic and an above-average amount of gasping, and Killian offers Henry the captain’s quarters. Emma doesn’t think before she walks, leading the pair of them towards the door, and there’s a shadow trapped in the sail and they’re on a flying pirate ship, so honestly her knowledge of that pirate ship’s layout should be the least of their worries, but something, something…open book.

“You want to tell me what’s going on, now?” Killian asks, finding Emma what feels like a lifetime later. Hours, actually. Most of which she’s spent leaning against the railing, while trying to breathe in as much salt air as possible and Regina’s still in the cabin with Henry.

“Aside from the obvious?” “Whatever’s got you staring so intently at the horizon.” “It’s calming,” Emma reasons, and there’s some truth to that as well. There’s also something in her back pocket, a piece of clothing that miraculously isn’t totally destroyed with mud and the after-effects of fighting for their collective lives.

“It often is, although you’re thinking so loudly, I can’t help but—” “—Do you think you’ll stay in Storybrooke?”

Killian tenses. He’s close enough that Emma can practically feel the way his muscles tighten, but there’s more to it than proximity, and it’s got to be nearly his turn at the helm. Neal can’t stay up there forever.

“If you think that would be a good idea.”

Rolling her eyes makes her head hurt. She might also be dehydrated. The knowledge that there’s a flask of rum stashed somewhere under the cot in Killian’s cabin is one of the few things keeping Emma conscious. Captain’s cabin. Semantics. She has no idea how she knows that. “That’s not really what I asked,” Emma argues. “Do you—is that something you’d like?”

She shouldn’t be as nervous as she is.

The future is suddenly blurry, and not entirely uncertain, but she fought like hell for it and now there’s this growing sense of optimism taking root in her. Like it’s the foundation for everything else, strong and certain and that’s a rather daunting change of pace for her. The certainty, not the adjective choices. Gold made it so David could come home too. They all get to go home. So, Emma doesn’t move very quickly when she turns, just presses her lips together and—

Hopes.

Pixie dust requires a certain amount of belief to work, after all.

“I would,” Killian breathes. He leans forward, or Emma leans forward, and it genuinely does not matter because there are mouths and hands and it’s over before it really begins, the rail of a flying pirate ship threatening to dig into her back. She’s never been more comfortable. “Ok,” Emma says, footsteps coming towards them, “that’s good.”

“You saved him, you know.”

“Motivation’s a funny thing like that.”

“Certainly is,” Killian agrees, “and you had that in spades. I just—” He smirks. The bastard. “Telling you I knew you would makes me a bit of a cad, doesn’t it?” “More than a bit, maybe.” He chuckles, letting his head drop closer to hers. “Why’d you know where the blankets were in that cabin?” “Far too perceptive for your own good.” “I prefer to see it as an acute observation.” “And you’re more than just a pretty face, huh?”

“Sounds suspiciously like you think I’m pretty.”

“Occasionally,” Emma says, standing on wobbly knees again and they’re dancing without music. “I don’t know, really, but we’ll get there, I think.”

Leaning back, Killian’s eyebrows shift and his thoughts practically come with cymbals, but he doesn’t press her anymore and Emma doesn’t actually believe she fell asleep. Outside the Echo Caves, but all of those thoughts feel like dreams now, and Neal doesn’t ask any questions — which is either a victory or a crushing disappointment, depending on which way you look at it, but Emma can’t bring herself to leave the railing, even when the wind picks up and goosebumps prickle her arms and the something in her back pocket is a tiny slip of paper.

Torn at the edges, like the person who grabbed it was pressed for time and flush with determination and she’s never actually seen his handwriting before. It doesn’t make an ounce of difference. Swooping letters linger on the looseleaf, no matter how many times Emma blinks, the words the same and she tries very hard not to rip it. Holding it as tightly as she is makes that easier said than done.

Still, it doesn’t change.

I love you.

As clear as the tears that return to her eyes will allow, and Emma’s not surprised to find him already looking in her direction. She smiles, and goes below deck.

They don’t make it very long before something else gets fucked up.

They barely make it like—two weeks. Pan isn’t dead, and Henry’s not Henry and the whole thing is a disaster that frequently ends with Emma slumped against the nearest wall she can find, the hand gripping hers squeezing at regular intervals, like Killian is trying to remind her of something, but she might just be hoarding every touch and every feeling and it figures.

Standing at the town line, Emma’s not sure how she’s going to get in that car and drive away from this town and these people and her mother kisses her forehead. Softly and almost reverently, and David’s hand finds the back of her head, holding her as tightly as he had in Neverland and Emma knows he’d like to do that forever, but that won’t be possible in five minutes and she’s not going to remember.

Any of them. At any point.

She’s still not sure why the timing of it all seems so important.

“That’s quite a vessel you captain there, Swan.”

Smiling is the only way she stops herself from kicking him, or possibly kissing him and she’s not prepared for what Killian says next. If she ever gets to remember this, that will seem vaguely ridiculous. All things considered.

“There’s not a day that will go by that I won’t think of you.” He means it. Emma knows that, too. As much as she knows she should have said something — a string of words that’s still a little overwhelming, but the sheet of paper basically lives in her jacket pocket now, and for someone who feels as if she keeps bouncing around time, or at least realms, she also continues to run out of it.

“Good,” she says, and one side of his mouth moves. Tugs up while he stares at her, and struggles to step back and everything disappears. Behind a cloud of purple smoke, and a line that’s brushed away as easily as if it had never been there at all, and Emma forgets.

Most of it, at least.

Some guy knocks on her door, knows her name, and immediately tries to kiss her. It’s not the strangest thing Emma’s ever encountered, but that’s because bail bond’s a weird gig, and he keeps showing up. Gives her a note with handwriting that looks suspiciously familiar, and proves even more than that and her hand shakes. While pulling a weather-stained piece of paper from the folds of her wallet, and she’s got no rational reason for keeping it. Not when she’s got no idea why she has it in the first place, but every time she considers throwing it away, something tugs between her ribs and flutters at the back of her brain and the swoop on the top of his ‘o’ is exactly the same.

She doesn’t mention that before she drinks the potion. And she only balks slightly at the word potion , so that’s another victory and— “Killian,” she breathes, memories flying back. Some arrive quicker than others, while a few hang in the shadows and she knows there’s more to the sheet of paper than she’s willing to admit. Magic fights with her, trying to piece together things that don’t entirely make sense, and she can remember things that don’t make sense. Pirate ships, and flashing swords, and a house with enough windows that it likely sets a record.

And a hand slipping a sheet of paper into her back pocket.

“Miss me?”

It’s a joke. A bad one, at that. Especially coupled with a smile that barely reaches his eyes, but Emma finds herself nodding all the same and he doesn’t stumble backwards when she launches herself at him, hugging as tightly as she can.

The paper goes back in her wallet before they leave for Storybrooke.

She’s going to leave. Get back in her car and go back to New York, and raise Henry like a normal kid, but Emma can’t shake the feeling that there’s something inherently wrong with that plan, and it doesn’t have anything to do with wicked witches or newborn brothers, but maybe deja vu for something she hasn’t lived yet, and Killian’s eyebrows fly into his hairline. When she does the unthinkable.

“Come with us, then.” “You’re not serious,” he challenges.

“Like a heart attack, maybe. I just…none of this is safe, and New York was, I mean…you could be part of—” “False memories, based on magical nonsense.”

Shoulders slumping, Emma can’t come up with an argument to that. Only kind of wants to, but she’s not in the book, and Henry doesn’t want to leave. The dreams she keeps having make sleep something of a pipe dream. And she’s something of a mess, but Killian’s a much better dancer than she expected him to be.

And she’s not surprised to find him rounding the corner of Regina’s dungeon, although it’s nice to be saved, even when she’s perfectly capable of doing it herself. But then his arms threaten to crack several of her ribs ten minutes later, and Emma has a few theories about that. None of which she voices, far too busy memorizing the way his thumb feels when it brushes her cheek, and her mother’s not dead.

Doesn’t remember her, but time travel beggars can’t be choosers. Another burst of deja vu rattles through her, and there’s no magic to jump in her veins, but Killian glances her direction all the same and the wand is heavy in her hand. One that’s magical again, a portal home because it is home and you trade your ship for me isn’t much more than a whisper on warmer-than-usual wind. He doesn’t blink when he answers. She’ll think about that for quite some time.

After she stops thinking about how good they are at kissing, because they are exceptional at kissing and it’s very simple. To fall into this head first, the feeling and the emotion and Killian chuckles when Emma’s magic begins to thrum under her skin.

She tells her parents about Neal.

About what he did, and how he did it and their eyes widen so often she wonders if they’ll get stuck like that. Killian’s hand doesn’t leave her shoulder.

They announce the change two days later. Prince Neal is Prince Leo and he’s still as cute as ever, with a tendency to spit up on whoever holds him.

“Are you alright?” “You’ve asked me that like ten times.” Nodding, Killian doesn’t move and Emma can’t imagine what kind of damage this is doing to his knees, but he doesn’t seem inclined to stand up either and she’s finally starting to get some feeling back in her toes. Fingers, too. Which makes it easier to drag the tips of them over his cheek, and his eyelids fluttering shut is a jolt of confidence she’s going to cling to. “And yet,” he drawls, “I’m still very curious.”

“I’m fine,” Emma says, not for the first time and she knows it won’t be the last. He shifts the blanket draped across her legs, tucking it under her side like—“A mother hen pirate.” “That’s rude, love.” “You’re going to give yourself a coronary.” “I don’t know what that means.” Laughing softly, her lips are still a bit chilly when she presses them to Killian’s skin. Warm, like always. Some joke about her own personal sun, and something else about walls made of ice and she doesn’t think before she mumbles, “you want to lay down, or something?” “Your father might challenge me to a duel.” “Not confident in your own sword skills?” “I’m very confident in my skills, but—” “—C’mon,” Emma interrupts, ignoring Killian’s protest when she pulls her arms out of the mountain of fabric covering her, “you’re warm, anyway.”

She realizes she loves him before she says it.

Well before, honestly. And she wonders why that feels inevitable, almost like it’s already happened, somehow but that’s—well, that’s impossible. She should rid that word from her vocabulary. And the inevitability of telling Killian everything she’s feeling isn’t totally surprising, either. Has been coming on so gradually that don’t you know, Emma, it’s you doesn’t knock her entirely off course. Might right her, actually. Direct her back towards some star or something else nautical and decidedly sentimental, and she cannot rationalize how quiet she is when he falls.

Dies, really.

This alternate version of him that still managed to rescue her, and she couldn’t save him and that’s not right. Two-way streets operate in both directions, but she didn’t tell him and everything feels like it stops. Not long enough. Time refuses to linger the way Emma needs it to, lungs threatening to disintegrate, and this isn’t real, can’t possibly be real and Henry’s pulling on her sleeve, telling her they have to go. He’s right. They’ve got to get out of here. Fix it, and give Emma more time, and she doesn’t spend any of it thinking before she rushes up the loft stairs and clings to him tightly enough that they fall over.

That will feel poetic later.

Standing in the center of Main Street, with a dagger in her hand and magic in the air and it’s familiar all over again, another burst of deja vu, and the exact opposite. Wrong, on a fundamental sort of level that she still can’t ignore and she closes her eyes. Thinks of what could be, or what she hopes will still happen, and then she tilts her head up and meets eyes that are far too blue to be fair and it’s easy to give voice to the words she hadn’t before.

That’s nice, she supposes.

Being as consistently confused by her own thoughts is one of Emma’s biggest pet peeves. “I love you.”

“Getting more and more difficult not to tell him. Isn’t it, dearie?” Sighing, Emma doesn’t bother glancing up from the half-finished dream catcher in her hands and Killian’s not going to be happy that he fell asleep. He likes to think he can protect her better while he’s conscious. As if he could protect her from her own mind.

“Do you even remember it?” Rumplestilskin continues, and it’s not really him. She has to keep reminding herself that. “Can see into your thoughts, y’know. And I don’t think you do.” “Shut up.” He doesn’t, of course. “The Queen did something. Changed something, somehow. Can feel the dregs of her magic, clinging to your memories and—” He leans forward. “—So can you, can’t you? Wonder why those scenes that appear behind your eyes every time you blink, feel so real. All that fairy tale fodder, and another thing you’ll miss out on. Strange how that version of your personal prince charming never mentioned what happens to you, isn’t it? Almost as if he’s keeping secrets. Maybe that’s a sign.” “Shut up.” She doesn’t mean to say anything. Responding only ever eggs the apparition on, and Emma’s head feels as if it will split in two. It might help if it did.

Every one of Rumplestilskin’s teeth is on display when he smiles. Like a goddamn crocodile.

“You could likely get your memories back. If you wanted. All that power surging through your veins. Or maybe,” he continues slowly, “part of what you’re feeling isn’t anything more than fate."

"No, that’s not true."

"Sure of that? Absolutely positive? Anything is possible, after all."

And the idea takes Emma by sudden and overwhelming surprise, part of her hating even the thought, but her feet are already moving and she might be running if the stretch of her legs is any sign, and Merlin doesn’t look up. When she slams open his door.

“You know, don’t you?” “Everything you’ve forgotten?” he asks lightly. “Yes, I do.” “What do I do about it?” “Would you like to do something about it?” “Did Regina do something to my memories?” Emma presses, leaning against the door as soon as it shuts behind her. One of his shoulders lifts. “He—the voice in my head…keeps taunting me about it, and I don’t—is any of that possible? That life?” Finally lifting his gaze, Merlin looks exactly as he did in that movie theater Emma only half believes she actually remembers, and time travel continues to be one of her least favorite things. “Depends,” he replies, “on you, and your next question.”

“I shouldn’t know. Right? Shouldn’t remember, I—he was looking at the house. The one I remember us living in sometimes, and I don’t…it’s impossible. To get back to that.” “He already told you it wasn’t,” Merlin argues.

I’ll never stop fighting for us.

Emma licks her lips. Coming up with anything else to say is difficult, and she’s still holding the goddamn dreamcatcher. That makes it easier. To give into instinct, and she’s broken. At her most basic level. Ripped apart and stitched back with pieces that don’t entirely belong to her, and remembering any of it feels like a cruel trick.

Lifting her arm, the whole thing only takes a few moments. Nothing more than a soft pull, and what feels like a soap bubble popping.

“Feel better?” Merlin asks, gaze dropping back to his table and his task and Emma nearly growls at him.

“What are you talking about?” “That’s what I thought. It won’t all disappear, though. Magic’s got a way of leaving a mark, especially magic like that.”

She leaves before he can make any other cryptic announcements, and Dark Ones don’t really need sleep. Emma sits on the bed for the rest of the night.

Dreams happen occasionally.

In the few days between — after the blade broke apart in her hand, and the decision that she won’t take this lying down, fuck whatever the world says about death and Dark Ones — visions start to creep into Emma’s subconscious. Sometimes they aren’t good, are a startling reminder of how it felt to fall to the ground, and the exact way dew soaked through her jeans, or how cold he was when his hand fell away from hers. And then sometimes they’re…not that.

They’re bright, and laughter rings out in the space Emma can’t quite define. Like it’s somewhere she’s been before, lived in even. Happily so. Scents hang in the air, a mix of salt and sweet and there’s almost always an arm curled around her waist, whispers in her ear and the steady press of kisses along her neck. Soft footsteps echo down carpeted hallways, and there’s garland wrapped around the staircase railing. Lining their ridiculous number of windows, and draped across branches of a tree.

For Christmas.

Emma isn’t sure how she knows that, but the snow outside is a good clue and it’s that — the growing desire to make this dream something closer to a reality, and no one questions her decision. To go to the Underworld. The same way she doesn’t second guess her steps as she races towards Killian, blood on his cheeks and nothing at the end of his left arm and he’s heavier than she remembered. Slumped against her chest with his breath in her ear, and it’s not quite the same as the dream, but they’ll get there.

They’ll get there.

Emma repeats the phrase — over and over, stumbling down a path she’s only passably confident will lead them outside, and he squeezes her hand. Three times.

Sometimes they dance.

In the kitchen. In the living room. She’s got this habit of hoarding records, and Killian’s far more interested in antiquing than he’d ever be willing to admit. Emma makes pirate jokes about it.

If only because it inevitably guarantees that spark in his eyes.

The one that makes her shiver, and reminds her of something she can’t quite remember and—she gasps, a hand spinning her on the kitchen floor. Away from the sink of dirty dishes and anything remotely responsible.

“I’m going to get your shirt all wet,” Emma grumbles, but that doesn’t appear to concern him very much. Or at all.

“Good.” “Good?” “Was that confusing?” Killian challenges, metal already working under the hem of her shirt. There are flowers on it.

“You think you’re very funny.” “I think I’ve got fantastic rhythm, and I can hear you thinking from across the room. What’s got your magic so loud?” Without stopping, Emma’s magic responds in kind — a symphony of possibility, and the growing sense of want that sits like a nearly-comfortable weight in the pit of her stomach, and sometimes she tells him. About the dreams, and the scenes that feel like she’s lived them before, and Killian never tells her she’s crazy. Even when Emma wonders if she might be. Instead, there’s simply this look of his own want, crinkling the skin near his eyes and she kisses away the pinch between his brow. Which makes it easier for her to ask— “Why this one?”

“Excuse me?” “This house,” Emma clarifies, and the conversation’s a little late. They’ve been here for years. Watched Henry grow up, and taught him how to use a sword, and watched movies until they could quote them back without a single mistake. So, really she should have figured it out before, but Emma’s had her suspicions. It’s only now that she’s greedy enough to ask about them.

“You know why.” “Would love to hear you say it.” “Pirate,” Killian accuses, without any insult and Emma giggles when he pulls her back to his chest. “And I—well, it’d be nice, don’t you think?” “Yeah, it would,” Emma says. The agreement tumbles out of her with ease, partially because of that aforementioned greed and the memories she can’t shake and Merlin said something to her. About magic’s tendency to leave something behind.

There’s a sheet of paper still hidden in her wallet.

“So,” she continues, “great big house, with lots of rooms and—” “—It’s your choice, Swan.” “That’s not how it works, and you know it. A combined team of planning and feeling and—” He dips her, she tries very hard not to giggle again. Fails miserably. “—Self-proclaimed rhythm. We just…this isn’t just about me, this is an us thing.” The music doesn’t stop. They only kind of do, Killian leaning back with a glint in his eyes that’s different than it normally is and Emma’s not sure when she started breathing through her mouth, but it’s drying out her lips and that’s not the first time she’s said that.

She doesn’t think so, at least.

“I’m a rather large fan of that string of words,” Killian says. “And you.” “Seems like a requirement of marriage.” “And parenting?” “Yeah?” “Yeah.”

Kissing him is really the only reasonable option. And Emma considers herself fairly reasonable, although her magic nearly makes a light bulb explode a few hours later and it’s difficult to be annoyed by the smug look on Killian’s face when he’s not wearing any clothing.

“What about Regina?”

Half a dozen heads snap towards Emma, some of them sporting bemused expressions, while others wear flat out disbelief and she doesn’t blink. Her fingers tighten, under the table where she’s gripping Killian’s hand and she can’t seem to get comfortable.

There’s way more of her than she’s used to, and the books claim she’s in some stage called nesting. Which Killian uses as an excuse to make Swan jokes at every opportunity. It might be driving her insane.

So, Emma will use that as an excuse. “What do you mean, Your Highness?” Grumpy asks her, and Killian can’t quite mask his laugh. Even with his teeth pressed distractingly into his lower lip.

“I mean,” Emma starts, “that if we’re going to combine all the realms, maybe having Regina in charge might not be the worst idea. She’s got queenly experience.” “Wow,” Regina says slowly, “that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.” “No it is not!” “Top five, at least.” “You’re ruining this.”

Scrunching her nose is not a normal Regina reaction, but Emma figures it makes sense considering the circumstances and it’s a lot of responsibility. Uniting all the realms is a pretty daunting prospect, that will require enough of her own magic that Killian’s already freaking out just a bit, and somehow Emma can’t bring herself to be frustrated with that. Endeared, maybe.

And absolutely certain this will work.

She doesn’t know why. She looks at the slip of paper in her wallet, like four times a day.

“You’re sure?” Regina asks, Emma nods. “Alright, then I’d uh—it’d be my honor.”

They buy too many gifts. Hope is a baby. One who won’t have any memory of her first Christmas in this absolutely massive house, with a tree that Anton gave them a discount on.

“For milestones,” he reasoned, and Emma resolutely refuses to admit that she cried. But Killian brings it up more than once, and that gets her to roll her eyes and smile against his mouth when he ducks his head to kiss her and Snow White went above and beyond this year. Decorations line Main Street, cookies shared from every business and every person and all those people keep smiling. At her, and them and their kid is way cuter than her brother was.

Emma doesn’t mention that.

Killian does, at least when he whispers it to her while Leo tears apart another paper-covered box, and Hope gurgles in the crook of his arm. And Emma figures this is as good a time as any. To tug the folded envelope out of her pocket, flipping her wrist at the expectant and slightly confused look on Killian’s face. “What’s this?” “A gift,” Emma snarks, barely twisting out of the way to avoid him nipping at her nose. Like some twisted and very attractive Jack Frost. There’s some silver in his hair now.

He uses his hook to open it.

Emma clicks her tongue. So as not to push into his mouth. That might scar the kid.

“I don’t—” Killian says, pulling the scrap of paper out of. He holds it like it’s precious, and it is for Emma, but she also doesn’t entirely understand it and it’s kind of a selfish gift. “This is my hand writing. Why…I don’t remember writing this.” “And I don’t know when I got it. But I have it.” “I can see that.” “No, no, you don’t understand. It’s—I’ve had that for as long as I can remember. Since before New York, at least.” Killian’s eyes flash. To her and possibly through her, and Emma’s shrug is half-hearted at best. “Memories don’t always stick in this town,” he reasons, but it sounds like an excuse. For something she still doesn’t entirely understand.

