#mister pseudonym

[nanowrimo]

30 Covers, 30 Days 2023: Day 4

As we catch up on 30C30D, we want to introduce our very first community feature! Today, we're featuring Young Adult novel Roses for the Wallflower by misterpseudonym. This cover was chosen for perfectly conveying the story and genre. It has great composition, art, and even the fonts are fitting! It's definitely a cover you can imagine on a bookshelf somewhere! (Plus, pink is always a plus.)

(Wondering about the community features? This year, we're highlighting designers who are also NaNo participants! Read more about it in our main 30 Covers, 30 Days post!)

Roses for the Wallflower

Ever since he was twelve, local cryptozoology nerd Quinn Campbell has had three recurring daydreams: Mothman terrorizing his highschool, finally getting a picture of Bigfoot, and marrying his childhood best friend, Daniela Ryder, on a beach far, far away from here. Then the new kid in town, Eira Slate, shows up with swinging fists - earning himself detention with Dani and the reputation of 'bad boy heartthrob' quicker than Quinn can say "phony."

Now he needs to debunk every reason for his six-year crush to go for the rebel, but his investigation might be interrupted by the mystery of why Eira keeps showing up everywhere he doesn't want him. Including his head.

About the Author/Artist

As far as pen names go, Mister Pseudonym is one of the least subtle that he could’ve gone with, but his work is just about as forward. His passion for writing began in queer internet circles as a wee little lad, and has since aimed to comfort and inspire those just discovering them. Roses for the Wallflower is his first try at something novel-length, and also happens to be very different from fanfiction about half-angel half-devil skeletons. As someone still in highschool, portraying adolescence is way more difficult than it looks on paper, but he’s raring to give it a go—mostly for the tween that could’ve used a book like this one. He’s quite lucky he’s had practice writing in third person or this biography would be much more awkward.

[oscalesoffeeling]

'richer'

our love is greater than any currency for the simple reason that it defies logic: it's bought me time

and you buy me by being by me every day.

every time you kiss me, you buy me a minute,

and every time we make love, you buy me a week.

and our love is richer than any banker, any business man, because it pays me to live. every second with you adds to my life; i am unable to cut it short.

you have bought me so much life that G-d will have to bribe you for my time to come.

- ellie rowan

[gurn]

pitbull forced to change his pseudonym to mister worldwar, very sad!

[uwmspeccoll]

Steamy Saturday

We hold a considerable collection of pre-1970s romance pulp fiction, including queer romances and nurse romances. So, over the next several weeks we will be highlighting some of these titles with their suggestive covers and provocative blurbs.

For Pride Month, we begin the series with March Hasting's Three Women published by Beacon Books, an imprint of Universal Publishing and Distributing Corp., in 1958. The storyline is classic 1950s lesbian romance fiction: a young woman (Paula Temple) meets mister right (Phil Carson), but soon falls for Phil's wealthy aunt Bryne, an artist who lives in Greenwich Village, who herself is in a relationship with another artist, Greta. So many entanglements, you need a flow chart to keep track!

Here, the cover art offers stereotypical 1950s butch/femme imagery, while sensationalist language entices the reader: "An intimate picture of women in love -- with each other!"; "A courageous excursion into a forbidden world."; "Phil Carson strove with all his strength and virility to rescue Paula from unnatural desire." In the end (spoiler!), tragedy befalls both Bryne and Greta, while Paula, not surprisingly, returns to Phil. This is not the ending Hastings, one of the pseudonyms for lesbian pulp fiction writer Sally Singer (b. 1930), wanted for her story, as it did not reflect her own lived experience. Wikipedia quotes Singer as saying,

I really had no choice in the matter. . . . We all know the publishing climate in those days: same sex affection is out of the mainstream loop in this country, therefore, give it to us overtly for fun and games (hetero titillation) but make sure you tack on an ending of misery, punishment, sadness—that was the commercial voice, loud and distinct.