“Yeah, I know. But it’s been there. Was in my wallet, and I had it in Camelot, babe. Used to pull it out sometimes, when you were—” “—Dead?” “God bless us, every one.” His laugh lacks any real amusement. It’s not very festive. “I’m going to ask you something,” Emma says, fully prepared for the way his lips curl.

“Eventually you’ll bypass the proclamations, Your Highness.” “Why do you squeeze my hand? You do it all the time.” “Do I?” Blotches of pink appear on his cheeks and he might want to lie, but his ears can’t and that’s not as weird a sentence as it should be. “Only three times, you realize?” “Don’t insult me like that.” That laugh is better. Purer, more like him and Emma’s magic flickers when he kisses her cheek. He’s constantly kissing her cheek. And her hair. Temple. Anywhere he can reach, like he’s always looking for a reminder and proof, until Emma knows she depends on it just as much as he does.

“Made it easier,” he says, “saying it without actually using words.” “And the words were…” He doesn’t really glare — that’s against the rules at Christmas, Emma’s sure, but his head lolls and his lips quirk and magic jumps. In her. To him. Whatever, really. “I love you,” Killian says, easy as some other cliche and Hope squirms between them. When they start kissing.

To suggest that what happens next happens suddenly, also makes it seem like Emma is paying attention to anything outside the little bubble of family and feeling, and neither one of those things is true. So she can’t say that. Her mother can.

Gasping and yelping, and there’s color everywhere — rivaling the lights that hang all over, because no one does holidays and milestones better than Her Royal Highness Snow White of Storybrooke. Emma curses.

Like a goddamn princess.

Remembering something that hasn’t technically happened yet threatens to make Emma topple over, but she’s really good at standing now and Killian’s arm is around her anyway. That helps. Perpetually.

“What the hell was that?” David demands, with as little grace as any of them can exude.

Emma shakes her head, refusing to blink. Despite the moisture there, and the feelings and she remembers. Has this whole time, kind of. The semantics probably aren’t important, at least not as much as the light is and was and will be.

Perpetually.

She doesn’t answer. Not her dad, anyway.

“I love you,” Emma tells Killian instead, and it takes some time to explain it all later. True Love and its somewhat inconsistent if not equally wonderful tendencies, and while that future in the past may not happen exactly as it had, this is somehow better and Emma was right.

They got here, eventually.

#cs ff #captain swan #captain swan ff #cs fic #captain swan fic #but once a year #festive fic a thon 2k20 #agh sorry for the incoming reblog but i'd like this to work

41 notes · View notes

corolune · 3 years

Text

Breathing Underwater Chapter Three: Lightning

AO3 / Tumblr Alex had always known he wasn’t like other children. They didn't hear the song of the ocean in their ears, or feel the thrumming rhythm of the waves in their hearts like he did. Then he finds a silvery coat made of seal fur, glistening and calling him to slip it on — and everything he thought he knew about himself washes away like foam on the sea. Alex Rider is a selkie, and this is the story of how a seal becomes a spy. Prologue 〰 Chapter 1: Zephyr 〰 Chapter 2: Nimbus 〰 Chapter 3: Lightning

light·ning — ➀ the flashing of light produced by a discharge of atmospheric electricity; ➁ a sudden stroke of fortune

Only weeks after his fourteenth birthday, Alex woke to a dark sky pierced by a red and blue glow. Everything was still and silent, in that part of the night when everything was asleep. As he blinked his eyes open, he peeked through the soft curtains near his bed, and saw that the flashing lights came from a police car sat in their driveway. As he heard the doorbell ring downstairs, he could feel a sense of unease, the same way he felt when clouds started gathering and he was stuck outside. A sure sign of a storm to come.

Now fully awake, he could hear the soft sound of Jack’s slippers padding down the stairs to the door. Letting the curtain fall back over the window panes, his eyes fell on his fur coat, still on his desk chair from where he’d left it to dry after school. He wasn’t sure what was going on yet, but he didn’t want to leave it lying there if anyone happened to come inside. Shoving aside his sweatshirts and trousers, he pushed it into a hanger in the very back of his closet and slid the door shut.

He heard Jack open the front door with a rattle of the chain, and tiptoed down the stairs to peek into the foyer.

There was a policeman at the door, and Jack’s quiet words floated down the corridor.

“A car accident? But Ian was always so careful…”

Sitting down heavily on the bottom step, the words washed over him, and he felt the first thunders of the storm to come. Just like his parents, his uncle had died in an accident while traveling. Distantly, he found himself wondering if that was what would happen to him, too, dying on his way to somewhere else, a victim of someone else’s carelessness.

As sunlight bled into the sky, he couldn’t help but wonder what exactly happened to his uncle. Where had Ian been going so late at night? And how would he, the same man that drove like an eighty year old, forget to put on his seatbelt? The more he thought about it, the more he found things that didn’t add up.

Tom and Jack put it down to shock, but he knew there was something wrong. And like always, he was too curious to let it go.

A few days later, seated in a drab, grey office opposite an equally grey Alan Blunt, Alex was regretting that he’d indulged his curiosity.

“There’s something we’d like you to do for us,” Blunt said.

“My uncle died because of you. What makes you think I’m going to help you?” Alex crossed his arms and glared at him and Mrs. Jones.

Ever since he had woken to that bleak policeman’s doorbell, he had been adrift in the choppy waves of a stormy sea. At first, it had seemed like the storm would soon be over, but now he saw it was only the beginning of many, like the rains of the monsoons.

“You’ve already proven yourself to be quick, resourceful, and most importantly, curious.”

Curiosity killed the cat, Alex thought to himself as they went on to explain about some billionaire called Herod Sayle, and his plan to give away thousands of Stormbreaker computers.

“All you’d need to do is look around and report back to us,” Mrs. Jones said.

“I’m not doing it.”

All of a sudden, Blunt shifted, and when he spoke next, there was none of the forced friendliness from before. For the first time since Alex had walked into the office, he saw the cunning shark that lay beneath the man’s skin.

“Your uncle left the Royal and General Bank in charge of your care. Certainly, Ms. Starbright is no longer needed, especially with her expired visa. I’m sure Mrs. Jones could find a suitable institution that would handle your living and schooling.”

“Are you blackmailing me?” Alex scoffed in disbelief, yet somehow he’d known this was coming. The storm in his life had finally broken, and now he had these people on one hand, ready to pull him out from drowning in the icy waves. If he didn’t do as they said they would push him back into the water.

Mrs. Jones spoke around yet another peppermint. “Alex, if you only helped us with this, we’d be able to let you stay in your home with your housekeeper. Otherwise, there’s just nothing we can do.”

“You haven’t really left me a choice,” muttered Alex, with a resigned sigh. “It’s just to look around, you said?”

〰〰

He’d done much more than just looking around. When Alex crept back into the room he’d been given at the sprawling Sayle mansion, he snatched up the gadgets Smithers had given him. After some thought, he pulled his sealskin out of the bag and slipped it on, too. If things went badly, he didn’t want to leave it behind, and surely it was safer on him. After his night time adventure in the submerged tunnel, he was coming to realize it could be useful in more ways than he had initially thought. He shuddered, thinking of how the cold and dark water would have been much more comfortable and easier to navigate with his warm seal fur and sharper eyes.

Pulling the silver fur closer to himself, he quietly opened the door, only to come face to face with Mr. Grin — and then, with a sudden jerk backwards, his eyes slid shut and he saw only blackness.

When he woke, he was cuffed tightly to a hard metal chair that rested against the vast, glass wall of the aquarium. Left alone in the room, after Sayle and his assistant had left, he had the distinct feeling of being just as trapped as the restless jellyfish that was held captive in the deep tank behind him. The glow of coloured lamps cast the undulating form of the sea creature in flickering shadows onto the tile in front of him.

As he wrestled with the metal cuffs, he heard the click-clack, click-clack of heeled shoes. With a feeling of dread, he looked up to see Sayle’s other assistant, Nadia Vole.

Moments later, that dread turned into panic, as he was thrown into the winding passage and splashed into the cold tank, only metres away from the Portugeuse Man of War.

The salt water burned at his scraped and bruised wrists. The jellyfish drifted languidly while Alex spluttered and slapped at the water, keeping his head afloat in the small pocket of air.

“I hope you can hear me, Alex,” he heard from a speaker somewhere above him. Through the thick glass, he could see Vole’s cruel smile. “I am sure you will have seen by now that there is no way out of the tank.”

As he looked around, he saw there was indeed no path for escape — the metal structure holding everything together was screwed tightly, and the glass seemed too thick to shatter with his weight. All the while, he kept an eye on the dark, mauve tendrils ever reaching through the drifting current. When he turned his attention back towards Vole, she was still droning on. “Soon, you will get tired, Alex. You will drown. Or perhaps it will be fast and you will drift into the embrace of our friend. You see him...no? It is not an embrace to be desired. It will kill you.”

Kicking in the water to keep afloat, he remembered Sayle’s words describing the stinging cells dotted along the long mass of tentacles. In the neon coloured lights, the circular nodes glowed ominously.

An unforgettable death, Sayle had said.

There was an echoing beat, like a drum, and he realized it was his own heart hammering away in his chest. Flowing water rolled towards him as the current changed, drawing the creature closer, and with a quick push against the wall, he managed to evade it. The glass stretched behind him, some twenty or thirty feet of it, but the man-of-war itself was close to ten feet long.

Its tentacles had danced through the current, just inches away from his arms. He broke through the water, spluttering in his shock. As he gasped for breath, trying to keep still, something clattered against the artificial rocks that were set into the massive aquarium. Through the rippling water, he could see something shiny and metallic winking back at him in the flickering lights.

Vole’s blurry figure seemed to be laughing at him from beyond the thick glass. Suddenly the water shifted, a strong current making small waves and bringing the jellyfish back towards him. More water splashed into his face, and he felt himself being dragged with the flow, his fur coat heavy on his back. With a sharp breath, he ducked underwater, swimming towards the metal object.

Distantly, Alex heard the song of the ocean thrum through his blood. As the water closed over his hair, the hood of his sealskin floated over his head, and he felt himself fall to the rhythm that was pulsing in his heart.

There, he saw what had fallen out of his pockets — Smithers’ zit cream — and breathed a sigh of relief. Somehow, the pressure of the water had lessened, and his lungs had stopped fighting for air. When he reached for the tube, he realized why — instead of rounded fingers, he saw five stout claws, attached to a furry, grey flipper.

Alarmed, he looked through the rippled glass at the bottom of the tank and met Vole’s shocked, round eyes. Breathing out slowly, he shook his head — Vole knowing his secret would only be an issue if he found a way out of the aquarium, and it was easier to focus on the problem at hand. A quick look up, and he could see the tentacled creature still drifted near the top of the water. Hopefully the current would keep it there, long enough for him to spread the cream onto the metal frame keeping the glass in place.

He snatched up the tube from where it lay amongst the rough hewn rocks, and scrabbled at the cap, struggling to get a strong grip on it with his claws. A few failed attempts, and he resorted to holding it in his flippers, and twisting it open with his teeth.

The white cream burst out, and he smeared it onto the metal that was closest to him. He followed the seams, squeezing the tube firmly and rubbing the paste into the joints with his claws. Dodging the enormous jellyfish, he swam quickly to the other side, his back flippers beating the water powerfully, and spreading the cream onto the other side of the frame.

Now, he would only have to wait, and hope that Smithers’ cream would work just as well underwater as it had in his office. He floated into the far bottom of the tank, away from the tangled tentacles and the front wall that would soon shatter.

〰〰

A lean, fair haired man stood silently in front of a helicopter. Though he was irritated at Sayle’s habit of delaying, he looked just as bored and indifferent as the rest of Sayle’s staff. The breeze rustled the leafy trees nearby as the helicopter’s engine rumbled in wait. An inconvenient, and supposedly urgent, phone call had had Sayle scurrying off of the aircraft, and he could see the short man waving his left arm wildly. A thin, shrill sound screeched out of the phone, and he recognized it as Vole’s voice.

Yassen Gregorovich was starting to regret taking this job, and he found himself wondering how many more madmen he would have to look after before his employers realized he was better suited elsewhere.

Sayle was still on the phone as he hurried off the helipad. Sighing, Yassen climbed into the aircraft and switched the engine off, watching the older man’s silhouette disappear into the hedges. It looked like they wouldn’t be departing anytime soon. He might as well stretch his legs.

As he passed through the open archway of the house, he heard an enormous, deafening crash from Sayle’s office. Was this what had caused Sayle to hurry back inside? What was that man up to now?

In a few quick strides, he had a sinking feeling he knew what had happened.

A steadily growing stream of water puddled on the persian rug in front of the office door. It seemed that Sayle’s grotesque jellyfish had finally met its match.

He opened the door slowly, letting the water flow out to equalize the pressure before stepping inside to a scene of complete wreckage, like a seaside town after a storm.

Water gushed through shattered windows, escaping the house. Lavish furniture floated by in broken pieces, and ornate frames with priceless, soaked artwork hung crookedly on the walls. Everything was covered in a fine sheen of liquid, and droplets trickled down from where the spray had hit the ceiling. He spotted the Vole woman prone on the floor, the man of war clinging to her head like a monstrous wig, and couldn’t suppress a grimace.

He delicately picked his way through the debris, careful to keep away from the venomous tentacles, which floated lifelessly in the shallow water that still flooded the room. The front wall of the aquarium was in pieces, as if something had blasted its way through.

A shape in the corner of his eye moved, and he whipped around to face it.

Something dark and furry disappeared under a floating bronze sculpture. Grateful for his combat boots, Yassen made his way towards the corner. He hadn’t been in Sayle’s office in some time, and wouldn’t be surprised if the man had added a new creature to his collection. Kicking aside a toppled candelabra, he sloshed around the heavy wooden desk only to come to an abrupt stop.

He blinked. There, hiding under the remains of Herod Sayle’s desk, was a large, fat, grey seal. As he stared at it, the seal spread its mouth into a smile. Impossibly, the creature lifted its paw as if to wave hello, before shuffling forward with a small splash.

Yassen watched it come towards him with apprehension. Perhaps it wasn’t a fully grown seal, but the thing would easily weigh over a couple hundred pounds, enough to cause serious harm. Clearly, enough to break the supposedly high-strength glass that now covered the floor in broken shards. Had Sayle decided to house a seal in the same tank as the jellyfish? The man was truly an idiot.

The man of war was highly venomous and any animal in close contact with it would succumb to a painful death. Almost every rich person Yassen had had the misfortune of coming across in his life had the most peculiar tastes, and more often than not, their whims bordered on idiotic cruelty.

Round eyes stared up into his, and he found himself feeling a bit sorry for the animal. It was lost, stuck in an unfamiliar world, but it was a strong and brave creature. Instead of succumbing to its fate, the seal had somehow managed to smash its way out of the tank, and now, instead of cowering in fear, it bravely looked up at him, asking for help.

Somewhere deep down, the seal reminded Yassen of himself, but he brushed that thought away before it had a chance to fully form. He bent down, stretching his hand towards the furry animal, and was pleasantly surprised when it bumped its head against his skin. Its fur was soft and warm.

As he looked closer, he saw a shard of glass had pierced into its flank, a bright red line of blood marking it out from the rest of the silvery fur. Now he understood what the clever creature had been asking of him.

“Are you hurt, little one?” He murmured softly, looking into the seal’s eyes as he slowly moved closer. For a fleeting moment, he thought he recognized something familiar — something he couldn’t quite place — in those dark eyes.

The seal huffed quietly, a low grunting sound, in answer to his voice. Compared to Mr. Grin and Vole, he supposed anyone would seem friendly to the poor sea creature.

The glass wasn’t embedded too deeply, and would be easy enough to pull out. Glancing around the room, he saw the sheer curtains that lined the heavy brocade drapes — they were still relatively dry. Tearing them from the windows, he ripped off a wide ribbon of the white cloth, and snatched up a heavy throw from the remains of an armchair.

With a few careful folds of the knitted blanket, his fingers were protected from the sharp edges of the large shard. With his other, free hand, he gently stroked the seal’s side, carefully assessing the best angle to extract the fragment. A quick, sharp tug, and the glass was free — but drops of blood fell into the water at his ankles, blooming like ink.

The seal was breathing quicker now, and as Yassen reached over to grab the strip of linen curtain, he saw the seal watching the blood trickling out of the wound. Swiftly, he folded the cloth around the cut, pressing hard until the blood flow slowed.

That was when he realized that binding the bandage would be a problem. He could wrap it around the top of the seal but he wasn’t about to endanger himself by trying to roll the animal.

Well. He’d done his best, and that would have to be enough. He supposed he could call someone who actually knew what they were doing. Who did one ask for, to help a randomly appearing seal, anyway? This job was ticking a lot of firsts on his list.

Seals, it turned out, were much more intelligent than he had originally thought. The furry animal pressed its flipper against the cloth covering the wound, and rolled in the shallow water, before attempting to tie the bandage itself.

The seal slapped its flippers against the water, and let out a loud, indignant bark. Yassen was shocked to see it grab the ends of the cloth in its claws and wave it at him, and couldn’t hold back a startled laugh. Shaking his head, he bent down again and tied the bandage securely.

For such a clever and brave creature, he would have to find someone to take it to safety, away from Herod Sayle, even if he wasn’t exactly being paid for it. But first, he had a deadline to keep, and a billionaire to prod back onto schedule.

Later, a bewildered animal worker would arrive at the scene after receiving an anonymous tip, but by then the seal would be long gone, as if it had never been there.

← Previous Chapter

#alex rider #yassen gregorovich #selkie au #selkies #fic #stormbreaker rewrite #seals #my fic #fanfiction #breathing underwater #my writing

9 notes · View notes

sparklingchan · 3 years

Text

Chapter 4|| Stormbringer- Stray Kids Demigod AU

Pairing : Reader(fem.) X Felix

Word count : 1.9k+

Warnings : Fight scenes, injuries but nothing too intense.

Genre : Romance, Demigod AU, fluff, angst.

Description: The day of the Capture the flag game arrives and there’s no denying that you and Felix make a wonderful team. Somewhere in the back of your head, you make a quiet note to have him by your side even when the real quests start.

A/N : Y’all I’m so bad at writing action scenes XDD I swear I’m trying to get better at it.

Re-uploaded because the tumblr gods hate me ig ://

Enjoy!

SERIES MASTERLIST || Click here for introduction to the story and glossary and here for the Stray Kids demigod diaries!

Game mornings have always been your favorite.

Leaving out having to wake up early, you love everything else about game mornings; the little cheer song Apollo kids go about singing, the freshly cut fruits at breakfast which are otherwise a rare sight, camp students being all nice to each other which again is kind of rare, all the Satyrs moving here and there with banners and swords and arrows. The camp feels livelier than ever.

And to Felix, this sight is a complete different world. Almost like a pleasant dream.

Felix watches all the excited kids move around the camp, the jumping Satyr, the hearty breakfast and a new, foreign glow on your face as you sit across from him, explaining the game to him once again.

"Weren't you paying attention the first time?" You deadpan when he asks you to repeat, your front teeth nibbling against your lower lip in annoyance.

Felix smiles sheepishly and tilts his head with a shrug of his shoulders, as if to say 'Not really.'

You end up explaining it to him again because who could ever say no to that smile.

"So Capture the flag game is played in different ways by different Camps all around the world. As for Camp Levanter, we have a special set of rules that are to be followed."

"We're divided into two groups, which are further divided into smaller sub groups. Each group only has one purpose - to capture the flag that has been hidden at the Athena temple on the hill behind our camp. We can use dummy weapons to stop our opponents from getting to the flag first but we're not allowed to fatally hurt anyone or use our powers. Whoever gets to the flag first, wins. Do you understand now?"

Felix nods with a tense smile.

"I'm nervous, y/n." He later goes on to admit as Minho and Eden declare the beginning of the games and call over the participants near the starting line. You glance at him and he is fidgety, like a middle schooler going to his first date. He wears a loose black t-shirt with a pair of extra baggy pants and his fingers play with the blonde strands of his hair.

When he catches your gaze, he smiles ever so sweetly.

You look away.

You feel the adrenaline course through your own veins as you gently pat his shoulder, "We're gonna win this. Trust me."

The other participants soon gather at the starting line, the competitiveness very much distinct in their sharp glances and quiet snickers, a contrast to how it were this morning. You'd never been one to be nervous before and today, you feel more confident than you've ever felt before. You wonder if the boy standing beside you, with his fingers tight around the sharp wooden sword, has something to do with this sudden confident outburst.

"Alright. Everyone, get ready!" Minho grabs everyone's attention with his loud voice, "And.....GO!"

Eden blows the Horn and you turn to look at Felix, sending him a wink,

"We're winning this, Lee."

A few seconds into the game and you realise that Felix and you make a bloody wonderful team. He's good with the sword while you're good with the arrows, he has sharp senses while you have sharp reflexes.

Your opponents attack you at the most random, unexpected moment but the both of you happen to defeat everyone of them and move closer to the temple, climbing through the thick mountain forest.

"You know, I didn't think we'd make such a great team. " Felix admits, panting and wincing as a tree branch brushes past a bruise on his arm, "You're not that bad, eh?"

You manage to giggle just before an arrow wheezes past you, missing you by a single inch.

Your heart as if stops beating for a second.

"Shit! I thought we were leading!" You hiss, falling on the ground.

Felix gets ready to defend your vulnerable position, his sword raising in alarm.

While on the ground, you quickly grab an arrow and position your bow in the direction from which the opponents' arrow flew.

You hear crunching of leaves and branches and quiet whispering.

"They're here." Felix mutters.

The footsteps get closer and closer and before you know it, Felix is tackled aggressively onto the ground. You turn around and shoot your arrow, almost blinded by the suddenness of the situation.

"Goddamn it, Han Jisung!" Felix groans as he wrestles for dominance over Jisung, who is laughing almost maniacally.