When Naiad Press republished Three Women in the late 1980s, Singer rewrote the optimistic ending for her characters that she always intended. "I don't believe in sadness," Singer said.

View other pulp fiction posts.

[avaritia-apotheosis]

Nomen Nescio | chapter 1

Out of all of his names, he’s always felt the most comfortable with Danny Fenton. -- Nomen nescio - used to signify an anonymous or unnamed person. Translated from lating, it means "I do not know the name." 5th Installment of the Hey Brother AU

A DPxDC crossover // Read on [AO3]

MASERLIST // Next Chapter → Out of all of his names, he’s always felt the most comfortable with Danny Fenton. It was his identity, who he was and how he viewed himself for a good few centuries. Regardless of how much he’s changed, he’d always believe himself to be Danny Fenton at his core. That the Fentons don’t exist in this universe also means that it’s a handy pseudonym for whenever he wants to remain under radar. Jack Fenton, Mattie Fenton, Jasmin Fenton; all identities he’s assumed in one way or another. Sometimes he’d even parade around as Sam Manson or Tucker Foley. 

(He contemplated going by Vlad Masters for a solid ten seconds before shuddering at the idea. He wanted to remain anonymous, not picked out for having such an obvious villain name.)

After Danny Fenton, he felt most at home with the name al Ghul. It was the name he was given in this life, lovingly chosen by his mother. If it were not for that single fact, he might have discarded himself of the name entirely.

Danyal al Ghul was everything Danny Fenton was not. The prodigal son. The Demon’s Heir. Pride of the League. An accomplished assassin, a proficient killer, the unseen shadow. The name alone cultivated a reputation of fear even without his interference (he blamed Ra’s for that). But it was a name that he’d grown up with. A name his mother chose. A name that gave him a brother. So even if he did not love the name, he still saw some part of himself in it. It was a version of himself he chose to be in this life, for better or for worse.

Wayne was the name that sat heavy and uncertain on his tongue. A name that he did not think of as his own, even when it was offered freely. The name evoked a legacy. Of pioneers, of architects, of doctors, of the forefathers of Gotham in all its smog and glory. Of hope, of justice, of the weak becoming strong to protect those who cannot do so themselves. It was the name of heroes.

And Danny—whether Fenton or al Ghul—was not a hero in this life. In the grand scheme of things, he was barely a hero in the last.

He could be a hero if he wanted to. He had the suit, the powers, and even the backstory. And he was certain worse people than him had turned over a new leaf and decided to pursue the path of righteousness. But the fact of the matter is that Danny didn’t want to.

He’s had that life already. And heroism just didn’t hold the same appeal it once did when he was fourteen and living in a different universe.

But just because he wasn’t a hero in this life, doesn’t mean he’d sit idly by when innocent people are in trouble in front of him.

Shades lowered, scarf firmly wrapped over his nose, and hood up, Danny ripped the emergency doors off the back of a school bus and ushered all the kids out. Just minutes later, a huge chunk of falling debris smashed onto the now empty bus.

Ah, Metropolis. Why did he wanna come here again?

Superman crashed onto the road, leaving a boulder-sized crater into the asphalt. He burst from the rubble unharmed, firing off his laser vision at the giant robot looming in the distance.

Right. It’s because he wanted to see aliens. 

Danny helped the bus driver usher the kids into some nearby safe zone, mostly by making sure there were no stragglers. He kept watch over the battle at the corner of his eye, but paid no mind after Superman bounded into the air, probably leading the robot away from them. 

One of the little kids—maybe a few years younger than Damian—tugged at his sweater. “You were so strong, mister! You just ripped the door right off!”

Danny couldn’t help the grin on his face. He ruffled the kid’s hair. “That’s cuz I eat all my vegetables.”

“Nuh uh! You’ve definitely got super powers or something. Ooh, or you’re an alien like Superman!”

“Cross my heart and hope to die, kid. I’m not an alien or anything.”

Danny scampers off before the rest of the kids start getting ideas. 