"Jisung, I swear to-" you are about to get up and run towards the wrestling duo, but an arrow falls onto the ground, just near your feet.

Its your arrow.

"I underestimated you, y/n. You seem to be a pretty good archer." Changbin appears from behind one of the trees, a visible bruise on his cheek from where the blunt, rubber arrowhead must have hit him.

"And I, you." You respond, grabbing another arrow and stretching the string of your bow, "We're going to win this, Changbin. You might as well get going before I bruise your pretty face again."

Your words come from nowhere but a place of playfulness and competition, but Changbin's eyes turn dark.

You quickly run over to cover Felix, who seems to have gained dominance over a very tired Jisung, all of Jisung's arrows having fallen out of the case and onto the ground.

"I could say the same for you." Changbin approaches you, a wooden knife in one hand and a spear in the other.

He attacks and you dodge, smooth like a cat.

"Felix! Go! Get the flag!" You yell and hope Felix realises that Jisung is too tired to keep up a good fight, "Quick! Go now!"

Felix jumps from a panting, sweaty Jisung and runs towards the temple on top of the hill, his footsteps momentarily slowing down as he turns around to look at you, as if for reassurance.

You nod, "Go."

Your eyes turn to Changbin, who has his head tilted with a smirk on his face.

"I have always been a better runner than Felix, you know."

He tries to run past you but you grab the back of his shirt and drag him back, almost slipping in the process. Reflexively, he grabs your hand and forces his shirt out of your fist while you struggle to keep your feet flat on the ground.

Changbin is strong, you realise, extremely strong so when you try to throw in a punch, he dodges it easily.

Your brain is running wild now; your only motive being distracting Changbin from running after Felix.

"He won't go easy on you just because you've grown up together, you know." You say, almost mockingly as he tries to get out of your tight grip. You wonder if his shirt collar might tear because of it.

He scoffs, not bothering to answer but instead reaches for his wooden knife. And in the blink of an eye, the knife slashes across your forehead.

"Oh, God!" You groan, clutching the burning area on your forehead. Your body once again falls onto the ground, your vision extremely blurry.

With barely an eye open, you see Changbin run up the hill but you're quick to move and grab his feet such that he trips and falls down. You drag him down further, while he struggles to climb up.

Your heart beat is in your throat, your vision almost zero and your entire body is as if on fire. You pray to the Gods that Felix comes down the hill with the flag because in this state, you could only hold onto Changbin for so long. And not to mention Jisung who's slowly getting up with loud groans and complains falling out of his mouth.

As if on que, you hear footsteps hurrying down from up the hill and soon an enthusiastic voice follows,

"Y/n! We won!"

You wish to run up and hug the man but in your state, all you can do is let go of Changbin's leg and let out a sigh of relief, followed by a giggle.

"Told you, didn't I?"

* You often find yourself thanking the makers of Camp Levanter for making the Zeus cabin as far away from the others as possible that afternoon. It gives a much needed sense of privacy and the luxury of being able to choose when to socialize.

"I hope it doesn't leave a scar behind." You mutter to yourself, tending to your wounds on the verandah of your cabin.

You dip a cotton ball in an anti septic lotion and gently dab over your forehead, wincing when it stings.

"Need help?" You hear a heavy voice from near the staircase of the cabin and your heart jumps a little at his sight, "If you don't mind."

You run your eyes over the various purple and red marks on Felix's body and you pat the space next to you on the floor for him to come sit on.

"Your friend is dangerous." You remark when he settles down, flashing him your forehead wound.

He shrugs guiltily, "He's just a little aggressive, that's all. He'll come around."

Felix shifts in his seat and takes the cotton ball from your hand, silently volunteering to clean your forehead wound.

The sting is still very prominent, but Felix's other hand rubs comforting circles on your cheek to ease the pain.

"Minho told me that you met mom." He mutters after a few seconds, his lips turned down into a frown. Almost as if the news upset him.

"Yeah, I did." You admit as he applies an ointment and then fixes a bandaid over your wound.

"Have you never met-"

"No, I haven't. I don't know what she looks like or sounds like. My father never told me and she never bothered to show herself." Is he angry that his mother met you and not him?

You purse your lips, the sudden rise in tension making you uncomfortable.

"Hey, hey. I am not angry at you in particular." Ah, Aphrodite kids can feel auras. "I just wished she'd come to meet me as well. I don't know why she doesn't. " he mutters.

"Well," you start, "If it makes you feel any better, she did tell me that she wants you to go with us for a quest. Says its important for you to go."

Felix's eyes glimmer with a sense of relief. "Really?"

"Yes, of course and I'm sure she'll meet you soon." You reassure him, though you yourself weren't sure what Aphrodite might do. She isn't the most motherly entity, according to Hyunjin and the other Aphrodite kids.

"Do you want me to go the quest?"

You are applying the ointment on the bruise on his cheek when he decides to drop that question, catching you off guard.

"Why would my approval matter?" You ask.

"It matters." He almost whispers, "To me."

Heat races to your face at his unexpected yet sweet words. You know you shouldn't feel like this, you shouldn't get flustered because of a boy you met only a couple of days ago but under his unsettlingly calm gaze, you find yourself melting. Bit by bit.

"Okay, enough talk." You shake out of the trance, "Go to your cabin and rest. We leave tomorrow night. I hope you paid attention while Minho was explaining the quest or do I need to repeat it?"

Felix giggles, shaking his head, "I paid attention."

He jogs down the small stairs of your cabin and waves you goodbye, making his way to his cabin.

"And Felix,"

"Yes?"

I want you to come with me to the quest.

"Don't forget to have Ambrosia before bed. It'll help your wounds heal faster."

Oh, silly,silly, y/n!

8 notes · View notes

comic-brew · 4 years

Text

On Smoldering Ashes

Chapter Two: If any more blood is to be spilt

@whumptober2020 days 3. Held At Gunpoint, 6. "Stop, Please", 9. "Take Me Instead", 14. Branding and 21. Stitches (Altprompt)

Series summary: Bruce Wayne has gotten vulnerable. Bruce Wayne has found love. His love and his kids are all he needs to find happiness. Some sick concept of fate doesn't like him being happy.

Notes: Forgive me for I have sinned. Oh god, oh lord, what in the blazing hells is this. Shitty shitty but I'm tired and late *drops mic* (37 mins/4.6k words I've exhausted tumblr's paragraph limit)

Warnings: RATED MATURE. Graphic depictions of child abuse and torture, graphic depictions of violence, blood, swearing, heavy I guess angst

AO3 | Prev Chapter | Next Chapter

***

"Why" Dick hears Bruce's voice implore. "Why are you doing this? I thought-"

Bruce's merely balancing on his toes inches from the end of the cliff, Dick can figure just by the way his voice wavers like it has only ever done no more than a couple times in the past.

Cecile knows this. She knows Bruce, and she knows this. And quite possibly she's enjoying it way too much.

"Because, dear, who can say they're getting paid to practise their hobbies?"

Dick can only gawk at her, an frankly that's the only thing all the others seem able to do as well.

Hobbies?

They're nothing but a plaything to her.

It doesn't seem right. This shouldn't be happening. Dick should be helping B plan the wedding that made him beam just at the thought of taking place.

Not being held in an unknown location by his could-be step mother.

They really dodged a bullet, but in doing so they fell right into a different trap.

His family's unable to speak, stunned by the sudden revelations. He can't blame them, nor can he blame Jason for cursing under his breath.

Barbara's the first to snap out of their trance.

"What could you possibly want that Bruce's money couldn't get you?" she asks. Her true goal though, expertly weaved inside is search of Cecile's motive.

There's none.

Cecile giggles. "Oh dear. It's never about money. It's not personal either, if that's what's bugging all of you. And although my client does pay a fair amount, in reality.. pain and suffering are simply way too enjoyable."

Client, Dick notes. Somebody's paying for this. Somebody that most likely knows who they are when night falls. Somebody dangerous.

Cecile then turns to look directly at Bruce, as she expertly hides her poison inside cheerfully spoken words.

"And you, love, with as many kids as you have here,-" she says, and Bruce's face crumples, "-are going to be a very, very interesting subject"

Duke shakes his head in disbelief at the woman.

"You're sick"

Cecile sits back and ponders on this statement for a bit. Just for a split second, so it's enough to pass across that message, but not quite long to let them be freed from that entrapping mist of concurrent desire for knowledge, and repulse keeping them bound to every word that falls from her lips.

"Perhaps I am" she ventures.

"Perhaps we're all sick, just in different ways. Have you ever thought of that?"

Dick has in fact thought of that, but his answer would never share meaning with Cecile's. How different really are they from the people they fight? They lock all those costumed freaks up in Arkham, but they themselves could very well be described in the exact same way. Sometimes he wonders if they're insane for choosing this life, and the answer that his mind spits out is always yes.

Every life they save is worth it. That's the truth that makes him continue to put on the suit every night, even though the wounds inflicted on him the previous night are still healing.

But are they really making a difference? Aren't they just lunatics running around in kevlar and spandex. Isn't all the grime and mold of the city simply feeding off of them like leeches?

Dick can't focus on that now. Questioning his life choices might have to wait until he's not that tied up.

Heh. Tied up.

Meanwhile Cecile has exploited the moment of nonplussed silence she's created to tighten her sleek ponytail.

Keeping the attention to herself. Every move is calculated to milliseconds.

"Okay, so here's how this is going to go" she begins, clasping her hands together, then motioning towards their hanging limbs. "Do you see those cool little bracelets on your hands?"

On cue, nine heads tilt upwards to test Cecile's statement. And there, right on his forearm Dick can spot a faint blue light shining dully on what seems to be the middle of a silver-like device.

"Those give us, the immense pleasure of electrocuting you whenever you folks might try to escape, or cause any unwanted trouble" she informs, with her mouth taut into a completely mechanical smile.

"Or.. you know. If we're just bored and feel like it"

"And this little screen right in front of you, it's pretty bland now, if you ask me"

She then starts pacing around in the segregated room, seeming to find great amusement in hearing how her heels click against the concrete.

"Well what if I told you the sight will get more entertaining?"

Dick doesn't like this.

"Before you ask, I will not spoil the experience for you. But I will give you this: you will be the stars of a grand performance. You in particular, circus boy should be thrilled by this fact"

He flinches when he mentions him in that way. It's then that his mind fully comprehend just how much she knows them.

It's not just some kidnapping, of those they've had many before. But it's never been like this. Never has a stranger gotten so close only to betray them for laughs.

Some could argue that it was a similar case when Jason had come back, but Jason had always had a motivation. A goal.

Cecile's doing this for nothing else than pleasure.

Before he can compose himself and reply her voice strikes again, this time in the form of a snarl. "So? Any volunteers?"

No, Dick doesn't like this at all.

"Leave them alone" Bruce demands, only it's not precisely Bruce anymore. Not only has his voice assumed the dark edge of the Knight, but his speech is completely neutral, apathetic. Somehow, his emotional state is even more prominent that way.

"It's me you want to get back to"

"Oh, no" Cecile frowns. "No, no Brucie. This is not about you. Hell, it's not even about them. It's about me. And I say it will be nicer to leave you for last."

She rests a finger on her chin contemplatively, but it's fake. It's all fake, and provocatively so. Cecile's head twists around so that her malicious glare lands on Damian.

"How about our little asshole over here?"

No. Not Damian. Never in a million years. Never in a billion years.

"If you value your life you'll stay away you imbecilic Jezebel" Damian hisses, but Cecile makes no motion to enter their space. Instead, the man in black leaves his post to disappear behind the door Cecile had previously entered from, most likely leading even further away.

"I do value my life"

He comes back with three more identically dressed men, one slightly leaner than the other, and one slightly taller.

"Plenty, for that" she says loftily, and while one of the men returns to his post by her side, the other two barge in through a barely visible door next to the right end of the glass.

There's an outrage as the men quickly advance towards the boy. Everything's blurry and spinning and his ears are ringing so that Dick can't quite figure out if he's shouting along with his brothers and sisters or if he's simply been trapped in a lucid dream all this time.

Voices and bangs and thuds and yells, it all gets lost in the end. So much thunderous noice, yet still it can he broken down to its core. Raw and frantic cries of dissent, repeated over and over in a canon, until the words and senses are but a blurred collage of ire and desolation.

Cecile whips a rectangular device from her suit's pocket and before her finger has enough time to hover above one of the polished buttons, the last is pressed and Damian's body is released from the pipeline.

The boy wastes no time, immediately lunging for the men, and despite any rust slowing down his joints because of their inactivity, he manages to hold off the two men looming over him with size thrice his own.

Dick wants to hold hope inside his heart, but he knows it's futile. He also knows Damian is aware that this fight was lost before it even began, but his baby brother isn't a quitter, nor a coward by his own standards.

If Cecile is startled by Damian's fierce resistance, she doesn't let it show. Her finger finds the device held loosely in her grasp, and a different button is pushed. Sparks that are birthed from the device on Damian's forearm begin to climb throughout his every inch of flesh, until he soon collapses to the ground -like lifeless weight.

The men drag him out of their view, and Dick swears he witnessed a smirk manifesting on their faces while they yelled with all their might, yet completely powerless.

***

It starts with low and hollow grunts. It starts with insults, it starts with defiance, it starts with barely discernible hisses.

Most importantly, it starts with no image.

Only screams. Separated by breathless gasps.

"Please, stop"

Dick's heart shrinks into his chest, sinking deep, deep down, until his lungs are under too much pressure to expand.

The screen flickers to life only after the first hollow screams have subsided.

It's.. not a good sight. Nobody expected it to be.

The room is small and dark, the camera feed is black and white and grainy, but that doesn't help in reducing the horror.

The image focuses enough for Dick to make out Cecile finishing stitching deep gashes on Damian's torso back together in the worst way possible.

Cecile retracts her hand hastily, like she's forgotten something. She lolls her head to the side, waving primly towards the camera.

"Stay tuned for a surprise" she whispers almost conspiratorially before turning to Damian, severing the thread with her own fingers, picking at flesh and stretching it out until he's bleeding again all over the gurney he's tied onto.

Damian struggles not to let her hear the sound she would find oh so hedonic. He grits his teeth and grinds his jaw, but groans emanate from him without his consent.

Cecile sets the sutures and her other tools on a filthy table standing miserably beside her.

"Your brother's such an ass" she declares almost smugly, while shifting in her place to face the camera

Without a warning she pokes a finger inside Damian's open wound, evoking a strangled yelp of agony. Soon enough Cecile's retracted her finger. She brings her hand up to her face. She makes a show of admiring the fresh blood coating it, before she tastes it.

She giggles nonchalantly, but there's that certain grace to everything she does.

"Don't worry. We're not done yet"

No. No, this can't happen. He can't let this go on any longer than it already has.

He has to take his place. He'll take his brother's place. Just, god. Just please listen..

"Take me instead!" Dick screams at the top of his lungs, and the dread climbing up his ribcage seeps into his voice. Bent in ways abnormal, tuning in with his despair.

"Do you hear me?!"

He's flailing around wildly and almost hysterically, his voice is getting hoarser by the second. Kicking and bumping the air, but the chains are relentless, so that he's supposed to sit idly by and watch while his little brother is being tortured.

All alone in a dark room.

The man standing tall and unmoving on the other side of the glass only smirks slightly.

"Leave Damian alone!" Dick roars at the screen, and roars at the man, but he knows it's pointless.

Cecile smiles once again to the direction of the camera as she elegantly walks away from Damian, leaving him alone strapped to the gurney -panting, sweat dripping down his forehead.

Damian's head follows the woman even as she disappears out of Dick's sight. The boy's face crumples. Breathless pleas escape his trembling lips, in swift exhales of air that hold no power.

"Please no"

She reemerges cradling an incandescent piece of metal. The sickening calmness on her face is doused in its fiery glow, and all Dick can utter as he goes deathly pale and still is a breathless "No"

Dick finally has enough contact with reality to register his brothers and sisters' own twisting and shouting. The sounds are earpiercing but all hollow to his ears, and Dick only does acknowledge their existence by sight of tears on enraged faces, jaws snapping open with enough force to dislocate, muscles toned and clenched uncomfortably, bodies bent and struggling, in futile attempts to raise enough force and reach the glass to perhaps create a distraction.

Dick can't figure out the faces from his peripheral vision, nor does he care enough to try.

"No."

His eyes are stubbornly fixed on Damian's own, shining wide with terror as the metal illuminates his skin more and more clearly on the screen. On Damian, desperately tugging against the straps keeping him bound to the gurney to no avail, struggling to be freed before the red-hot iron burns the exposed skin of his chest.

"No.. please no" Damian mumbles, and he looks so small. Smaller than a child his age should look. More frightened than a child his age should be.

Dick had promised -to him and to himself- that he'd always be there for his little brother.

He watches helplessly as the metal sizzles the first layer of flesh. He watches as his little brother writhes and squirmes helplessly under the red-hot iron melting into his skin, and he realizes he can't keep his promise.

No, no, no, no, no

Damian is screaming with all his soul and all Cecile does is laugh. Cecile is laughing, and Damian is being tortured because Dick couldn't keep his promise.

He failed him.

"Take me!"

Please no. Not Dami.

Every inch and acre of Dick's skin feels set aflame, but the pain is nothing but the child of wildfire blazing and burning in his chest. Its smoke has filled his eyes with tears burning like acid.

Failed him.

In his ears buzz cracking woods and falling towers. Not his brother's screams and pleas for mercy, not the echoes of laughter, not the thundering cries of their family.

Failed.

And because of his failure his little robin is expected to endure agonizing pain, as also the wounds inflicted on him are what make Dick's failure not only discernible but grievous.

Failure equals repercussions.

Failure equals punishment.

Perhaps it's irrational, and perhaps he's lost his mind long, long ago. Perhaps this is all a nightmare that he can't wake up from, but Dick's senses don't deceive him.

His every cell is howling in despair but yelling and praying are not enough to relieve them of their pain. Flowers buried deep in ice, frantically searching for sunlight- too frantically to know that they're dead.

Dick failed him. Dick should have been the one punished for this failure.

Only moments have passed but the agony grabs them and twists them, draws them out until seconds can't be told apart by eons.

Dick's eyes are fixed on the form spasming on the screen, but those eyes are empty and hollow.

Their azure blue has evaporated, their glossy white has been burnt to the ground. Obsidian vortexes shining with the life they've stolen from his soul in the half light, is all that is left of them.

Damian's voice is rough from the perpetual screaming, but Dick can hear no more.

So he prays to whatever deity listens that Cecile is reached by his own cries tearing through his throat with fading intensity. Perhaps so loudly the air is grazing his vocal cords more harshly than it should.

Perhaps so loudly he is already silent.

But Dick won't mind it even if they fail to produce a sound ever after these, as long as his flesh is torn and burnt instead of Dami's.

The flesh being torn and burnt is his, in a way, but not in any way that matters.

The iron is removed and Damian's face slowly appears behind the sparse smoke of his own smoldering skin.

***

Cecile reappears behind the glass, walking ever so elegantly towards the barrier separating her from them. She peers at each and every one of them in amusement, deaf to te insults so full of hatred being hurled at her from every corner.

She smiles at the teary paths staining Cass and Barbara's cheeks,

"You fucking-"

"-embodiment of evil and-"

"go-"

She laughs at the veins popping on Duke, Jason and Stephanie's necks as they shout their lungs out, feebly attempting to stop the world from sinking,

"I'm gonna fucking kill you"

"Jay calm down-"

"You repulsive.. abomination-"

"-to hell-"

She gracefully snickers at Tim and Bruce's state of dishevelled resignation, a progression of the rage and agony to the point where they're no more prominent than their breathing,

"You hear me? You're going to burn-"

"Don't you dare tell me to calm the fuck down, replacement"

"-in hell"

"He's right Jason, this doesn't help Dam-"

"you'll wish you were dead before I get my hands on you"

But she stops in her track when her piercing hazel eyes land on Dick. So visibly worn out, yet determinedly burning holes through her with his glare.

She stops, and can only regard him in newfound interest.

Dick doesn't shift in his place. Doesn't bat an eye as he speaks with the power of a thousand thunderstorms enhancing the calmness in his voice.

He's made up his mind.

It's his failure.

His decision.

"You'll stop" he says, almost nonchalantly.

Cecile cocks an eyebrow, scoffing.

"Excuse me?"

"You'll bring Damian back here with us. And you'll stop."

Cecile smirks ever so slightly. "I'm afraid I'm not quite done with your brother yet. Besides, why would I do that?"

"Because you will" Dick growls, but soon enough he masks his outburst beneath a carefully tailored poker face.

Something unreadable passes across the woman's face. Dick assumes she's caught up to his thinking. Of course she has.

"Well, you wound me!" Cecile exaggerates, clasping a hand to her chest. Overacting the entire thing, on purpose no less. She's proven to be too much of a hypocrite for Dick to know she's only acting terribly on purpose.

His stomach is urging him once more to let its contents out, only this time he's not sure it's just a lingering side effect of the drug.

"Although, while wounded, you can consider me intrigued."

Dick swallows thickly. He hopes Cecile doesn't hear him gulp as loudly as he sounds to his own ears.

"You'll stop. Leave Damian alone" he says and although his heart is beating a hundred times faster than it should, his stare is unyielding.

"And you'll take me instead"

Cecile eyes him half incredulously, half entertained, for moments that feels like an eternity. Dick is convinced his soul has already left his body, and the woman is simply left staring blankly at his hanging corpse.

She's still staring vacantly at his direction, with no indication of the fact changing.

But then she chuckles.

She chuckles, and soon snickers are finding their way up her throat one after the other, until her shoulders are shaking with laughter.

Yet the laughs escaping her are perfectly normal. Perfectly contained, just the average sound that could be prompted by an oddly funny joke. A joke so ridiculous it fulfills its purpose.

Perhaps that's the most terrifying part. How human it is.

And Dick is showered in cold sweat when he repeats himself, voice sounding just a little more tight and frantic than need be, but Cecile pays him no mind, laughing silently on her own.

Cecile -most likely pointedly- ignores his protests, which are growing more and more despondent as he's fumbling for words, caught somewhere in the crevasse dividing dread and ire.

"Do whatever you want to do to me! Just-"

He's just a child. Just an innocent child.

"-just leave Damian alone. And take me." Dick says.

An innocent boy caught in the crossfire of a war he never swore to fight, but was instead compelled to win.

His brother caught in the crossfire. His Dami.

His fault.

Dick's stuck in a loop. It doesn't end, it never does. Once it's starts there's no end to look forward to, there's merely one he can imagine, and they won't let him follow it.

All air leaves his lungs. Everything seems so peaceful when the flames tingling his heart have no more smoke to give.

"Take me."

His fault. His responsibility.

"Dick, no," Bruce pleads from behind him. Only then is it that he realizes the rest of them have grown silent, all eyes on him, reflecting the light nearly pensively.

Only then is it that he realizes he's been toeing the line of hysteria. That he doesn't know how to stop.

"B, I have to. I can't let Damia-"

"And I can't let any of you!" Bruce snaps. Dick is taken aback, only not due to the sonorous anger redirected towards him. Rather by the tears he can see glistening all over his father's irises.

Tears.

Shining all across his father's eyes.

Under the enemy's scrutinus gaze, and still he let the sorrow swim all the way up to the surface.

Cecile has stopped laughing. Openly at least, as her palm is covering her mouth in a futile attempt to stifle the giggles, perhaps not wanting to disturb the show. The bright smile lighting her eyes betrays her nonetheless.

"You're my son, Dick. I can't let you do this. I can't let another of my children do this" Bruce concludes, never ending eye contact.

Never trying to deny the tears.

All Dick wants is to give in to the pain of his own, and let Bruce wipe at his eyes and tell him it's all going to be alright, just when he was little.

But he isn't little anymore, is he?

Is he?

Is he strong enough?

No. Not a question. He has to. He has to be-

"I was dead, I should go in next. There's nothing she can do to me that I haven't already gone through" his brother's voice cuts in, disrupting the debate that's been won in his mind, long before it even started.

"Half of us have died, Jason" Stephanie counters. "I don't mind going myself"

"You're not going Steph"

"I'll go then"

"The hell you are, replacement. You didn't make the cut for our club the first time, you'll not make it now.

"Are we seriously having this conversation right now?"

Cass clears her throat to get their attention.

"Me" she offers, and immediately after she's met with loud protests.

Dick watches as the others continue to fight between them, arguing on who should trade places with Damian. They can't understand that he has to do it. He doesn't expect them to. So when Cecile laughs and asks who's it going to be?, his decision is adamant.

"Like I said. It will be me" Dick insists.

He's not little anymore.

"No." Bruce says sternly. "No, you won't go. Do you hear me?"

He is strong enough. He has to be, so he's going to be.

Dick hears him, although elects to ignore him, staring proudly ahead, at the two men walking inside to retrieve him.

Bruce then is yelling, and the others protest, some are still fighting over which one of them should take Damian's place but it's already too late. The cuffs clink open and the two men go to stand by either of Dick's side as soon as his feet touch the ground.

Dick doesn't fight them. He doesn't mind being pushed around with his arms pressed behind his back so tightly his already sore muscles hurt as his arms are straining to bend backwards despite his flexibility. He doesn't mind, because he's doing it for his brother.

As long as his brother's safely reunited with the others, it doesn't matter whatever they might do to him.

Dick sends one last look to his family, and another full of a different kind of love directed right at Babs. He hopes his eyes delivers the thousand messages he doesn't have the time to relay with phrases.

The room is left in hush when the door slides closed behind him.

As far as looks go, Dick's were farewells.

As soon as Dick's dragged into the small room whose horrid purpose he's seen on camera, he spots Damian sitting upright against a corner, with a gun pressed to his temple.

Dick's shoulders stiffen and a breath catches on his throat. Still, it's all going to be alright. It's all going to be okay. Damian's going to be okay.

"I'd advise you not to try anything smart, or-"

"I won't" Dick interrupts sharply.

Cecile stands to the side and gestures towards a skeletal armchair with untied restraining straps. Dick shudders at the thought of how many people have suffered on this same chair, and his stomach fills with dread as the knowledge that he's next settles in.

"Grayson wh-"

"It's okay Dames" Dick says softly, scrambling to regain his composure as he's forced onto the blood stained metal by the men.

He winces when they securely latch the straps around his wrists and ankles, so tightly the leather is pressing into his skin, disrupting blood circulation.

Damian looks hurt and afraid, so Dick does his best swallow his own accelerating fear and suppress the shivers running down his spine, triggered by the icy feeling of metal on his skin.

"Everything is going to be okay"

Dick locks eyes with him and plasters something that feels like the poor excuse of a smile on his face, but he knows it must appear somewhat comforting to his little brother.

Masking his unraveling self beneath a charming smile and a lighthearted joke has always been his gift and curse.

Cecile clasps her hands together impatiently and nods towards the man holding the gun. He hastily shoves Damian into the arms of the leanest of the men, while his extended arm is turned around to point at Dick's head instead.

Damian yelps and as his arms are restrained behind his back, the hideous burn on his exposed chest comes into Dick's full view.

Dick's breath hitches despite himself and.. and..

It's...

The ghastly tendrils of burnt skin spreading across his little Robin's chest that spell out the word brat…

Dick could never describe the utter despair and pain and sorrow and ire and helplessness he feels, yet he doesn't have the time to stare right through the monstrosity etched onto his little brother's flesh as suddenly his chin is being pushed uncomfortably upwards by the barrel of the gun being pressed firmly against the soft skin right above his neck.

As Dick gulps, his Adam's apple bobs almost visibly on his inconveniently prolonged neck. The underlying dizziness finds the perfect opportunity to strike him again as his head slightly lolls backwards.

He no longer sees Damian, but amidst the sounds of his heartbeat echoing from inside the veins and taut muscles in his neck, a small and strangled Richard finds its way to his ears.

"I'm fine" Dick assures, even though he's nothing but. "I'll be fine. Love you, lil bro"

The absence of an answer doesn't concern him as much as that of shuffling or any indication that Damian is guided out of the room.

That is, until a delicate stray sniffle rips his heart apart.

If he could glance at his little Dami, he'd be able to see his reflection fall from his watering eyes in teardrops that he can no longer contain.

Dick can imagine the silently crying face, and so he shuts his eyes closed harshly, trapping inside all the pain and anguish lest it makes way to the surface

With a wavering voice he demands:

"Now let Damian go"

When he reopens his eyes with a breathy gasp he's all alone, bound to the metal skeleton of the chair.

Relief floods his heart.

If any more blood is to be spilt, it shall be his.

7 notes · View notes

kashimalin-fanfiction · 5 years

Text

A Haunted Attic (Napoleon, Isaac, Dazai, and Arthur – Dark Areas of the Mansion)

Summary: Isaac’s been dragged along on a “Haunted Mansion” tour by Arthur and Dazai. Little do any of them know, Napoleon’s favorite place to be is the last place on the tour...

Characters: Napoleon, Isaac, Arthur, and Dazai.

Count: 573 Words

Rating: General

Warnings: None.

Part of the Halloween Bonanza in collaboration with @oswaldsirius and @chiefofpigs!

• [Here’s where I’d put links… if Tumblr allowed them. Please click on my blog to view more of my work!!] • Requests are Closed, but Commissions are Open! •

Napoleon blearily opened his eyes, the city of Paris filling his vision with blurry specks of yellow. He stretched out his body, grunting as still muscles forced themselves to move.

Didn’t mean to sleep through dinner, he mused, frowning as he slowly eased out of the alcove. I’ll just have to make my own. No need to bother Sebastian. Yawning, he started towards the stairs—

Until he heard a chorus of voices coming up.

“Come on man, look alive! It’s just a few rickety boards! This is the last place on our Haunted Mansion tour!”

“You can’t make me walk up this staircase, even if you dragged me!”

“Well, Isaac-kun, why didn’t you suggest that earlier? Up we go!”

“H-Hey!”

Napoleon recognized their voices immediately, head darting around to look for a hiding spot. Ducking behind a few boxes, he held his breath as the trio made their way up, the stairs sounding worse for wear the entire way. Don’t they have the patience to figure out where to step?

“Whew!” Arthur’s voice bounced against the slanted ceiling as he entered the attic. “Look at this place! I’d say nobody’s been here in years, but some parts of the floor are definitely less dusty than the others.” His footsteps moved through the room, tracking them slowly. “Maybe Sebastian comes up here to laze about once in a while. Or maybe there’s a ghost.”

“I wonder. There are betters places to rest, and Sebas-kun seldom does.” Dazai’s cheerful tone echoed his usual smile. “A ghost would definitely make this place more interesting, though.”

“That staircase is not worth it! Didn’t you see how loose it was? What if someone fell through? They’d get their leg stuck! And ghosts aren’t real!”

Always the voice of reason, aren’t you Isaac? Napoleon held in his laughter, sucking in a breath.

A breath that in the next instant, he knew would do him in. Covering his mouth, he panicked.

I have to sneeze.

“Newt, get over here! Look at that view! It’s a real beauty from up here! Why, I think you can see all of Paris!”

“I doubt you can see all of Paris from here! You’re both crowding around the window anyway, so I couldn’t see even if I tried—”

Napoleon sneezed, the sound loud and booming.

“Did you hear that?” Dazai asked—

But Napoleon sneezed twice more, accidentally knocking into the boxes. They tumbled with a crash, still obscuring him from view, and he heard Isaac cry out.

“There’s something up here!” Isaac declared, and Napoleon heard as he and Arthur both bolted out the stairs, nearly tumbling over each other.

In the next moment, Dazai came into view, smiling down at Napoleon. Napoleon looked up at him, frowning. “Sorry about that.”

“No need,” Dazai said, his grin growing wider as his eyes sparkled with amusement. “It was more entertaining to see those two run in fright.”

“Dazai!” Arthur called up the stairs. “Are you doing all right, old chap?”

“I am!” Dazai called down, winking at Napoleon as he walked away. “I did see the ghost, though.”

“You what? Dazai, get down here right now!” The rising panic in Isaac’s voice was answered by Dazai’s laugh. “This isn’t funny!”

Napoleon could only breathe a sigh of relief, waiting until he had heard their voices fade before standing up.

Well, he thought as he carefully walked down the stairs himself, that was certainly exciting.

#ikemen vampire #ikevamp napoleon #ikevamp isaac #ikevamp arthur #ikevamp dazai #halloween bonanza #cybird otome #personal work

164 notes · View notes

permanentcrossfics · 5 years

Text

Thirty-Six Hours Ago and One Rumor Later.... // h.s.

A little late to Tumblr due to duties to an animal friend, but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless. x

“Warm enough now?”

You nodded, lips turned down at the corners.

“Gonna talk to me?”

You looked at him, blinking owlishly, and his mouth twitched.

“S’a ‘no’, then?”

You rolled your eyes and sighed. “I don’t wanna talk about it.”

Harry bit his tongue and chewed out the frustration in it. “Me neither, really,” he said lightly. “But we should. And you know how much I hate talking.”

How long had it taken him to kiss you in that bakery? To turn up again after you’d spent the night with him because he was going mad and couldn’t stop thinking about you when he should have?

“Shoe’s on the other foot, now, innit?”

You flashed him a close-mouthed smile.

“You don’t read the Daily Mail,” he said. “Why’d you start now?”

Read now on Patreon // Tumblr // Wattpad

Thirty-six hours ago, there’d been sunshine. Thirty-six hours ago, Harry had been soaking up warmth with sunnies perched on his nose and the wide Californian sky stretching endlessly above him. Now, he could hardly see his garden through the thick London rain pouring down in buckets outside his window, and every now and then, he shivered despite his slouchy jumper. Even inside his house, the damp chill afflicted his bones — a harsh welcome back from his homeland.

In his very recent memory, the dark, gloomy weather would’ve left him climbing the walls and scheming his way back across the pond, but lately, it was London he’d been craving. England was home — his childhood, his mother, his sister, they were all there. Friends made home for him around the world, but this one had his name on it.

This one had you.

Harry glanced at his window when wind changed and the rain pelted the glass more directly, the fat drops frosting the panes. He’d yet to see you since he’d landed — you had uni and couldn’t take off in the middle of the week, and he was trying to wrap some work up to be able to put it away for the weekend. You’d made a plan together for you to come in on the train, and he’d promised to pick you up — one simple pleasure he’d allow himself regardless of the risk of a feeding frenzy in public — but it was days until you’d be here, and he found himself wishing he’d booked a room somewhere near your university. You could’ve stayed with him, even. He’d have been an all too willing revisions partner, and he was sure you’d remember every detail you two discussed.

Eyes burning and scratching the back of his neck just underneath where his hair was gathered up, Harry turned back to his laptop, index fingers poised over the keys. Just a few more days. He’d made it this long, he could make it a little longer with the knowledge you were at least closer without having to struggle with a time difference. There was a film on that weekend he’d like to take you to, and he’d like to cook you dinner if you’d—

Ding-dong-ding-dong.

Hands still frozen mid-sentence above his laptop, Harry frowned, glancing sideways at his front door without turning his neck. Who knew he was back? Next to no one. His mother was home, Nick was on holiday, and he’d purposefully held off on telling anybody else he’d returned to keep the pool small in an effort to stave off the welcome back invitations to pop next door to the pub. Post? His mum sent him things sometimes if she thought he’d like them, but he’d seen the truck puttering along the road when he’d gone for a jog earlier.

The doorbell rang again and he stared, paranoia starting to itch his skin. The knock that followed had him all but flying to the door, heart racing, and he peeped through the hole to confirm his suspicions, already grinning when he twisted the lock.

“Where’s your umbrella got to?”

The hood over your head offered at least some protection from the weather, but the rest of you was drenched. Rain was dripping off you just like his roof, and your blue jeans were a darker shade than he remembered those particular ones being. Your trainers looked soaked, and you were shaking like a leaf, teeth chattering, but your mouth was sullen when you wordlessly held out a rolled up newspaper.

“What’s this?” he asked, unfurling it. Instantly, his stomach dropped so hard and fast it landed in China. There, on the front page, was a blurry, overexposed photo of a hulking man with a woman in a short dress. Her face was turned, but neither of you needed to see her face to know it wasn’t you, and the name of the restaurant he’d been at thirty-six hours ago was more incriminating than even the headline.

Opening his door wider, Harry stepped back, jerking his head in invitation. For a moment, it looked like you were going to run, and his muscles tensed in preparation to sprint after you. To his relief, you strode past him instead, trainers squeaking on the hardwood floor.

“Tea?”

Without waiting for an answer, he skirted around you and headed for the kitchen. “Should shower, too,” he said, throwing the paper on a chair. “It’s cold and you’re—“ Wet. “—soaked to the bone.”

He dragged two heavy mugs from his cupboard and set them on the counter with successive clunks before flicking the kettle on and opening the fridge for the milk. He could feel your eyes on him from the doorway, and he was growing progressively hotter under his jumper, but he refused to engage until the pop of the box of teas wasn’t the loudest sound in the room. They plinked against the porcelain when he threw them in, and he eyed the kettle, waiting for the switch to pop.

‘“Tea’?”

Harry stiffened and closed his eyes briefly to brace himself.

“‘Shower’?” you asked shrilly.

He turned, weary, to where you were dripping water on his kitchen floor.

“That’s all you can say?”

“S’all I’m gonna say now, yeah,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest. “Because we’re gonna talk about this.”

You laughed, a breathless, derisive little noise, and sniffed, rubbing your nose. “Sure,” you said. “Let’s talk.”

The kettle whistled angrily behind him, and when the switch clicked off, he poured the boiling water over the teabags.

“Some milk’s there, if you want it,” he said. “Sugar’s in the bowl.”

He took his own mug back to the living room and when he’d sat himself on the couch and set the mug to the side, you followed, hands empty and wet trainers squelching against the floor.

“D’you wanna sit down?”

He glanced at you briefly before punching his password in on his laptop.

“Not really, no.”

Harry inhaled sharply but pursed his lips and nodded, navigating to his browser.

“Do you have anything to say?” you asked.

“Few things,” he said. “Can I ask when you started taking the Daily Mail seriously?”

“When they started running pictures of my—“ You stopped short and gulped. “When they ran a photo of you. With her. Whoever she is.”

“Think that’s something I’d do?”

His stomach turned just asking the question, but he had to ask. He had to know.

“I didn’t,” you whispered.

He clenched his jaw and nodded.

“Can I ask—“ you choked and his chest tightened. “Can I ask when you decided to do that?”

“I didn’t.” He cleared his throat. “And you know I wouldn’t.” Harry looked up at last, and, doing his best to ignore your welling eyes, he gestured for you to come forward.

“Why?”

Your voice cracked with accusation but he held his hand out still.

“Because I’ve gotta show you summat,” he rasped. “And we’re not gonna fix this unless y’see it.”

You were stubborn — he’d given you that before, and he’d give it to you a million times over. He held you gaze unwaveringly, though, and finally, you teetered forward.

Squick, squick, squick.

Harry tilted his laptop towards you, headline after headline on a page of search results. “How many of these d’you reckon are true?” he asked.

Your eyes flickered down the screen.

“How many of these d’you remember laughing at with me in Mandeville’s?”

Your lower lip quivered. “I saw the— there’s a photo, Harry, and you had that shirt—“

“D’you know some people get my tattoos exactly?” he asked. You looked at him and back at the screen. “They do. Down to—“ He waved the back of his left hand. “How many people do you think have seen Harry Styles somewhere in Miami, or Ibiza just recently?”

Your throat bobbed.

“They can do anything they want, pet,” he said. “They can say anything, they can… anything that gets them a story, and a click, and a pound. And you know that, just like y’know I wouldn’t do that.”

You bit your lip, which was vibrating by that point, and took deep, slow breaths, hands in fists at your sides.

“Wouldn’t try like this for hardly anyone else,” he said, running his hand around his mouth. “But it’ll tear us apart if you let it, and I can’t… I’ve gotta know you trust me, cause they say a lot of shit about me. And about you, too. And—” Harry cleared his burning throat, but whatever was stuck in it refused to budge. “I’m not always going to be a train ride away to fix it and talk about it with you,” he said hoarsely. “S’what it is to be with me, and I told you that when we started this.”

You stamped your eyes shut and two tears fatter than the raindrops outside rolled down your cheeks.

“So I need you to trust me, because if you can’t, I don’t… I don’t….” Harry swallowed convulsively and fell silent. He couldn’t finish that thought out loud, because as much as he’d mean it if he did….

One minute, you were holding it together, and the next, your shoulders were shaking with quiet sobs, tears spilling in full force.

“I’m sorry!” you all but wailed under your breath, pressing the heels of your hands into your eyes. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so-so—”

The table nearly upended with how quickly he stood, and he caught one of the legs with his big toe on his way around it. He ignored the throb and his watering eyes, though, to wrap you in a tight embrace. The cold rainwater soaked into his socks and jumper, but he kept you nestled under his chin, rocking you in place through your sobs. After countless minutes of gentle shushes and kisses to your hairline, he murmured his suggestion for a shower again. This time, you nodded, and he held your elbow as you struggled to get your wet trainers off and he took your coat to hang it on a hook.

While you warmed up, he wiped down the puddles that had accumulated and set the kettle to boil again. By the time you got out, dressed in a t-shirt and a pair of his jogging bottoms rolled at the waist and cuffed to absurdity, he had a mug waiting for you the way you liked it, and you took it this time before fitting yourself under his arm.

“Warm enough now?”

You nodded, lips turned down at the corners.

“Gonna talk to me?”

You looked at him, blinking owlishly, and his mouth twitched.

“S’a ‘no’, then?”

You rolled your eyes and sighed. “I don’t wanna talk about it.”

Harry bit his tongue and chewed out the frustration in it. “Me neither, really,” he said lightly. “But we should. And you know how much I hate talking.”

How long had it taken him to kiss you in that bakery? To turn up again after you’d spent the night with him because he was going mad and couldn’t stop thinking about you when he should have?

“Shoe’s on the other foot, now, innit?”

You flashed him a close-mouthed smile.

“You don’t read the Daily Mail,” he said. “Why’d you start now?”

You closed your eyes and took a deep breath. “I didn’t,” you said. “It was there, and I saw the headline and the photo, and….” You paused, but he kept quiet so you could gather your thoughts. “I’m under a lot of… there’s a lot going on, with uni and other things.”

“What other things?” he asked, because last he’d heard, everything was fine, but you shook your head.

“All I’ve been thinking of are reasons why—“ you gulped several times. “—why you’d want to leave. You come home, and I can’t even….” Your face crumpled. “I can’t even be here, and that’s not… why wouldn’t you get sick of that?” You sniffled and composed yourself before looking at him with a shrug, eyes full. “So when I saw that, I thought… well, why not?”

“But you know I wouldn’t,” he said.

“Doesn’t matter what I know,” you said, shaking your head. “Because why wouldn’t you go with someone who could be there?” you asked.

“I’m the one always having to run off, aren’t I?” he asked.

“But I can’t run with you,” you whispered.

“You’re there,” he murmured. “You’re here. When it counts, you’re here,” he said, touching your chin when you looked down. “Hey. Took a train to kick me in the ass. That’s all I need to know.”

You swallowed hard and he kissed your forehead. “M’gonna go lie down,” he said. “Jet lag is killing me, and you’ll be carrying me to bed if I don’t go now. Why don’t you join me, hmm?”

Nodding, you set your mug down and he locked his fingers with yours to pull you to the bedroom. “Just for a little bit,” he said, flinging the duvet back for you to crawl in. “Just for….”

Harry trailed off, settling in bed, head spinning when it hit the pillow. “C’mere,” he mumbled. “Come have a cuddle.”