He follows the fight as best he could in between aiding in civilian duty, and taking advantage of the chaos to switch up his disguises. It was rare for him to cross paths with a hero when he worked for the League of Shadows, so he was curious at how effective they were in a fight. He’d sifted through the League’s databases when he was younger so he had a basic idea of who the current big names were and their power sets, but it was nothing like watching them battle in real life. 

Superman, surprisingly, kept his distance during the fight. He used his heat vision, cryo-breath, and even resorted to just chucking massive pieces of debris at the robot to keep his distance. Wonderwoman and Green Lantern seem to be doing a lot of the heavy hitting up close, and he thinks he’d seen the Flash zipping around somewhere. 

The robot probably had a heavy stock of kryptonite on it, which means Lex Luthor.

Damn rich people.

The robot fired off two large shells of its weapon. The projectiles flew at high-speeds towards Superman— before suddenly changing course and homing towards…Danny? 

Oh Lex Luthor that bitch. 

Before Danny could even raise his own shields, Superman comes barreling in front of Danny and zipped him away as the shell impacted the earth. Superman let out a low whistle. “Well, that was a close one.”

The rounded shell suddenly popped open, releasing a cloud of green gas. Seconds later, more canisters lodged themselves in the ground around them, covering the intersection in a thick cloud of green smoke. And as if fate didn’t hate Danny enough, a strong wind blew the gas over towards them.

Superman toppled to the ground, doubled-over as he breathed in the gas. Aerosolized kryptonite? How fun.

A couple streets over, Danny starts seeing a bunch of smaller robots roaming around and causing chaos in the streets, further dividing the heroes’ attention.

Danny sighed. “You just had to jinx it, didn’t you?” 

Superman looked at him like he just grew a second head— which hadn’t happened in centuries mind you. Learning how to clone yourself is hard no matter how easy Vlad makes it look. “You need to get out of here,” he shouted between coughs. “It’s dangerous!”

That he actually contemplates leaving Superman here as a hoard of giant spider-robots was enough of a reason to make Danny stay. Those thoughts were the devil talking. And by the devil, he meant Ra’s. “Trust me when I say that you’re probably at the safest place you can be.” Danny slams his palm onto the ground. “By the way, you don’t need air to breathe, right?

“I— well, no, but what are you—?”

A single purposeful tug at his ghostly energy creates a dome of bright green light around them. Those years of solitude gave him enough time to experiment the extent of his powers, both in his ghost form and outside it. One of the very cool things he learned with shields is that he could manipulate the energy and permeability of the ectoplasm in such a way that he could create his very own little vacuum chamber inside. Which meant that he could suck all of the airborne kryptonite out of Superman’s radius. 

There would still be some kryptonite in his system, but at least he won’t be inhaling more of it.

The only downside of all of this is that Danny did have to fortify his own human lungs to be able to keep breathing. He was still technically walking around as a human right now.

“What in the—”

“Oh! Looks like back-up is coming.”

In the distance, the distinct shape of the batwing soars overhead, sending rounds and rounds of ammunition at Luthor’s robot.  There’s an explosion at its front, sending off a chain reaction as both of the machine’s arms are blown off. 

He takes his phone out of his pocket and dials a series of numbers right out of his head. (His phones had a tendency to break, so saving numbers just became too much of a hassle every time he had to get a new one.)

 The call picks up on the second ring. 

 “Hey Bats! Your little superfriend over here got gassed with some kryptonite.” At the corner of his eye, Danny just sees Superman mouth what in the world under his breath. No swearing? Really? Huh, must be the boy scout in him. “He’s safe, but I’d rather you take him off my hand before he starts asking questions.”

(His sharp hearing picks up Superman’s mumbled “I don’t even know what questions to start asking.”)

There’s a brief moment of silence on the other line, before he eventually hears a strangled sigh and a raspy “Copy that, just stay there. Don’t move.”