You fit your body in against his, back to his front, and the last thing he remembered saying was, “Promise t’always talk t’me when you’re… when you’re scared…” into your hair and under his breath before everything spun into blackness.

***

It was still raining when Harry finally started to wake up — blissfully unaware of the time, but equally as aware of the rise and fall of your chest underneath his arm.

For the first time since he’d gotten home, he felt like he was. This was how you should’ve reunited.

Harry pushed his nose into your shoulder and nuzzled, inhaling the sleepwarm smell, but his eyes flew open as wide as they could when you scratched his arm lightly.

“Thought you were asleep?” he rasped. You yawned and smacked your lips, stretching out against him in his hold and shaking.

“Not anymore….”

You squirmed and wriggled until you were facing him, eyes closed and smiling contentedly.

“Hi,” you whispered.

Harry kissed your browbone. “Sleep well?” he asked against your skin.

You hummed, nodding, and wrapped your arm around his shoulders while pulling your leg high over his hip.

“Don’t really have to go back, do you?” he mumbled and you smiled wider, opening your eyes at last.

“Not a believer in higher education?”

“Never graduated myself, if you look online,” he chuckled.

“Wouldn’t believe everything I read,” you said, touching his face. He gripped your wrist gently and rubbed his thumb back and forth when you looked away.

“Get some things right,” he murmured. “Most of them say you’ve got me whipped.”

You lips quirked and you looked at him again, and he leaned in for a kiss. Soft, pert, he shifted to get closer. It was the first proper kiss he’d been able to give you, and you were welcoming receiving it as much as he was giving it.

“Can stay the night, can’t you?” he asked and you nodded, looping your other arm up around his neck. “Good….”

The suggestion of cooking you dinner died when he moved on top of you entirely and you hooked your legs around his waist, both of you dissolving into groans and each other. You were particularly aggressive, ankles locked and hands clapped firmly to his cheeks, and he got the distinct impression you were trying to make up for the afternoon.

“No, no,” he mumbled against your mouth. “Don’t have to…. Lemme…” he barely got out. “Lemme… I wanna….”

He was already crawling down your body under the duvet and pulling your underwear and his jogging bottoms down your thighs. You said his name, breathless but muffled by the blanket over his head, and you lifted your hips when he settled between your thighs. They tensed against his shoulders when he landed a kiss to your clit, and your hand clapped down over the back of his head when he pressed his tongue to it. He wanted this, but he wanted this for you. Something just for you to relieve the tension that’d boiled over.

Harry licked slowly, once, then twice, before languidly pulling your clit between his lips. You shifted and he gripped your thighs with his forearms to keep you in place, groaning and pressing in tighter. He chuckled when you squeezed your legs around his head and you dug your heels into the bed next to him, pushing your hips up while pushing the top of his head, but he stopped sucking for only a second to lick as deeply as he wanted to.

“Har—oh….”

His eyes watered when you drilled your fingers into his skull, and he felt the briefest rush of cool air before you reached under the blanket and dug your fingers into his hair, wrapping them tightly in the strands.

“Feel nice?” he mumbled more to himself than anyone else. “C’mon, pet, let’s make it better for you… s’make it better….”

You moaned, long and keening, when he slid his index finger in just under his mouth and hooked it up inside you, pulsing his finger until he found the spot that always had you bucking your hips like you would if you were riding him. You twisted but he held you tightly in place while adding another, and he pumped his fingers in a staccato rhythm while suckling with gentle vigor.

“S’it here?” Harry pressed his palm to your abdomen. “D’you feel it here?”

“Yes…!” you called out and he heard a thump followed by a choked gasp. “Harry, m’gonna cum, I’m… ah…!”

Not yet. Harry popped off, pulling his bottom lip into his mouth to suck instead, teeth digging in harshly even as your hips rocked fervently in search of his slowing fingers.

“Harry!” your cry was sharp and desperate and made a chill run through him despite the sweat on the back of his neck. “Harry, I—“

“Shh,” he kissed your clit again. “Shh, shh… we’re gonna make it a good one, aren’t we?” He rubbed circles over your abdomen. “Gonna make you feel it from right here.”

He sucked softly, laving his tongue up and down in featherlight strokes that had you sighing, but every time you tightened around his fingers, he slowed and you immediately cried your protest.

“Please… please….”

He pressed his mouth to your cunt. “D’you wanna cum?” he asked. “Y’making such a fucking mess already, pet.” He kissed the inside of your thigh. “Feel how wet my face is?” Harry laughed when you whimpered. “I know, I know, all right… c’mon.”

When he pulled your clit between his lips this time, he sucked strongly with wet, puckering sounds, and this time when you got closer around his fingers, he kept pumping, groaning with each buck.

“Yes!” you cried out and he stamped his eyes shut, that simple sound escalating the throb in his cock from steady to painful. “Yes, yes, yes… Harry… Harry, m’gonna cum, I— I’m cumming, I’m cumming, I’m—“

Your frantic cries dissolved into a garbled scream and you sat up, pressing down on the back of his head to the point he nearly suffocated, but if he died between your legs he didn’t think he’d mind. That would be a headline to read.

It was only when he felt the last pulses and you dropped back to the bed that he stopped sucking and pulled his fingers out to lick them off. “So good,” he mumbled, mouth full. “So… so good….”

He wiped his chin and scrambled up your body, throwing the duvet off his head and dropping down onto his elbows in his haste to kiss you. You pulled him in and clutched him close, panting against his mouth.

“Can….” You exhaled harshly. “I wanna… condom, we need….”

Clumsily, Harry opened the drawer on his bedside table and slapped around inside it until he pulled out a foil square.

“Remind me to get more,” he muttered before lifting off you so you could tug his jumper over his head. He shoved his jogging bottoms down his legs and struggled to kick them from around his ankles while kissing you.

Somehow, your shirt came off and the condom rolled on, and he choked when he finally pushed inside, pumping deeper with each tentative thrust. “God, that’s it…” he slurred, inhaling sharply. “Oh… fuck….” Long and drawn out, holding his breath through the wet sound of his cock moving in and out of you and the creak and thud of his bed against the wall. “Fit so good on me… so, so… oh, fuck….”

Teeth bared and jaw tight, he lowered his head slowly and tucked it into the crook of your neck, still thrusting. You gasped when he squeezed your breast, and he shuddered. “Christ, I—“ His mumbles were incoherent even to him — he could’ve been telling you anything and he wouldn’t know from how lost he was in chasing the feeling while trying not to be too rough, but every time you let out a cry that was a little sharper, he sputtered an apology, unsure he was succeeding.

“God, it’s coming,” he said, throat tight. “‘S in my balls, ‘s in my fucking—“

His next thrust was heavy, slamming into you, and he ground his way through his release, groaning pathetically into your skin.

“Shit! Sh-shit!” High and reedy, he spluttered, hips jerking and cock sensitive even through the latex. His swears dissolved into wordless grunts when he finally slowed, muscles giving way, and he held you tight beneath him before he relaxed. “M’gettin’ off you, just… a minute… one minute.” Like a sack of sand, he dropped to the side, panting, head spinning like it would’ve if he’d drank his weight in alcohol. “‘L cook… cook you dinner if you… if you’d like,” he said. “Was gonna… I just gotta… f’you give me, like—“

You patted his arm, breath hitching. “Just get a takeaway,” you said. “Just….”

You didn’t get to finish your sentence, but he nodded anyway. “Can do that,” he said. “Drive you back in the morning, too.”

“Don’t have to—“

“Wanna,” he said, biting down gently on your shoulder. “Give them summat to write about if they’re gonna run their fucking fingers.”

#harry smut #harry styles smut #harry x reader #harry fanfic #harry blurb #harry styles fanfic #harry styles blurb #original writing #permanentcross #thirty-six hours and one rumor later....

516 notes · View notes

hoopdiddies · 5 years

Text

I'm Not Over You // Ben Hardy x Reader (Part 8)

A/N: Ayoooo. Hey guys, here's part 8 and I'm so sorry if the previous chapters kind of frustrated you. I didn't really mean for it to but I hope you enjoy this one. I'll be posting 9 tomorrow or the day atfter. Thanks again for your feedbacks, y'all motivate me a lot ^^ ♥ (My Wi-Fi has prejudice against tumblr rn)

Summary: You had always loved Ben ever since you two met in university and became the best of friends. That feeling went out like a candle flame when the two of you parted ways until he re-entered your life...but this time with someone who has already occupied his heart.

Warnings: Angst, bois. ANGST (I cried like a sucker during one part I wrote 😔) mention of blood, yet again drinking, some speckles of fluff, and unnecessary dialogue if you look closely enough :^ I feel like a terrible writer today

WC: 4k I think?

Tags: As always my taglist is always open uwu

@haendel-me-with-care

@mrsdoradominguez-barnes

@mickmoon

@lakef

@mrsmazzello

@valeriecarolinaw

@queen-turtle-boiii

@hardzzellos

"You look...beautiful." Ben's comment is indeed one thing to start the night. It's not like he's never told you that before–it's just the tone in which he has said it in is...different. A foreign tone never been released from his lips until you. You look up at him through your lashes, giving him a slanted smile accompanied by a bubbly chuckle. "Thanks. You smell nice too."

The corner of his eyes crinkle as his curving lips push them up. As expected, Rosy chimes in between you and Ben almost too quickly, the blurry speed in which she has arrived in making you gasp. "Excuse me, babe. You got interviewers on your tail and I- oh," her brows shoot up upon seeing you, seemingly haughty eyes flicking up and down your outfit in mild contempt.

"Surprised to see you here as well." The smile plastered on her face couldn't be any more forced than it is.

Girl, chill. Anti-aging soaps are not easy to manufacture these days. You begin holding your breath to prevent yourself from bursting into a fit from hearing that thought ring in your head. You shrug, garnering the guts to shift on your heightened stance and lean in an inch close.

"You're not the only one with a celebrity date."

You turn around too early to gauge her reaction, finally exhaling from holding your breath too long. You can finally conclude that she's had an effortless transition from being benign to far from being benign. The smoothest one-eighty you've ever witnessed. You remember her clearly being downright considerate of you the first time you met her yet now is a whole different story. You wonder if she was actually ever considerate.

As the boys and Lucy indulge in brief interviews, you stand behind the scenes and get the first-class chance of conversing with Brian. He's readily the coolest person in the house right now, bantering with you every once in three, fascinating topics. How fortunate are you to be in the spot a million Queen fans would die for but of course, you don't want to leave out Roger who - by a landslide - makes you wish you could wheeze and snort all you want if you weren't in a luxury event such as the Oscars. He seemed intimidating for you at first but as he joined in your talk with Brian, things escalated real quickly.

With the pre-ceremony interviews and the clinking of champagne glasses dampening, you begin hunting for your seats in the theatre.

Before you know it, you are informed that only a specific line of people are given exclusivity for the seats. And it shocks you that Joe, Allen, Ben and Gwilym are not given that card when in fact they were part of the very film that brought forth a new generation of fans.You shake your head disappointingly albeit contented that Rami, Lucy, Brian and Roger and their wives are part of the exclusivity.

Utterly determined to know the results - by Joe's 'sovereign' vote - the rest of you hang around in the waiting area, focusing on the ceremony rights shown on TV. Quietly sitting through the results, you all whoop and applaud at the mention of Bohemian Rhapsody obtaining three awards straight– your cheers amping up a notch as Rami brings home the 'Best Actor' award. Joe begins filming your reactions for Instagram, zooming into Gwilym, Ben and Allen's faces for most of the video. You throw your head back in laughter at how goofy the boys look; a bunch of men in their 30's bouncing up and down with one of them documenting the entire episode. At one point, Gwilym yanks as you in for a group hug, mercilessly crushing you in between their muscles– the disorienting experience now being something you wish you would never undergo again.

As Rami's thank you speech unfolds, you pay attention closely. The sentimentality of him lovingly thanking Lucy for being his anchor after dedicating his award to Freddie Mercury is just overwhelming and you wish you could tear up but your mascara would be waste. You're certain that made Brian and Roger emotional as well.

An hour after the ceremony, you all head down to the Vanity Fair after party in the same limo you had arrived in with every single person in the group eager to get the night progressing. Regardless of saying that these type of parties are not up to your speed, you try to get along with the evening and revel in what you know would be your last night with them. Sadly enough, Roger and Brian had to skip out on this with rough schedules on their hands. The moment they walked out of the place, they spent nearly half an hour congratulating the boys and having other celebrities congratulate them.

As you are seated across Ben and Rosy, you can't help but notice him acting a little distant from her. She's all nuzzled up against his arm and he is nowhere close to returning the favor. He's just...lost in thought, staring out the tinted window. It's still early to assume that in all the hours you were within a close range to them, Ben only ever acted aloof, giving her attention when the situation required it.

Perhaps a lover's tiff took place?

"Yeah, I'm wondering the same thing too." Mimicking your position, Joe calling you back to Earth makes you gasp a little. You close your eyes and look at your fingers blankly after recovering, sighing. "I think we should end all this pretending. It was simply a cop-out in the first place."

"I know," he whispers audibly enough for only you to hear, running his fingers through his fiery, red hair, "you should probably come clean soon enough before you leave."

And that you will. At least, you'll try.

In your defense, you thought the after party would host a fancy banquet but seated around with celebratory drinks -considerable with something classy - and attendees breaking down on the dance floor is a rather okay scene as well. As long as you don't end up like the night you were invited out for a drink with your colleagues, you should be fine for the most part.

The boys and Lucy have fully immersed themselves in the beat of the music while you've decided to remain stationary with one glass of wine, the only glass you'll be having for the rest of the party.

The entire time you gawk at them amusingly as they break out their dance moves, your eyes always find their way to Ben, who makes you snort painfully from all his antics as he moves along with Joe. They're a mess with their ties and buttons undone from all the movement and the sight inspires you to stay put.

But oh dear lord, can Ben dance like an uncle.

Keeping your attention on them, a descending weight sinks down next to you. You pay no mind to whoever it is but do as her voice interrupts your thoughts. "I hope your eye is on the right person, honey." You click your tongue in exasperation, turning your body towards Rosy and her developing, bitchy tendencies, scoffing as you place your drink down to set things straight with her. "First of all, what did I ever do to you to deserve this kind of talk?"

She smacks her lips together at you, simpering. "You didn't think I'd notice?"

"What are you talking about?"

Her almond eyes narrow as if she's trying pin you down with a warning. "Please, don't act like I never noticed. You're overstepping that boundary between you and your best friend- my fiance." Okay, so she's noticed. But your neutralized expression is not going to be giving away anything.

You incline your head to one side in hopes that the facade you're pulling would decompress her suspicion. "I have no idea what you're talking about. Ben is like my brother. "

Grabbing her drink from the table, she sighs and stands up, hands firm on her hips and face silhouetted under the beaming light nevertheless giving you a transpiercing glower in the manner of seeing through the makeshift barrier you've pulled up. "He better be. Try backing off every once in a while when I'm around."

To your dismay, you snap inside, whipping your head up at her and replying sharply to make the message crystal clear. "Rosy, you have no idea." Unable to withstand the atmosphere you're in, you put great emphasis on your words and snatch your drink, walking out to the mini garden to finish what's left of your wine without having to bear being around her.

The question is unadulterated and obvious– bold and italicized if you wish to give it a stretch and clarify it.

Why is Ben still with her?

Is he that clueless not to realize it?

You don't want to pry the answer out yourself but ruminating on it, Rosy pulling off a full one-eighty only when Ben's at an appropriate distance for her to squeeze you between her fingers is just about good as a reason as anything. Your unwavering feelings for Ben are clearly perceived by her– from the way you had reacted the day he introduced you both to each other to not so long ago.

You wonder if Ben ever took heed of her growing attitude towards you.

Finishing your wine in one, immediate, swig, you place it down on the marble surface before you with your fingers cradling the stem of the glass– relishing the spicy liquid flushing down your throat.

At the extent of overexerting themselves, Joe and Gwilym flop down back on their seats like jelly, tuckered out from the unconventional combination of alcohol and unsteady movement. Panting like a dog who had just participated in a marathon, Joe shrugs out of his blazer and tosses it over his shoulder, silently wishing the ice in the bucket that held the bottle of wine would save him from the grinding heat of the wine he had just about five minutes ago.

"Mate, you're deep in the heat." Gwilym comments as it is followed by a gentle laugh on how Joe's glistening in sweat under the dimming lights. He hands him a partially bland look before wiping his forehead with his handkerchief. Lucy and Rami are situated at other end of the place enjoying a chat with another party of people meanwhile Ben and Rosy are nowhere near any of them. Until, of course, they reappear from God knows where and Ben suddenly asks Joe where you've gone.

"I-I don't know." He says after a hefty sigh. Somewhat eager to find you, Ben begins excusing himself from Rosy whom which he has spiked a bitter reaction from for sharing his supposed time for her with you. Fed up and jealous in the slightest, Rosy snaps at him.

"Okay Ben, why do you always have to skip in between minutes to hang out with her even when we're together?"

He pauses from turning around completely and sighs. "She's my friend, babe."

Unwilling to accept his statement, she claims. "Well your friend is getting in the way of what was supposed to be our time together! Can't you set aside a limited time for her?! " This has alarmed Joe and Gwilym but it isn't their business to butt in and stop a quarrel from breaking out. Unless it turns physical, which is doubtful to happen. Ben, a little frustrated but still tolerant of her ongoing skittish behavior, tries to reassure her. "I know that, alright? But something's been bothering her for days and I just want to make sure she's doing alright."

"Can't you leave the worrying to Joe? He's her bloody boyfriend anyway!"

Wagging his forefinger at Rosy, Joe grumbles as he is not having any of her talk, scrunching his brows at her.

Grabbing her shoulders gently, Ben tries to relieve her of tension and assures her once more, but with a well-known fact she obviously still doesn't accept. "Joe's a little drunk. She's like...a sister to me," it really took him an abrupt pause to say 'sister', "besides, you're my fiancee. There's nothing to be jealous about."

"Why does she still have to be a part of your life? Our life?" Now that's a question that has just shifted Ben to a farther side. His brows knit together in momentary disbelief, unable to take her words in a good light. "God, Rosy! She's been around for so long! At least make an effort to accept her!" Like a slap to her conceitedness, Ben turns on his heels and walks out to find you. Leaving Rosy a steaming mess of insecurity.

However slightly drunk, Joe mutters to himself as he makes sure neither Gwilym or especially Rosy hears his words stumble out in a whisper. "You've grown a pair, Ben. You've grown a pair."

You've been outside for nearly half an hour; wine glass empty and your hair, along with the skirt of your dress, drifting along the harmless breeze and the waning moon spilling some light from behind the shaded clouds. Though there were a couple of people that found their way here to get some respite not too long ago, you're just glad to have this space to breathe in from the draining background of the party.

As you lose yourself in thought, a certain voice brings you back to reality.

"Nice night out, huh?"

Turning around slowly, you are met with the cool, forest green irises that you've grown to never tire of seeing. "I'm surprised you're still well-kept in that suit despite the scene back in there. " You give in to a chuckle, your smile pulling Ben to approach your side leisurely. "It's my Oscars suit. Something worthy of protecting."

"Hah!"

As he rests his elbows on the surface next to you, the distance between your skins makes you a tad bit anxious. Comfortable silence falls upon you both– for Ben at least, it's tolerable however you're not taking it well, not even in the slightest. You rub your hands together and sigh, prompting Ben to finally ask you.

"You alright? You've been tensing up lately."

You nod, closing your eyes and opening them afterwards. "This dress is just depleting me of bodily warmth." Half a lie told by you. Acting on his thoughts, Ben begins taking his blazer off but you stop him mid-shrug. "Keep it on. You look better with it on."

"This would look better on you, you're obviously freezing." He's really keen on keeping you warm but you're just as so in letting him keep it on. "I'm serious. Keep it on. I'm fine."

What can he do but just give in? When you're serious, you're serious. He lifts his shoulder in half a shrug, ducking his head as an idea flickers in his head like a bulb. He wants to relive something that has been lost through the years and it's only right that he does...now that you have less than a day to disappear from his life completely.

"Y/N..." He muses gently. You raise your brows at him in question, taken by surprise that he has his hand held out to you. Bewildered, you raise your finger to ask what on Earth he's doing. "What- what are you doing?"

He licks his bottom lip and the smile on his face becomes bashful but certain. "What else does it look like I'm doing, silly girl? Asking you to dance."

You're sorry that you couldn't keep a snort at bay. "Pfft. Ben, I think you're asking the wrong girl."

"Just let me dance with my best friend."

"Wow! That's noble of you," your chuckles can not be contained, even so much as restraining yourself from letting the blush spread throughout your face. But he has the fragments of what was once your heart, so why wouldn't you? You slip your hand in his and the grin on his face widens. "There we go. Easy does it." He breathes out, his voice getting gravelly. You hit him softly on his chest for cooing, at the same time realizing that his voice becomes that way only and only when he's nervous– something uncommon between you both. As his hands find home on your waist, you throw your arms around his neck, laughing at how awkward yet funny it feels. What a huge nod to how you danced with him on Homecoming.

"You're so weird sometimes. You got your fiancee, why don't you dance with her?" Getting used to the sting of referring to Rosy, you question anyway. He initiates with a sway before responding. "I already have. But, " he diverts his heavy-lidded eyes from staring off the distance to yours and suddenly, it feels like you're home, "I want to finish that Homecoming dance."

You find yourself speechless as you shift your unflinching gaze at him and he at you, your bodies swaying along the concrete and in perfect sync, coincidentally to the sudden change in music from inside, compared to the bittersweet night you had before the day that parted you both. Thin silence hangs in the atmosphere but only because you are looking at each other in a way you never have in your entire lives.

Instinctively, you break your gaze from his and rest your head on his chest, your hair falling into your face as your eyes screw shut. You hear his heart skip a beat, unusually in the same manner yours always has. Feeling your head follow the rise and fall of his chest tickles you inside– temporarily making you forget about the pain of soon letting him go and producing a sense of safety.

Maybe it's because of exhaustion? You wonder. He doesn't hesitate to stroke your hair and revel in the moment as well, easing you in closer to his body without breaking the sway. "You'll be there on my wedding day, right?" He asks nervously, his question pulling you back to the harshest reality.

You open your eyes slowly, your lips trembling as you let out the saddest sigh, feeling your chest tighten from the anxiety of soon telling him the truth.

"Y/N?" Your tensed-up body alarms him and so he breaks away and lifts your chin up lightly, being met with glossy and regretful eyes. His messy brows drawing together in slight worry. "What's wrong?"

Everything.

However uneager to push him away, you do, escaping his warm embrace. "Ben, I..."

He's dreading for your answer, painfully anticipating for the best or the worst to the point where his hands are lubricating with sweat.

You swallow the lump that has hardened in the back of your throat, pressing your lips together to prevent a sob from escaping and shunning his prying stare. "I can't..."

Joe's half-assed predicted, worst case scenario is slowly unfolding.

"What are you saying? You're not- you're not going...to be there?"

You bite down on your lip hard enough to make it swell, shaking your head and casting a sideways glance.

"Why?"

Tell the truth. Just tell him and you're either getting a support or another jab to the heart.

"Y/N, please! Tell me why!"

"I'm leaving, Ben!" The words didn't seem to stumble or carelessly flop from your lips, in fact it speared through him clean thereby catching him off guard. His eyes have fallen gravely, lips parted due to shock.

"I got into a medical school I had previously applied for. And I'm leaving," you snap your eyes shut and open them in tears once you've looked up at him, "on your wedding day."

"Why didn't- why didn't you ever tell me?" He's pleading for your explanation, barely clinging on to the belief that you would always tell him things.

You don't answer as you are battling to muster up the courage to say it.

"Y/N, please! You never tell me anything these days! And this- this news, it's important! You're leaving on the day I need you the most, and you never bothered to squeak a word about it! Not a single, bloody word! Why?!" He's racked up with disbelief and apparently, anger. Eyes rimmed, clouded with mixed emotions and face full-blown red from the pressure.

He grabs you by the shoulders and pleads heartbreakingly, his lively voice reduced to but a whisper. "Why..."

"I-" You're still holding back.

"Say it! "

"You'd soon forget about me, Ben!" You inhale sharply as you add, croaks present in your voice while you take two steps further away from him as you lament. "I'm hopelessly in love with you, you idiot! I've always been. I try- I try to brush off every single prick that stems out every minute I realize that you already belong to someone else..."

"Y/N-"

"I figured not telling you would help me let go. And it's the only way I can...because screw you for being a clueless, irreplaceable bloke! I can't imagine my bloody life without you in it! I don't think I can ever love anybody else...but you, "

"Y/N..."

You don't let him finish and achingly throw your hands to your chest as a gesture, pounding your chest thrice as you're finally wearing your heart on your sleeve. "I can't blame you for being oblivious to my feelings. You're committed to Rosy...and as much as I want to see you happy, I don't want to stand idly by and- and feel this way when you've pledged your heart to her...I want to forget and for you to forget me," As the warm tears you've held back for so long roll down your cheeks, you hug yourself through the pain, "I want you to be happy without worrying how I'd feel. And disappearing from your life, is the only way I know how..."

"Y/N, please, don't say that- don't do this...you can't do this...you c-can't..." With hands shaking, he strides towards you to haul you in back into his arms but you take an agonizing step away, stopping him in his tracks. "I have to. I...I want to. It hurts so much, Ben. It always has but promise me," even if you have taken a step away, you take it upon yourself to take those steps close to him and cup his cheek with a cold hand, "promise me you'll revel in that happiness. It's going to hurt being away from you. But it's going to hurt even more if I stay. And watch...my best friend grow old with someone else." Finally rendering him wordless, you shake your head and whisk past him back into the party which has died down a bit, leaving him a pondering mess out under the bleak sky.

"How could I be happy without you..."

You'd gladly do anything to go back home right now. The weight of what just took place is crushing you and the need to escape is fuming. But the thing is, Ben was never one to let you go easy.

He never did and possibly never will.

He sniffles and inhales sharply, jogging in after you and calling out your name amidst the constant noise and chatters. "Y/N, wait!"

You reach your table just in time to see everyone still gathered around with drinks raised and laughs released but you have to excuse yourself deliberately. "Y/N? Where have you been? What's the rush?" Lucy notices your hastened movement and places her hand on your tense shoulder. You snap your head at her with your purse in your grasp, shaking your head and apologizing that you have to leave, forgetting to rid your eyes of tears; the sight of you amping up Lucy's concern therefore leading you into her embrace. "Oh my god, are you okay? What happened?"

"Y/N!"

Ben's distant but audible voice echoing through the place just sends you panicking inside. "I'm so sorry, Luce. I have to go."

"Y/N, wait! What's wrong?"

Just as the rest could react to Lucy calling out for you and Ben dashing past them to catch up, you've already disappeared into the crowd, headed out the theatre to take a cab ride back to the hotel. Relentless to let you go, Ben follows your trail, spurring a quick frenzy from the rest and having them pursue Ben in return. Once you reach the outskirts of the pavements, you don't think twice before crossing the highway with your focus hardened before you.

Gasping for air upon exiting the theatre, Ben glances around in haste and finally spots you marching down the street oblivious to your surroundings despite treading along the pedestrian lane. His eyes widen in dread and acting on a fight or flight reaction, he yells for your attention as he speeds down the street to pull you in or rather save you from a possibility of getting hurt with all the rushing vehicles and careless drivers. "Y/N! Y/N!"

The boys, Lucy and Rosy arrive outside just in time to witness Ben race towards your direction and in a moment of feeling time slow down, you feel your heart in your throat at the late flash of nearing headlights, to add a heavy force propelling you off your feet and onto the other side of the road. What gets you up from the ground are the mixed screams of a familiar bunch and the sight of a bloodied man in white laying unconscious on the cold surface of the road.

White noise suddenly fills your ears instead of your own voice as you scream out his name.

#borhap #queen #ben hardy #ben hardy imagine #ben hardy x reader #borhap cast #borhap cast x reader #borhap imagine #ben hardy fanfic #imagine #fanfic

116 notes · View notes

theparanormalperiodical · 5 years

Text

Ghosts Caught on Audio: The 7 Recordings and EVPs You Have to Listen To

It was only a week ago that I got a question from fellow tumblr user, @madphantom.

@madphantom told me that they picked up some paranormal activity whilst recording audio for a creative project.

The story goes that when they recorded audio for an actor who had died, things started to get weird.

When they replayed the audio, they realised that they had picked up a lot of static, and compared it to the iconic soundtrack from Slenderman’s notorious horror games.

Yikes.

And it was this story that reminded me of one my favourite horror film scenes, basically, ever from one of my favourite horror films, basically, ever.

There’s this scene from the film The Conjuring (which is based on the true case of the haunting of the Perron family) where they record the story of the haunting from one of the victims – the mother of the family.

And upon replaying the audio, they realised it didn’t actually record her voice.

After discussion of some key plot points, the recorder turned itself on and produced some seriously terrifying haunted noises.

Now, this didn’t actually happen as far as I can tell.

But it got me thinking: has paranormal activity ever been caught on audio?

There’s enough faked videos clogging up the youtube trending page to tell you we all love a bit of the supernatural making its online debut, and the same goes for audio recordings.

Go ahead, try ‘creepy audio recordings of the paranormal’ into youtube.

And so I was convinced that essentially, I had come to a dead end.

(Pun unintended.)

But then I remembered something:

Audio recordings are actually really fucking important when it comes to recording and investigating paranormal activity.

Methods like EVP and the use of Spirit Boxes have ruled the domain of ghost hunting since the late 20th century, and represent our desperate search for evidence of life after death.

And so, in today’s edition of The Paranormal Periodical we are going to be discussing the theories and histories behind EVP and Spirit boxes, and the 7 audio recordings of paranormal activity that you have to listen to.

So, what is EVP?

EVP – or electronic voice phenomena – are recorded sounds that have been identified as coming from spirits.

It was popularised by some bloke called Konstantins Raudive, and he himself recorded some seriously amazing EVPs.

He even claimed that he recorded political figures including Hitler and Churchill. Fancy a listen? Find a link to this recording is later in this post.

Now EVP is defined by Raudive as a short word or phrase from beyond the grave.

So no, you won’t be able to squeeze a 3000 word opinion piece from a historical figure of your choosing, I’m afraid.

But the conversation about paranormal audio recordings has been present ever since digital goods hit the shops. Just think of all those blurry photos supposedly evident of the undead!

In fact, it was actually a photographer who tried to capture the first audio recordings.

Attila von Szalay’s first recordings in 1956 apparently caught spirits saying some seriously scary stuff:

“Hot dog, art!...Merry Christmas and happy new year to you all”.

3 years later a swedish guy was recording some bird song.

Each to their own, I guess.

Anyway, he replayed the bird song, and he realised that he had captured evidence of the supernatural.

He made out his dead father’s voice, and even heard the voice of his dead wife. And she was calling his name!

A few recordings later and he picked up a message from another deceased relative, his mother.

Now according to theory, there are 3 types of EVP.

Basically, classification A is a clear voice, B is distinct but requires close listening, and C is a faint whispering.

EVP training is even required for ghost hunting in order to develop the ability to hear messages from the dead. Clearly this is serious business for fellow paranormal believers.

What’s a spirit box?

EVP’s require a digital audio recording.

Spirit boxes on the other hand allow spirits to use radio frequencies to talk to people that are actually alive.

Supposedly the ghosts can manipulate the energy of audio fragments to form words and phrases not unlike those heard in EVPs.

And the great thing about spirit or ghost boxes is that you don’t just listen to the dead – you can actually talk to them!

Normal practice involves asking questions and listening out for rather abstract responses. But the fact is this is one of the most famous and trusted methods of communicating with those beyond the grave.

The first official ghost box was created in the 1990s, and the inventor – Frank Sumpton – created it based off of EVP and an article he read on spirit communication.

But if you aren’t convinced by the ghost box, what about the Spiricom?

Invented in 1980, William O Neil created a device that could actually hold a conversation between a dead and a not so dead person.

Unfortunately – and to no surprise – no one actually reproduced the results O’Neil claimed he had.

Did you know that in 1979 parapyschologist Dr. Rogo claimed that you could get phonecalls from those that had passed away? People frequently report receiving a short one-way call from deceased relatives, and it has even been considered a phenomenon.

So, you’ve heard the theories.

But are you ready for the evidence?

Here are the 7 spookiest audio recordings of spirits:

#1 - The exorcism of Anneliese Michel

This is a recording from possibly the most famous case of possession of modern times.

Heck, it was even given it’s own film to document the case, The Exorcism of Emily Rose.

But if you haven’t heard the tale yourself, the story basically goes like this:

A devout catholic girl starts exhibiting strange behaviour.

From unexplained seizures to claims of hearing multiple ‘evil’ voices, she was eventually deemed possessed.

And whilst the many recordings of her exorcisms aren’t EVP or recordings from a Spirit Box session, this is firm evidence of how important recordings were to investigating evidence of the paranormal.

Check out this video to make your own mind up:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_3aI8kpHxDM

And below is accurate footage of me noping the fuck outta here:

#2 - Next up is the Enfield Haunting

Now this case is interesting because it was largely considered a hoax evoked by 2 young girls.

Investigators used tape recorders and some EVP to assess the potential nature of the haunting.

What’s interesting here is that the debate largely centres around the supposedly possessed voice of Janet – the main girl involved – caught on tape.

Sceptics claimed it was produced by false vocal chords, and that we can all put on a creepy and different voice when we want.

But it was by analysing the actual vocabulary used, they could claim it was similar to that of a child and not a potential ghost or demon, and often evoked mannerisms similar to that of Janet.

Even on national TV, Janet waved her hand to get attention, put it in front of her mouth, and a strange voice was produced supposedly from nowhere.

Hmm.

What do you think?

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_OWgImgIRic

#3 - The Haunting of an Unnamed New York Hotel

In early 2007, the Central New York Ghost Hunters were asked to investigate a hotel in New York.

Why was it unnamed? The hotel in question asked for the name to be withheld from public discussions for the obvious reasons that their living visitor numbers would fall.

The investigator’s claim this investigation was one of their most active, which is not a surprise considering its long history.

(Unfortunately, this is hard to trace for this post as I do not have the name of the hotel…)

Anyway, the main activity they picked up was an EVP carried out by someone sitting on a staircase.

You can clearly hear a scuffle between two people as a woman asks someone to get off her, a rather sleazy ‘hello baby’, and even the ring of an old fashioned cuckoo clock.

Fancy a listen? Click the link: https://youtu.be/dXa0QrS-WV8

#4 - The Raudive Recordings

I’ve already mentioned Raudive and his innovatory practice, and thanks to his interest in EVP, he has created an incredible collection of evidence of the paranormal.

In total, he has 72,000 recordings of the paranormal talking.

Holy shit.

And this collection even contains the supposed voices of Hitler, Stalin, Mussolini and Churchill!

He claims Hitler spoke to him in Raudive’s mother tongue of Latvian which Hitler barely learnt while he was alive.

And what did Hitler say?

‘you are a girl here, or else you are thrown out’.

Yeah, I don’t know what that means either…

And what did Churchill say? Well, interpreters don’t really care much for what was said, but how he said it.

It apparently was a convincing EVP as it sounded like him, and was thus supported by many as evidence of the paranormal.

Some of these recordings were even conducted in laboratories to ensure accuracy, and Raudive invited members of the public to listen and interpret the recordings he collected.

So why not try your hand at it too?

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dz1PzPrOXPE

#5 - The Glen Tavern Inn

This tavern stretches back to the prohibition era, and its speakeasy history – which included being a brothel and gambling parlour – have fuelled its rumours of supernatural activity.

Whether its murdered prostitutes, or fights between budding gamblers, it does have some basis to the claims.

And these stories were confirmed by an EVP taken.

If you listen closely, you can hear a woman singing as an investigator enters a haunted room.

Check out the EVP here: https://youtu.be/iRtJLPWByFg?list=UU1VrWEFyQYIDKuWWfRjyj7A

#6 - The Eerie Mansion Basement

Now I’ve never heard of this mansion and its murderous past, and I’m kinda glad I hadn’t.

Rumour has it that this was once home to Bill Ely.

And it was here that he killed countless women.

But it was when the American Ghost Hunters took an EVP, they heard some paranormal activity more chilling than the stories that haunt this home.

The investigator’s recorded what sounded like the whimpers of a small girl.

And when they got close to what they believed what the source of the sounds?

A man in a gruff voice told them to ‘Leave that girl alone’.

Yikes.

Want to get seriously spooked? Check out the recording: https://youtu.be/JqQ6dx_w4qs

#7 - The Queen Mary (the boat, not the person)

The Queen Mary is deemed one of the most haunted ships in the world.

And it was all quite a recent discovery.

Only in 2008 did Time magazine claim it was once of the most haunted places, but many other people have made similar claims.

For example, suite room B-340 is one such spot which is considered ‘notoriously haunted’, and a stateroom is haunted by a murder victim.

But the location we are most concerned with here is the first class area.

And an EVP taken here recorded a woman calling for help in an area frequented by many ghost women and children.

Listen to that EVP here: https://youtu.be/re5-OGabpHk

So, we’ve heard what the ghosts have to say.

And now it’s over to you.

Do you think madphantom actually captured evidence of the paranormal?

What about the other audio recordings here?

Let me know by leaving me a comment!

Oh, and when you get out from under your quilt, make sure you hit ‘follow’ so you can always be updated with more stuff to traumatise you.

29 notes · View notes

daebakinc · 6 years

Text

Hero Among Thorns - Pt.3

Pairing: Hyunwoo x Reader Genre: Undercover Detective AU, Action, Romance Word Count: 2.5K Summary: When a mistaken connection results in your kidnapping by one of the city’s most notorious gangs, the undercover detective Hyunwoo has no choice but to rescue and protect you, and, most dangerously of all, fall in love with you. Warning: Mentions of violence and blood. Parts: See Masterlist for previous parts. (Sorry, but Tumblr won’t show posts with links in tag searches.

Under Jooheon’s watchful gaze, you shuffle out of the room after you eat and take a nap. The sun’s light is weak with dusk, the electrical lights humming above your head to brighten the hallway. A television’s indecipherable buzz gets louder as you walk down the short hall, passing two closed doors. When you step into the doorway leading to the living area, the first thing you notice is how cramped it is.

The kitchen area is small but neat and modern with slate gray walls and tiles. A short half-counter separates it from the living room. Two large couches and an armchair in a darker shade of gray than the walls and overstuffed for perfect naps encircle a widescreen television. A weights bench and stand with free range weights is tucked into the corner by the small balcony. But maybe it isn’t the furniture that makes the room seem too small. It very well could be the six men ranged about the space.

Kihyun washes dishes with his back to a dark-haired man in an oversized hoodie hunched over a bulky laptop on the counter. Lines of green numbers and letters flash across the screen in meaningless sequences. Two men sit side by side on one of the couches in jeans and old graphic T’s, both animatedly discussing the soccer match on the television. One is blond, lanky, and practically vibrating with energy from his gesticulating hands to his bouncing knee. His companion is slightly calmer but just as intent and looks like he could be gym buddies with Dwayne Johnson. Yet another man with an angelic face dominates the other couch, his legs for miles dangling off the edge of an arm as he sleeps.

Shownu, or rather Hyunwoo, you remind yourself, sits in the armchair, his eyes following the ball on the screen. He’s changed from the jeans to more comfortable sweatpants a shade lighter than his shirt. Although you don’t make a sound or move, Hyunwoo’s gaze flicks to yours.

All the air rushes from your lungs. The medication Jooheon gave you must be stronger than you thought. No way Hyunwoo’s soft smile and the way it so genuinely shines in his eyes can have that effect on you already.

Must be a side effect of the medication. Has to be.

“Guys,” Hyunwoo rises from his chair, “our guest is up.”

Mr. Muscles shoots to his feet with a disconcerting speed, his neighbor rising from his seat as well. When his sleeping friend fails to follow, Muscles nudges the sleeping one’s feet off the couch. “Come on, where’re your manners? Stand when a lady comes into the room.”

“Getting there,” the friend mumbles as he sits up. He opens one eye to glare at the offender. “You didn’t draw the short straw for dawn surveillance.”

“I’m assuming you want us to introduce ourselves?” the blond asks Hyunwoo even as he moves around the couch. With a winning smile and waving hand, he comments, “Looks like I was pretty spot on. Everything fit okay?”

You pause mid-smile. “Excuse me?”

He gives you a boyish smile of apology. “Ah, sorry, that came out weird. I’m Minhyuk. Resident mechanic and artist. I’m really good with estimating measurements so I picked up your new clothes since we hadn’t gone to your place yet. I wasn’t sure on some but-”

“Shut up before you sound like a creep,” says Mr. Muscles, laughing. He inclines his head to you in a princely nod. “Hoseok, ma’am, second-in-command of the unit. I promise we’ll do our best to make this experience as safe and painless as possible.”

The third couch resident yawns and starts to stretch. “Ditto what he said except Hyungwon, sharpshooter slash whatever the boss needs.”

“Please, don’t get up on my account,” you say, throwing out your free hand when he begins to rise. “If you had a late night, you need rest.”

Hyungwon gives you an unreadable look before turning his head towards Hyunwoo. “I like her.” He settles back into the couch, body slack but eyes alert.

Kihyun finishes drying off a hand to flick the last remaining team member lightly on the forehead. “This one’s Changkyun. Kid hacker turned good guy by our captain over there.”

Changkyun taps one more key, then turns around to give you a brief, assessing look-over. “Yo.”

“Hi,” you reply.

“By the way,” Changkyun’s eyes go to Hyunwoo. “Turns out your gym is the gym she works at.”

Something clicks in your mind as you look at Hyunwoo, mouth dropping open. “That was you!” you squeak.

Hyunwoo’s mouth pouts in confusion. “Me? I’m sure we haven’t run into each other there before-”

“No, no.” You try to wave your hand, but the sling hinders your movement. “My friend, Amy, she took a picture of you like last week or something when she saw you there. She sent me the pic because –… well, you’re hot.”

More than one of the men snickers. Hyunwoo just looks amused and shakes his head.

“Well, one more piece of the puzzle falls into place,” Hyungwon says. “Still begs the question as to why Yew made such a dramatic a move now.”

“I’d really like to know a lot of things,” you add, trying to cross your arms only to remember you can’t. “I don’t take kindly to being shot, kidnapped, and drugged.”

“None of us enjoy it either,” Kihyun says matter-of-factly. He takes your uninjured arm and steers you towards the couch. Maneuvering Minhyuk aside with a bump of his elbow, he settles you in the space previously occupied by Hoseok and sits beside you. “But we do need to debrief you about what you remember. If you don’t mind doing that now.”

Jooheon answers the question in Kihyun’s glance over your head. “Without the lab, I can’t tell if any of the drugs used on her affect memory. That is if they haven’t already disappeared from her system.”

“You mean from when I was kidnapped?” you ask.

Kihyun nods and Minhyuk adds, “Don’t leave anything out. A detail may seem insignificant, but it could be useful to us.”

Hoseok picks up the remote to turn off the television. In the sudden quiet, you feel an intensity descend over the room. You look around to find each of the occupants intent on your face, your body language. Even Changkyun closes his laptop and watches from the stool. Jooheon and Minhyuk perch on the arms of Hyungwon’s couch while Hoseok stands beside Hyunwoo’s chair. The smiles are gone, replaced with the focus of hunters.

You are very, very glad these men are on your side and not after you. With their concentrated gazes and bodies leaning towards yours, they look like bloodhounds straining on leash, ready to track their prey to the ends of the earth. And you have no doubt once they do, it’s going to be dangerous for whoever it is.