Danny hangs up and pockets his phone. “Welp, better hang tight Supes, because your knight in shining…kevlar? (I think it’s kevlar) is coming to pick you up soon.” He steps out of the dome he’d created, picking up a fallen metal baseball bat from the ground.

“Wait— ok, putting aside the fact that you somehow have the Batman’s phone number, I am 100% sure he told you to stay put.”

“Yeah, well…” He twirls the bat in his hand, thinking back to that one mobile game he’s been enjoying. “Rules are made to be broken.”

He takes a swing at the nearest spider robot, hard enough to dent the titanium skull. 

***

Ten minutes and thirty-something smashed robots later, Danny flagged down the Justice League to pick up their wayward companion. 

Superman—who begrudgingly stayed put inside the ecto-shield because a) he couldn’t leave, b) even if he could the kryptonite gas just refused to disperse, and c) the League looked like they were wrapping things up soon anyway—breathed a sigh of relief as Flash created a vortex that cleared the air. 

“Thanks, Flash.” And then turning to Danny, he flashed those pretty pearly whites and put out his hand to shake. “And thank you, too, for all your help. Though I don’t think I managed to catch your name there, son.”

Son, son, son. There was a time when Danny was newly born into this world where he flinched at the word, too unused to being called anyone’s son after his parents passed away. 

(At the ripe old age of 92, passing within seconds of the other because Jack and Maddie had been attached at the hip ever since they fell in love. Much to Danny’s surprise, a whole symposium of scientists came to attend his parents’ funeral. He’d always pictured his parents as the weird and kooky scientists no one outside of Amity took seriously. Sure, they revolutionized the entire world’s view of science and the afterlife and essentially found a way to make interdimensional travel possible, but they were his parents.)

(Jack: his dad who drove recklessly but always somehow avoided getting his license revoked, who made a fudge so delicious it could be classified as a sin, and who never failed to be there for Danny whenever he was down.)

(Maddie: his mom who knew a thousand ways to break someone’s bones with just a paperclip, but couldn't cook a single unburned or irradiated meal to save her life, who nurtured Danny’s love of space and helped him build his first flight module.)

(He loves Talia, he really does. She’s his mother, but Maddie and Jack were his mom and dad. Like he was first and foremost Danny Fenton, he has, and always will be, their son.)

Danny doesn’t flinch at the word now. 

It’s one word, and it’ll hold about as much meaning as he lets it.

He kicks the head of his bat off the ground and swings it to rest at his shoulder. “It’s no problem,” he says, completely ignoring Superman’s angling for his own name. “I was getting bored of sightseeing anyway.”

“Sightseeing?” Flash let out a laugh. “You must be fun at parties if your solution to getting bored is smashing robots into bits. Seriously, though, I don’t think I’ve seen you before. New meta?”

Danny tilted his head to the side and shrugged, letting them interpret that answer however they wanted to. It was always fun seeing what people came up with to explain, well, him. 

“So this is your first time in Metropolis, then?” Superman asked, eyes narrowed. Not that Danny was thinking about it, wasn’t Superman’s day job a reporter or something? He could see the gears turning in the other’s mind, pulling out that proverbial red string on the corkboard to piece all his information together. “It’s…not exactly the best first impression of the city, but I’d like to welcome you anyway.”

Danny shook his hand firmly, but didn’t tap into his well of superhuman strength to make a point. “Well, might not be the best but it sure is the most exciting first impression I’ve had. It’s the first superhero fight I’ve seen this close, you know!” He didn’t know how much,if any, Superman already knew about him. And if he was being honest with himself, he didn’t really know whether he cared if Superman investigated him or not.

It could go either way. Dany wasn’t a threat to Superman, and there really isn’t anything that Superman has that Danny would go to great lengths to fight for. Bruce had already given his permission to see Damian whenever he wanted. And with Danny’s own…let’s say semi-calculated heart-to-heart, Bruce was unlikely to change his mind about Danny anytime soon.