“Um,…” Your voice falters and fails. Hyunwoo gives you a small smile. The tiny encouragement helps you find your words again. “I left work by myself at one that morning—”

“You work at a medical office, not a hospital. What were you doing there so late?” Changkyun interrupts.

“Our biller’s been out helping her daughter with a new grandbaby, so we were behind with insurance claims. Yester- that day was the last day to file them. I’m the only one who knows how to do it. I had to catch up on my own work, too: ordering vaccines and supplies, filing specialist reports, etcetera. The office is a mess if I don’t.”

“Not safe for a woman to be out alone like that,” you hear Hoseok mumble.

Minhyuk attempts to get the conversation back on track. “And after you left?”

You briefly describe your path home, leaving out your pause by the ballet studio. No need to relive that or drag them through your trip down memory lane. You describe the car that almost hit you, but then everything gets hazy. In the pain of being shot, your brain had been otherwise occupied.

Closing your eyes, you try harder. “I didn’t see the faces of whoever pulled me off the ground, but… there was a guy in the car, in the backseat that they showed me to. I couldn’t see his face. He was smoking something really bitter smelling. And his arm… there was a tattoo on his forearm. The outside of it. All black. Something like a tree, maybe?”

“Which arm?” Kihyun presses.

Eyes still shut, you shift your body, placing yourself back on that street. “I was walking down the street, so the right? I guess?”

“If you saw the tattoo again, would you recognize it?”

“Maybe.”

When you open your eyes, you catch the shared look between all the men. Changkyun magically has a tablet in his lap, fingers flying across the screen. The tattoo meant something.

Changkyun turns the screen back to you. “This it?”

The photo is slightly blurry as if the camera had to zoom in from a distance. It only shows an arm, raised in the air in mid-gesture. Although the finer details of the tattoo are smudged at the distance, you recognize the twisted trunk and severe lines.

Ignoring the chill that settles in your chest, you quickly look away. “Yeah. That’s it.”

“We must have really pissed Yew off if he oversaw the job personally,” Hoseok comments, glancing down at Hyunwoo. “This would be the first sighting of him in months.”

Hyunwoo’s gaze stays on the floor. A crease etches deeper between his eyes. His hand comes to his chin, his pointer finger rubbing the skin. “Maybe one of our recent deals hit a nerve.”

You wrap your free arm around yourself. “How… how bad is this guy? You said he was some kind of gangster, right?”

“He deals in drugs, contraband, murders, humans,” Jooheon spits, the hatred in his voice surprising you. “Anything sold on this region’s black-markets, he’s had a hand in it at some point. Arms are just his newest ‘business venture’.”

“So why hasn’t he been taken down before?”

Kihyun laughs humorlessly. “He’s a bastard, but unfortunately, he’s a smart one. Always careful to never have his name on the papers or the money, kept himself small enough to hide behind the bigger fish. That is until he made an example of one of our undercover agents he caught sniffing around. Since that day, he’s been our top priority.”

You don’t dare ask if they knew the murdered officer personally or what kind of example Yew chose. From the grim look on the men’s faces, they took the loss personally.

You look at the photograph on the screen again. Even faceless, or perhaps because he is so, Yew looms more menacingly than before. You draw your legs up to rest your chin on your knees. What kind of horrors did such a monster have planned for you if Hyunwoo had not acted or if he had acted any slower. What would he have done if Hyunwoo hadn’t acted at all. Cold creeps further into your skin as the millions of horrible fates you could have met flash like a demented movie reel through your head.

“I’ll be right back,” Hyunwoo suddenly says. He walks out of the room and out of sight into the hallway. When he returns, he holds a candy pink hoodie in his arms.

Unzipping it, he lays it across your shoulders. It’s ridiculously large and hangs loosely. But it also may be the warmest, softest, most comfortable thing you’ve ever worn. “You looked cold,” he says when you give him a questioning look.

“Ex-girlfriend’s?” you impulsively ask. With an internal sigh, you remind yourself it’s none of your business. And that you shouldn’t care. Not one bit.

Hoseok lets out a bark of laughter. “Nope. His.”

“His?” Incredulous, you pick at the fabric. They really expect you to believe some badass commando secret agent owns something like this?

Then again, this is the twenty-first century. Screw gender conformity. Men look good in pink.

Hyunwoo doesn’t appear embarrassed by your tone, simply smiling. “It’s a graduation gift from my old swim team. One of the coaches use to call me a merman. The girls on the team took it a little farther.”

You stay absolutely still as he reaches out and pinches some of the fabric to show you. There, stitched in bright red thread and loopy cursive, is ‘Merman.’

“Always thought I was more of a turtle, but it’s all in good fun,” Hyunwoo adds.

“It’s cute.” You smile at the thought of little Hyunwoo, if he was ever little, surrounded by a throng of giggling girls as they present the hoodie to him.

“Thanks.”

Pulling the hoodie closer around you, you venture, “So, can I ask my questions now?”

“Sure.”

“Do you have any idea when I can go home? If you’ve investigating Yew for a while, doesn’t that mean you’ll be done soon?” Maybe with the others present, you can get a different answer.

“I already contacted both of your jobs with a story about you being injured while going home to visit your family.” Changkyun says, leaning back on his elbows against the countertop. “The documentation I included was enough to buy three months’ medical leave from your office job. After that, we’ll figure something out. The gym will cover your classes indefinitely until you’re back. Once I’ve made sure your phone and online accounts aren’t being monitored, you can contact your family. I’ll figure out a cover story for you then. Your rent will be taken care of as we go.”

He makes it sound like it was nothing. Has he done this kind of thing that often that it really is nothing for him? Your second thought is where are they getting the money from. Your place isn’t the Ritz, but nothing in this city is cheap.

Scrambling to do calculations in your head, the amount needed to cover your rent for three months at once makes you woozy. You’ll really have to live sparsely, more so than normal, but if there’s one thing you hate, it’s owing people. “Can I pay you back in installments after this is all done?”

Changkyun shakes his head and your heart sinks, only for him to say, “You don’t have to pay us back at all. Our pockets are deep for this op; we’ll add it to our expenses.”

Shit, that’s a lot of money. It makes you uncomfortable taking it. “But-”

Hyunwoo cuts you off. “Consider it compensation for testifying when we close the case.”

“I never said I’d testify,” you blurt out.

#kpopwritingnet #kwriterskollection #kwritersworldnet #shownu scenarios #monsta x scenarios #monsta x #shownu #son hyunwoo

60 notes · View notes

splendidlyimperfect · 5 years

Link

Sting's entire life changed when he was eleven years old and his best friend Rogue told a secret that he'd promised to keep. Taken away from the father who abused him and the best friend who'd tried to save him, Sting tried to start a new life with his uncle. But the trauma wasn't easy to escape, and eventually Sting turned to drinking to forget the things that hurt.

Now he's an adult, and he hasn't been sober in years. But when drinking nearly kills him and a near-stranger saves his life, Sting has a chance to turn his life around, and maybe become the man that Rogue deserves to love.

Chapter Summary: Sting's trying to move on with his life, but he can't stop wondering why his dad hurt him.

Chapters (8/?): 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 Rating: Mature Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Rogue Cheney/Sting Eucliffe, Natsu Dragneel/Gray Fullbuster, Natsu Dragneel & Sting Eucliffe, Sting Eucliffe & Weisslogia Characters: Sting Eucliffe, Natsu Dragneel, Rogue Cheney, Gray Fullbuster, Weisslogia (Fairy Tail) Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Past Child Abuse, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Trans Character, Trans Sting, Friendship, Childhood Friends, Sting-focused story, Sting is a disaster, Natsu's a great friend, Rogue tries to do what's right, Tumblr: FTLGBTales Series: Part 2 of i'm still standing

**TW for flashback to physical abuse

-----

frac·ture | \ ˈfrak-chər noun :  the act or process of breaking or the state of being broken

vi spring age thirteen

A few weeks into the summer after grade eight, Sting wakes up to shouting.

He yawns, sitting up and rubbing his face as he tries to pick out who is saying what. It sounds like Uncle Wes, but Sting’s never heard him yell before, so it seems unlikely. Sting quickly pulls on a sweater, then cracks the door open and peeks down the stairs.

It is Uncle Wes. He’s standing in the front entrance, talking who whoever is outside. He’s not yelling anymore, but Sting can still make out what he’s saying.

“Get out,” Uncle Wes says. His voice is hard and fierce in a way Sting’s never heard before. “I don’t know what the hell you think you’re doing.” There’s a pause, and he adds, “I don’t care if you’re my brother.”

Sting freezes, fingers wrapped around the banister as the words slowly sink in. He’s about to take a step forward when the voice on the other side of the door gets louder.

“Just lemme see her.”

Sting’s heart stops and he can’t breathe because the last time he heard that voice everything was broken, and his head hurt and he couldn’t stop crying and—

“You lost that right a long time ago,” Uncle Wes growls. “You know you’re not allowed to be here. Get out.”

Everything’s going blurry and Sting sits down hard on the top step, shaking as the world falls away around him. He tries to ground himself – that’s what his therapist keeps saying, but every single thing she’s ever told him slips away as he struggles to keep breathing.

“I’m her fath—”

“You are nothing,” Uncle Wes says. There’s a loud bang and the sound of splintered wood, and Sting bites back a terrified scream, wrapping his arms around his legs and pressing his forehead to his knees.

Go away, he thinks desperately, wishing he were brave enough to open his eyes. Please don’t hurt me. I’ll be good. I’ll be quiet. Please.

“Just let me—”

“I told you to get out.” Uncle Wes’ voice is the quiet kind of angry that leaves Sting with a low, thrumming panic in his chest. His arms ache where he’s digging his fingernails into the skin, and the pain is the only real thing right now. “I will never let you hurt him again. Ever.”

Continue reading on AO3

“Him? I didn’t—”

“Save your bullshit for your parole officer,” Uncle Wes growls. “You might have some people fooled, but I was the one who picked him up from the hospital. I know what you did, and don’t you dare think for one goddamned second that I’m ever going to let you anywhere near my nephew.”

When the other voice start shouting, the tiny part of Sting that’s been holding onto reality snaps, and he’s eleven again, terrified and hiding.

Please, he thinks desperately as tears slip down his cheeks. He wants Kelly to find him and hug him and tell him it’s going to be okay.

Sting’s not sure how much time passes – the shouting stops and the door slams, and after that he doesn’t listen. Eventually, he hears someone coming up the stairs and he presses himself against the wall, heart slamming against his chest so hard that he can’t breathe. Something touches his arm and he flinches, bringing his hand up to cover his face.

“It’s just me,” a gentle voice says, and Sting hears the stair creak as Uncle Wes settles down next to him. “I’m so sorry, he’s gone now. Are you okay? ”

Sting shakes his head, trying to stop shaking – it’s like every piece of him is trying to escape in different directions. He holds his breath and grinds his teeth and bites the inside of his lip, but none of it works. Eventually he peeks up at Uncle Wes, who gives Sting a sad smile and opens his arms.

Sting hesitates for only a second before accepting the hug. “You’re safe now,” Uncle Wes murmurs as Sting cries against his shoulder, curling up against his chest. “I’m so sorry. He’s not allowed to be here.”

“Wh-why…” Sting can’t make words yet, just focuses on the gentle weight of Uncle Wes’ hand on his arm. “He’s… I…”

“I’m sorry,” Uncle Wes says again, kissing the top of Sting’s head. “He’s not in jail anymore, but he has someone called a probation officer that makes sure he follows the rules. One of those rules is that he’s not allowed to come near you, and he’s going to get in trouble for being here.”

Sting rubs his face with the back of his hand as the pounding in his chest starts to come back to normal. He lets out a shaky breath, then asks, “why was he here?”

It’s not the question he expected to ask, but the fear in his chest is slowly shifting into a barbed, burning anger.

“I’m not sure,” Uncle Wes admits, pulling back and brushing Sting’s hair out of his eyes. “But that doesn’t matter, he can’t come here, and he can’t see you.”

Sting rubs his face and pulls away from Uncle Wes. His skin feels raw, stretched over the wrong body, everything sharp and aching.

“I wanna be alone,” he says quietly. Uncle Wes nods, standing up and reaching out to help Sting up. Sting stares at the outstretched hand, then shakes his head and pushes himself to his feet.

“I’ll come check on you in a little bit,” Uncle Wes says, taking a step back down the stairs. “Maybe we can get pizza tonight?”

Sting doesn’t say anything, just rubs his arms and heads back down the hallway to his room. His mind is a jumbled mess, fear warring with a sudden, dangerous fury that sparks and burns through him.

He spends the rest of the weekend hiding in his bedroom. Uncle Wes tries to coax him out a few times with offers of pizza and movies, but Sting just shakes his head, curling up on the bed and staring at the wallpaper.

His dad isn’t in jail anymore.

Uncle Wes had talked to him about it a few weeks ago. He’d tried to explain things like plea bargains and sentencing, but it had all gone over Sting’s head. In the end, all that had mattered was that Sting’s dad knew the right kind of people, and even the scar on Sting’s forehead wasn’t enough to keep him away.

Let me talk to my daughter.

Sting can’t remember the last thing his dad said to him. Everything about that day is hazy – whenever his therapist asks about it, all Sting can feel is pain and nausea and a low, thrumming sense of terror. He knows that his dad yelled and swore when the police came, but before, when he’d hurt Sting, he’d been quiet.

The silence had been cold and terrifying, and when Sting closes his eyes and forces himself to try and remember, he nearly throws up. It’s not like a memory in movies – there’s no timeline to it, no clear image of what happened. Instead it’s pieces. Bits of things he’s pushed away for so long.

The front door clicking shut. Dad’s cold, dark eyes. Sunlight glinting off the broken glass. Trying so hard to be quiet. Dad’s hand in his hair. His head hitting the coffee table. Bright sparks of pain. The TV screen shattering. Fingers tight around his wrist. Heart rabbit-thumping as he hid in the closet, trying to be small, trying to be quiet, trying to be good.

Sting growls in frustration and sits up, throwing his pillow across the room. It knocks his pile of books to the floor, and Sting stares at them, picturing tearing out all the pages and ripping the covers to pieces.

He wants to break something like his dad broke him.

Instead he grabs his other pillow, pressing it against his face while he screams. The anger burns through him, hot and jagged, and no matter how many tears soak the fabric, it won’t go away.

Why? The word circles through his head, repeating over and over until it overwhelms him and he punches the mattress. Why did you hurt me, why didn’t you love me, why wasn’t I enough, why, why, why?

Sting tosses the pillow aside and flops back onto the mattress, staring up at the ceiling as something determined settles into his chest. His dad is terrifying, but he’s the only one with answers, and Sting finally has a chance to find out.

When Uncle Wes goes to sleep, Sting slips out of his room and creeps down to the kitchen. Uncle Wes’ phone is sitting on the counter charging, and Sting stares at it for a long time before picking it up and opening Uncle Wes’ contact list. He scrolls through it, searching for his dad’s name. He doesn’t expect to find it – Uncle Wes hasn’t talked to Sting’s dad since he went to jail, and even before that. But his number is saved there, and Sting clicks on it before he can change his mind.

He doesn’t have time to feel afraid because his dad picks up after the first ring and growls, “thought you told me to fuck off.”

It feels like being slapped. Everything in Sting tenses and he nearly hangs up.

“What do you want, Wes?” his dad asks.

Sting sucks in a shaky breath, then whispers, “dad?”

There’s a long silence on the other end of the phone. Sting’s convinced that his dad can hear his heart pounding – it’s slamming against his chest so hard he can barely breathe. He sinks down to the ground, pulling his knees to his chest and pinching the back of his arm to keep himself from crying.

“Abbey?” his dad says eventually.

“Yeah,” Sting says quietly, even though he hasn’t heard that name in over a year. He looks over at the stairs, listening carefully for any movement from Uncle Wes, but the only sound in the house is the dishwasher running.

“Does Wes know you’re calling me?”

Sting shakes his head. “No,” he says. “He said you weren’t allowed to see me.”

His dad sighs, and Sting can picture him rubbing the bridge of his nose and staring at the ground with his jaw tense and lines on his forehead. “I’m not,” his dad says eventually. “But I want to.”

The nausea comes back immediately, filling Sting’s stomach with bile that he can taste at the back of his throat. He forces himself to say, “me too.”

“Can you come to the park?” his dad asks, and it takes Sting a second to realize that he’s talking about the park next to their old home. Crocus is over two hours away by bus, but Sting knows where Uncle Wes’ wallet is, and he can walk to the stop from their house.

“Yeah,” he says. He presses his forehead against his knees. Part of him thinks he should just ask his dad now, on the phone, but Sting needs to see his face when he answers the question. Sting just needs to know. If he hurries, he can make it there and back to the house before Uncle Wes wakes up.

“Okay,” his dad says. His voice is soft, suddenly, and Sting clutches the phone tighter to keep his hand from trembling.

“I’ll be there in a couple hours,” he says, staring out the window at the cloudy, moonless sky. “See you soon.”

As soon as he hangs up the phone, Sting runs to the bathroom and throws up. He shivers, spitting the taste out of his mouth and wiping away the sweat on his face with the sleeve of his hoodie. He can’t stop shaking, can’t stop thinking about being eleven and throwing up in the closet because his head hurt so badly he could barely see.

Eventually he picks himself up off the floor and runs the tap, splashing his face and rinsing out his mouth. Then he stares at himself in the mirror for a long time. Eventually he combs his hair to cover his scar, then takes a deep breath and leaves for the bus stop.

Sting makes it to the park without throwing up again. He shoves his hands deep in his pockets to keep them from shaking, and every time he closes his eyes and opens them again, the lights around him blur. It’s like he’s floating behind everything; a ghost of someone who isn’t afraid.

He drags the terrified, furious pieces of himself over the sidewalk cracks, across the dirty asphalt and the plants growing through the concrete. When he sees the bench where he used to meet Rogue in the mornings on the way to school, something cracks in Sting’s chest and he starts to cry, desperately wiping at his eyes with the sleeves of his sweater.

He can’t cry. Not now. Right now, he needs to be brave, because he needs to know why.

A hand drops onto Sting’s shoulder and he pulls away quickly, spinning around and stumbling backward as his heart pounds against his ribs. It takes him a second to realize that the hand is attached to a person, and that the person is his father.

“Abbey?”

His dad looks the same. Nothing’s changed in the last three years except the graying stubble on his chin. Sting stares at him, a rush of anger flooding through him as all the moments he’s been trying to avoid catch up to him.

“I…” Sting tries to say something, but he can’t quite breathe around the mix of fury and fear. When his dad takes a step toward him, Sting scrambles backward, nearly tripping over a crack in the sidewalk, and catches himself on the arm of the park bench. His dad’s movements are uncoordinated, and it takes Sting a second to realize that he smells like beer.

Everything Sting had planned to say is instantly gone, determined resentment replaced by terror, and instead he whispers, “I’m sorry,” because that’s all he’s ever said to his father. I’m sorry, I’ll be good, I’ll be quiet, I promise.

“His nephew,” Sting’s dad says softly, and his eyes widen as he finally puts the pieces together. “You’re a…”

“Please,” Sting begs, digging his fingernails into his palms as he takes short, shallow breaths. All he wants to know is why. “I won’t… I didn’t do anything wr-wrong, I was trying to be quiet and I don’t understand why you…”

“You think you’re a boy,” his dad says, ignoring the way Sting’s stumbling over his words. He reaches out for Sting’s arm and Sting pushes himself further back toward the bench, but his father’s fingers close around his wrist. Suddenly Sting is six and crying, eight and hiding, nine and begging, eleven and not knowing what he did wrong.

“I…”

“What the hell has he been doing with you?”

“Nothing,” Sting says, trying to keep his voice steady as he tugs at his dad’s grip. “Let go of me.”

His father’s face is cold, and he tightens his grip on Sting’s wrist. Shadows play across his cheeks from the dim light of the streetlamps, making him look sharp and dangerous. Now that he’s closer, it’s clear that he’s been drinking – his eyes are red and the look he’s giving Sting makes the scar on his forehead hurt.

“Why?” Sting asks, every muscle in his body tense as he tries not to pull away. If he fights back, it’ll just be worse.

“Why what?” his dad mutters, and Sting can’t stop crying.

“You…” Sting swallows, then rubs at his face with the sleeve of his hoodie, trying to keep the tears from spilling down his cheeks. “I jus —”

“Stop it,” his dad snaps, tightening his grip on Sting’s wrist until it hurts. It always hurts. “You’re so goddamn emotional. Always crying about stupid shit.”

grow up

stop crying

don’t be such a baby

“I’m n-not—” Sting starts, but his dad interrupts, yanking him forward and hissing, “Shut up.”

Sting squeezes his eyes shut and turns his head, but the blow he’s expecting never comes. Instead, the grip on his wrist loosens and he stumbles, hitting the back of his legs against the park bench. When he looks up, a police officer is standing there, one hand on his dad’s shoulder.

“Is everything okay here?” she asks, and for a second Sting thinks it’s Kelly. A desperate part of him wants to hide behind her, but then he realizes that it’s not her, and he’s not supposed to be here, and his dad looks like he’s going to run.

Sting’s breath catches as he stares at his dad, and the realization settles in his chest, cold and sharp – there is no reason. There is no why. His dad didn’t hurt him because he was too loud, or because he didn’t do the dishes, or because he didn’t come home on time.

There is no why, and it’s never going to change.

“We’re fine,” his dad growls at the same time that Sting whispers, “Help.”

#fairy tail #ftlgbtales #ftlgbtfics #nbm2019 #stingue #sting eucliffe #rogue cheney #trans character #fanfic #new chapter #update #tw: abuse #my fic

3 notes · View notes

umbraastaff · 6 years

Text

I Saw Seven Bounties

CHAPTER 9: THE DEAL II: FACES

[first] [prev] [next] [recent]

[Ao3]

[Thank you to fivebrights (AO3/Tumblr) for beta reading!]

***

Barry keeps picking through the abandoned buildings, flipping through his notebook, and being generally weird. Kravitz watches with mild interest, trying to understand why he keeps a pair of work gloves but leaves the boots, why he clicks every pen to decide whether to take it without ever testing the writability. Maybe his notebook is actually a shopping--er, scavenging--list.

While the lich is trying hard to open a crate without going overboard with the force used, Kravitz speaks up. “It’s, er, been nearly an hour, now. Have you made any progress towards the bell?”

“Oh, shoot!” Barry waves a hand with a spell gesture Kravitz doesn’t recognize. “I-I got distracted. Didn’t mean to, uh, t-to make you wait.”

Kravitz just shrugs. “It’s only one day; I’ll survive a little boredom.” Especially if he gets Barry’s soul at the end of it. He almost regrets reminding Barry of the objective, but he isn’t one to play dirty. “What was that spell, just now?”

“Huh? O-Oh, uh, this?” Barry repeats the hand movement, and Kravitz nods. “It’s just Timer, a-a cantrip. I did the--I set it for, uh, twenty-three hours.”

The reaper tilts his head. “Odd. I don’t imagine myself to be out of touch with modern magic, but I don’t think I’ve heard of it.”

“Really? I wouldn’t--I mean, it’s not very new, but…” he thinks for a moment. “Oh, oh, shoot! Right. It’s not f-from around here. It’s… I think we made that one, actually.”

“You… make spells?” Kravitz makes a mental note to add another goddamn discipline to Barry Bluejeans’ ever-growing list of masteries.

“Oh, I mean…” Barry twiddles his thumbs. “N-Not well enough to have--to make a job of it, or a-anything. Just, uh, some little spells t-to fill niches. It’s fun to figure them out.”

“Impressive.” Kravitz means it.

Barry looks surprised. “I-I mean, it’s just a cantrip. You could even--I can teach it to you, uh, if you’d like. If you can do wizard spells…?”

“I’m afraid what magic I have that isn’t granted by the Raven Queen is done through music.”

“Oh, bardic magic?” Barry brightens up. “I used to--I’ve dabbled in that. Maybe I can figure something out for it. I-I’ll get back to you.”

“Alright, then,” Kravitz says skeptically. Barry can do plenty of things, but he wonders how much skill the lich has in music.

Barry scribbles something else in his notebook--a reminder, perhaps--and then snaps it shut. “O-Okay! So! First place I’m checking is, uh, just a bit east of Neverwinter. I found--I got wind of some, uh, questionable activities there.”

“Well, I doubt you’ll do well with my method of teleportation, and I’m not letting you port me,” Kravitz says, “So how about we just meet at the east gate?”

Barry gives him a thumbs up and vanishes in a flash of red light. Kravitz sighs, draws his scythe, and presses it into the space between planes. He dips briefly into the Astral Plane before pulling back into the Material, just in time to see a flash of red lightning at the east gate of Neverwinter, coalescing into the brightly-colored silhouette of Barry Bluejeans.

Barry’s face is halfway skeletal when he appears, but his illusory skin is already rapidly regenerating. Whatever illusion he’s using must operate similarly to a ‘concentration’ spell, or else his teleportation wouldn’t interrupt it.

“I don’t see why you don’t just use Disguise Self,” Kravitz remarks as Barry leads him away from the city. “Seems like it would be easier.”

Barry raises an eyebrow. “I--Well, it doesn’t really--I mean, d-do you use Disguise Self for your face--your body? Does that work?” He sounds skeptical, but the question is genuine enough.

“No,” Kravitz admits. “The Raven Queen grants me the power for this form, among other things. It isn’t a spell with a name. But you… Well, it just seems overly complicated for you to use some other magic when Disguise Self is such a simple spell.”

“Hm… Here, I-I’ll just show you how the--show you what Disguise Self does.” Barry snaps his fingers, and a ripple of magic crosses his face. His expression abruptly turns rigid and neutral, eyes staring emptily into space. When he speaks again, his mouth doesn’t move.

“This spell m-maps the body’s movements--links them to the illusion. Which is also why y-you can only look like creatures with the same, uh, same basic form. So, actual movements w-work fine,” he wiggles his fingers to demonstrate, “but my face is j-just a skull. There isn’t any--there’s no movement to take hold of for the spell.”

“I see,” Kravitz says, nodding. “That must be why so few liches put on faces.”

Barry laughs a little as he snaps his fingers again, restoring the proper illusion to his face. “I mean… th-the skull face also adds to the, uh, the edgy aesthetic.”

“Of course,” Kravitz rolls his eyes. “A mockery of the symbols of the Raven Queen’s domain, for nothing but a little spookiness.”

“O-Oh, come on,” Barry crosses his arms. “She may have reign over when people die, b-but the right to be--to mock the concept of death, that’s--I’d say it belongs to people who actually will die.” He hesitates. “And... in a sense, have died.”

“Oh? And how do you expect to die, Barry, with your soul modified so?”

“You, obviously.” Barry gives Kravitz a flat look. “Eventually. B-But even without that, really, a lich is just a s-spliced up version of something mortal. Y-You can’t act like any of us would last as long as a god. I-I’d fade long before the-the entire concept of death fades as a godly domain.”

Kravitz blinks. He has no response to that; he’s used to liches acting as though they’ll last for an eternity. Instead, after a bit of a pause, he says, “Hmm. You said the Bell is out here?”

“Ah, yeah,” Barry perks up again. “Phoebe lives near here. Sh-she’s… If she has it, she’d probably b-be making really good use of it. In-in a bad way.”

“Phoebe…?”

“Uh, Phoebe Tipper?” Barry says, but Kravitz stays confused. “She’s been cycling souls in and out of th-the Astral Plane f-for--for years, almost weekly.”

Kravitz squints. That does sound vaguely familiar. “Dead Ends?”

“That’s--Oh, yeah. That’s her... business name, I-I guess? Pretty d-dramatic, right?”

“You know where Dead Ends lives?”

“I, uh. I know where a lot of people live,” Barry says, picking through the increasingly-dense trees and brush, “On account of not t-trying to, uh, murder them.”

Kravitz keeps following him. If this isn’t a ruse, then this whole deal might not end up a waste after all. Dead Ends doesn’t really fit the bill for who they think was in possession of the Animus Bell, but she’ll be quite a catch even without it.

Eventually, Barry stops and peers through the trees. “There’s Phoebe’s place. C-can you see it?”

Kravitz leans near Barry to follow his apparent line of sight, but he can’t see anything besides regular forest. And he can’t sense any other necrotic energy, either. “Not with your lich magic stuffing up my senses.”

Barry laughs a little. “M-My bad. It’s p-probably boxed, too, though.”

“Boxed?”

“O-Oh, slang, sorry. It means, uh, there’s a shield k-keeping radiant energy out, like agents of gods. You. I can get rid of it, though.”

“So… you’re able to remove it? And you’re willing to remove it?”

“Yep,” Barry says, and although Kravitz leaves the space for it, he offers no further explanation. Instead, his hands start moving in a practiced pattern, with bones showing through the illusory skin every time he makes a quicker motion. Kravitz can feel the energy as he cuts through the air, and he takes a step back to give it room.

Once he’s done, the lich points through the trees again. “S-See it now?”

The area looks blurry, now. Kravitz blinks hard a few times, and it clarifies into a house, as though it had been there the entire time. It blends in well with the forest, sure, but it’s not exactly missable. “Wow.”

“Yeah, p-pretty impressive how she stretched th-that spell over the entire house,”

Kravitz nods, still staring at the building. It’s half taken over by the plants and vines around it, and he has to wonder if that was intentionally invoked by magic, or if the house really is that ancient.

“Okay, w-well, she probably does--probably checks security, uh, regularly, so… N-Now or never.” He’s twitching, just slightly, in that way he does when he’s having strong feelings.

“Are you alright?”

“Yeah, I’m--yeah.” It comes out tense.

Kravitz starts to take a step forward, but hesitates again. “Barry. This isn’t… you’re not trying to trick me, are you?” His eyes widen as he realizes. “If I leave your side, it could technically be in violation of our contract…”

Barry looks genuinely surprised. “Uh, I-I guess? I wasn’t--I didn’t mean to trick you, though. I’m telling you where I th-think the Bell is. Of course you need to--need time to check it out. I mean…” he shrugs. “If you don’t go, a-and it turns out the Bell was there, then--then you’d be breaking the terms, right?”

Kravitz frowns. “I suppose…”

“Look, th-the whole contract got way--absurdly contrived. I-I promise you I’m not trying to pull one over on ya.”

Kravitz takes a long look at his face, which is decidedly less twitchy, and nods. “As much as I hate to admit it, I trust you, to this small extent.” He looks back towards the house, ignoring a glimpse of Barry’s face brightening up.

He surveys the house carefully as he steps between the trees. Staying on the side that their shadows are pointed, he’s nearly invisible. He sheds his skin and wills his steps silent, approaching the front door.

Kravitz sinks into darkness and slips under the front door, feeling the sickening aura of necrotic energy intensifying every second. He can’t feel any wards, though, and most skilled evildoers have them aplenty; Barry must have really been thorough with dismantling them. He stands up inside the house and looks around.

It’s a nice place, if a little cluttered and a lot evil. Candles and chalk line the shelves alongside more conspicuous ritual supplies. Magical artifacts are among them, but he doesn’t feel the power of a grand relic within this home. He does, however, feel the presence of a soul that’s been on his bounty list for a few months now.

Surprisingly, following the presence takes him away from the passive necrotic magic in the basement--she must be making bodies. He heads up the stairs and down a hall, ignoring the few framed photos along the walls. They aren’t his business, and would only serve to make this difficult. Finally, slowly, Kravitz turns the doorknob that he knows his target is waiting behind. He has the advantage here.

So of course he’s startled when he’s tackled the instant he opens the door. She dodges his alarmed scythe swing and his back hits the ground. Phoebe is barely recognizable as human, but up close, Kravitz can see that she’s made of human pieces. There are too many eyes and arms in all the wrong places, but they’re all human. And so is her soul: a hellish amalgam of other humans’ lives, stolen from the Astral Plane for her own power. He’d be impressed if he wasn’t disgusted.

Kravitz kicks her off with an undignified yelp, feeling soul magic turned abrasive burning him where they made contact. Jumping up, he extends his power through the room, turning the dim atmosphere to darkness and willing it to encroach on the monstrous figure. Wisely, she backs up towards the lightest part of the room: the window.

“Phoebe Tipper,” Kravitz says, voice thick with his work accent, “You’ve been a tricky one, ‘aven’t ya?”

Phoebe shakily looks out the window, then back to Kravitz. Instead of panic, he sees a grin made of far too many teeth. “Reaper,” she rasps in several voices at once, “You’re outnumbered.” And then she kicks off from the floor and crashes through the second-story window.

Kravitz rushes forward and looks through the shattered glass. The monster is rushing down the path in front of the house, towards a hooded figure clad in bright red. He’s waving to Phoebe, beckoning her.

Kravitz curses--Barry, Phoebe, his own foolishness. Why would Barry do this? Why give him someone’s location only to save her? Did Barry suddenly realize she didn’t have the Bell, and decide to sabotage him? Is this a trap?

He leaps out the window anyway, breaking his fall on soft shadows and running towards his runaway catch, though he’s sure Barry will have her gone within seconds.

Surprise slows Kravitz down when he gets close enough to see Barry meeting his eyes, giving him a strange look. The hand he’s waving with abruptly clenches into a fist, and there’s a bolt of red lightning that shoots up from the ground and overtakes Phoebe. She collapses, stunned but not dead, and screeches profane curses of traitorousness.

Kravitz stops altogether. Barry looks at him. “H-Hey, uh, are you gonna do your job? I c--I can’t hold this for long--”

Snapping out of it, Kravitz crosses the remaining distance with a few short strides. Barry steps back as he pulls out his scythe, tearing Phoebe’s many souls out of this Plane with a clean slice. It’s the easiest that’s been in a while.

Then he stares at Barry. “I didn’t expect you to actively help.”

“Oh, c-come on,” Barry says. “She--she killed people! A-And used their--she took their souls and powered herself with innocent--used people who weren’t even willing, and even if th-they were, I’d question it--”

“So you do have morals,” Kravitz says, with half-feigned surprise.

Barry isn’t amused. “I don’t kill people, Kravitz! I just--the only soul I’ve e-ever tampered with is mine, a-and I really--I only use bodies that are already dead, wh-when I need to.”

“Shame,” Kravitz rolls his eyes. “If you had just stayed away from your soul, I wouldn’t have had to hunt you.”

“A-And we wouldn’t have met,” Barry shrugs. “You don’t--I mean, you’re a pretty okay guy when yo-you’re not trying to kill me.”

Before Kravitz can respond, Barry continues, “So is the Animus Bell in there?”

“Ah, no. Can’t feel anything on par with Grand Relic power here.”

“That’s too bad,” Barry says, in a tone that leans towards sympathy. As though he’s more bummed out for Kravitz’s sake than his own. He pulls out his notebook again and starts flipping through it.

“I wonder what gave them so much power,” Kravitz says idly.

“They’re m-made of the same thing--same stuff that made the omniverse,” Barry says without missing a beat. “The, uh, inspiration for o-our existence, in an… abstract sense. That’s why, uh, why they have--why people want to use ‘em so bad.”

“What? What makes you so sure?”

Barry doesn’t appear to have heard him, and instead says, “So, hey, w-where’s the line? I mean, on what’s… unacceptable? Liches are bad, Phoebe’s body-hopping is bad, but you--I could’ve sworn that-that you said zombies are fine, before.”

“Right,” Kravitz says. “Animated corpses--zombies, as you say--have no soul. They are, I would say, disrespectful to the dead, but not illegal. They don’t disrupt the balance of life and death. But, well, moving your soul--or others’ souls--out of your body, modifying them, or stealing them from the Astral Plane… any of those things serve to extend a life beyond its natural course. It creates an imbalance.”

“But we all--everything dies anyway, though, right? Even liches w-would decay eventually. Who cares if I’m around a little longer?”

Kravitz sighs. “The balance of the world isn’t just about death, it’s about the natural order of fate. Fate is married to Death, and altering either can mess with the process of the other. You know, the same reason time travel is generally considered to be extremely dangerous.”

“For the sake o-of conversation, and, uh, a little curiosity,” Barry says, “What d-does it--what exactly does it mess up? What does balance being out of whack a-actually do?”

“It’s…” Kravitz falters briefly. “It isn’t mortal business, Barry. Not our business. It has to do with my superior’s work, not my own.”

“She isn’t…” Barry frowns. “Well, nevermind.”

“Oh, no, I’d like to hear this.”

“It wouldn’t be good of m-me to… I mean, I don’t know a whole l-lot about her. But I-I do know that gods, i-in a, uh, strictly general sense, a-aren’t infallible,” Barry says, choosing his words delicately, without even the decency to sound arrogant. “But I shouldn’t… it’s n-not my place to say.”

There’s a hint of a wry laugh in his voice as he adds, “I-I can’t justifiably c-comment on the, uh, the balance of this world when we d-did such a big--” he freezes. “Uh, I mean, when I’m a lich! Th-the source of, er, th-that sort of imbalance.”

Kravitz starts to respond, but Barry continues before he can. “And the Raven Queen did l-let me channel her m-magic to save you, i-instead of taking the opportunity to, uh, smite me, or something? So that was pretty good. From my semi-mortal perspective, at least.”

Kravitz frowns, indignant arguments and confused questions melting from his mind in favor of startlement. “You did what?”

“You d-don’t remember…?” Barry looks surprised, too. “Uh, it was on that train, a bit o-over a year ago? When you did a--when you beefed it hitting the tunnel wall. I d-did that thing warlocks and clerics do, to ask for power…”

“Warlocks and clerics?” Kravitz stares at him. “Those are… very different magical professions.”

“N-Not really,” Barry says. “They’re pretty similar. Warlocks c-can just do weirder stunts, usually, since they’re bound to, uh, weirder… less conventional entities.”

“If you put it that way, I suppose…”

“So the Raven Queen l-let me channel her magic f-for, uh--to heal you, because I’m garbage at it, a-and you got portal-warped away.”

Kravitz finds he’s less surprised than he thought that Barry would save him. He did tell him to duck just before he was hit, after all. “You’d think, with such a skill for moving life energy around, that one would be good at healing.”

Barry laughs. “Yeah! But, well, m-most of what necromancy does is, uh, pretty temporary. And I-I also thought that sort of magic might be, er, bad for you? Being what you are? So…”

“Huh,” Kravitz says. “Well, I do appreciate you taking the precaution. You weren’t too off the mark with that thought.” He regrets voicing that last bit when Barry starts scribbling something down in his notebook again.

Barry flips a few pages. “There’s a c-coven of sorts, uh, down south…”

Down south, there is indeed a coven: a trio of witches who have been exploiting a leak between the Astral and Material planes to steal souls. Kravitz hasn’t been able to find its exact location before; some clever shielding has thrown him off at each attempt, so he’s been waiting for a better shot.

“How ‘bout I go in first this time?” Barry asks when they arrive, and Kravitz lets him. He’s getting the vague sense of being tricked, of this slow-building trust being a ruse, but he hasn’t been disappointed so far.

Within minutes, Kravitz feels the nearby enchantments thin out, and his sense of the nearby necrotic energy sharpens. Barry walks into his field of vision surrounded by three darker cloaked figures.

“Weird, right?” Barry is saying as they walk. “A-And if you apply that to, uh, Shillelagh, you can actually--it’s possible to cast it on y-your own hand. It does get st-stuck as a fist, though. Haven’t figured out how to, uh, circumvent that one.”

Kravitz starts stepping through shadows, sneaking around behind them.

One of the witches perks up. “I feel somethin’, Bluejeans. What the hell did you--”

And then there’s a flash of fire that burns away all the plants on the ground, guided by Barry’s subtle hand movements. On a whim, Kravitz takes on the flames and shapes it into a molten golem around himself. The witches screech as Barry shapes the remaining fire into a ring enclosing them all.

“Witches of Goldmire Coven,” comes Kravitz’s voice, crackling and rasping, dripping with lava that becomes black stones on the ground before him. “I am pleased to inform you that your rift has been located, and you’ve won a free vacation to the Eternal Stockade.”

He takes them in one swing.

“You know,” Barry says as he puts out the fire and Kravitz sheds the golem, “Without m-my fire ring, they could--they would’ve escaped d-during that speech.”

“You underestimate me,” Kravitz says. With good reason, he doesn’t add. “But the risk is worth some flair, Barry.”

Barry laughs. “You’d like Lup and Taako.” Then, with a look Kravitz can’t quite discern, he adds, “H-He’d like you too.”

It’s three more bounties and nearly ten hours later when Kravitz finally asks, “You already knew the Bell wasn’t with any of these people, didn’t you?”

Barry sighs. “Y-Yeah. But it helped you out, right?”

“Immensely,” Kravitz admits. “But it doesn’t mean… Barry, you’re not hoping for a reduction on your sentence, are you? Because I can’t really--”

“N-No, no, I know,” Barry says quickly. “It’s--those people were all, uh, really awful. And I would--I think I’d have someone disappointed i-in me if I didn’t take such a good o-opportunity to, uh, get ‘em caught.” He leafs through his notebook a bit more. “That’s all.”

“So, then,” Kravitz says, “Would it be too much to hope that you don’t really know where the Grand Relic is?”

“It would,” Barry offers him a wry smile and tears a page out of his notebook. “M-Might as well go ahead w-with it now, when I can--when there’s still a good a-amount of time on the clock.”

He folds the paper over and hands it to Kravitz. “Th-those are coordinates. In the middle of the, uh, Felicity Wilds. The Animus Bell a-and both of its current holders are all--they’re within a one-hundred-foot radius of, uh, that location, so… y-you’ll definitely be able to tell if you’re in r-range.”

“The Felicity Wilds…” Kravitz looks at the coordinates, trying to recall anything he’s found there before.

“It’s called Wonderland. I-I’m not coming with you on this one, and I think--I mean, I swear I’m not being patronizing when I s-say this, but y-you shouldn’t go after it either.”

“And why’s that?”

“Th-they do this weird thing… uh, they’re liches wh-who use the Bell as a s-sort of lure, and they manage to--they utilize other people’s emotions for power i-instead of just their own. They’ve generated a-a whole building designed for, for misery, and it’s i-incredibly dangerous.”

Barry must be able to tell from Kravitz’s face that he’s not convinced, because he continues with, “B-But if you’re going there anyway, I-I… Okay. Th-they’re probably, uh, anchored to each other, being siblings. Word has it they started Wonderland when they lost someone. I-if you manage to, uh, get one of them, they other should destabilize.”

Kravitz nods. “Well, thank you for the help--”

“Oh, and their n-names are, uh… Lydia and Edward.”

Kravitz’s blood turns icier than usual, and he faces away from Barry. “Good to know.” He looks down at the coordinates. “I think I’ll take your advice for the time being, then, and regroup. I appreciate the assistance.”

“Yeah,” Barry says, awkward confusion evident in his voice. “No worries. O-Oh, and, about our deal--”

“It’s done. Both ends have been completed. You’re back on my list in…” Kravitz thinks for a moment, “eleven hours and fourteen minutes.”

Barry nods slowly, and they both stand there for a moment. “Do you want… to get lunch?”

“Neither of us eats.”

“Right, right, right,” Barry nods. “Well. Good luck with, uh, stuff. S-See you around, buddy.”

So once again, in a flash of light, Barry Bluejeans is gone. And for the first time, Kravitz doesn’t have to worry about where Barry’s gone or what the hell he’s doing.

He’ll deal with it later.

#the adventure zone #barry bluejeans #kravitz #taz balance #i saw seven bounties #barry #balance #writes

150 notes · View notes