He’s learned a lot about public personas since his debut days as Phantom. Bruce was a sentimental person to the core. The paradigm of Danny being some lost, wayward child that was hesitant, but willing, to someday join the family was a hope too alluring to discard so easily.

(Danny didn’t lie when he told Bruce he was bad at planning in advance. But just because Danny’s bad at long-term plans, it doesn’t mean that he can’t capitalize and build on an advantage when he sees one. Call it the al Ghul in him. The Wayne in him, even.)

“Really?” Superman pressed. “I would’ve thought you’d seen plenty in Gotham.” “A Gothamite?” Flash perked, face suddenly inches away from Danny’s to get a closer look. Danny barely resists the urge to pat his face to check if his disguise was still on. “So he’s one of B’s kids? Strange, I don’t recognize this one. Unless he got a new one— which, y’know, is kinda par for the course here. But really where does he keep finding all of these kids?”

“I don’t find them. They find me.”

Flash nearly jumps ten feet in the air at the sound of Batman’s voice coming from behind him. “Jesus christ, Bats! Where did you come from?” 

Danny raised an eyebrow and pointed to the Batwing that’s been hovering above the skyline a little ways away from them. “You seriously didn’t see the giant fighter jet over there?”

“Well clearly not!”

Batman turns to Superman, business as usual. “Are you alright? Any lingering effects?”

“Oh just some weakness but it’ll be gone in a jiff. I got a lot of help from your…friend? Friend, over here.”

Batman grunts, looking Danny up and down for any injuries. There were none, of course. “I didn’t expect you to be here.”

Danny set the bat down on the ground, leaning his weight against it. “Got bored. Got curious. You know how I am when I’m curious.”

“Does your mother know that you’re here?”

Danny’s eyes widened. “She told you?”

Talia specifically requested that Danny not be sent on any missions in or near cities claimed by heroes. Specifically heroes with a strong connection to the Justice League. More than likely it was to deter Batman from finding out their connection to each other until the time was right, but when it comes to Talia, one could hardly say. 

Batman raised a brow. “So does she?”

“Of course she does. She always knows where I am even when I don’t tell her. Probably had me microchipped or something, I don’t know.”

Superman and Flash sent very concerned looks towards them. Danny waved off their concerns with a laugh. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding. She doesn’t do that.” 

At least, Danny hoped Talia didn’t do that. There was an unnervingly high likelihood that Talia would have placed a tracker on him at some point, but Danny would rather not think about the possibility. Ignorance is its own form of bliss after all. 

Flash cups a hand to the side of his mouth and whispers to Superman. “I really feel like we’re missing out on something over here.”

Batman grunts again. He inclines his head at Danny. “Would you care to introduce yourself?”

Which brings Danny back to the dilemma he’s had since his rebirth: what name to go by. That’s the problem with having too many names; they can be attached to various distinct and overlapping identities that it’s difficult to choose which one is the best to go by. 

It’s nice to know that Batman wouldn’t dispute him if Danny decided to give a fake name.

Wayne was an immediate no go. He could already see it now: the shock, the surprise, the curiosity, and next thing you know within twenty-four hours the whole Justice League is knocking at his door to learn more about Batman’s new kid. Even if the sound of Danny Wayne didn’t make him uneasy, he still wouldn’t go for it. Yeah, no thanks.

Al Ghul would probably be closer to the truth, but it was a dangerous option to make. The League of Shadows were still a formidable group with a lot of enemies from both sides of the moral spectrum, and Danyal al Ghul had a reputation that would mark him as an enemy on sight, Bat or no Bat.

Which left Fenton as the safest option. It was an unknown name with no added complications. Hell, he didn’t even have to go by Danny if he still wanted some anonymity.

But…

It was one thing to use the name with strangers he’d never see again. Giving that name to people that were connected to him to some degree felt…exposing. He’s never even shared that name with Damian, and he’s closest to Damian out of anyone. 

Which left one option. 

Just fucking with them.

Danny gives an exaggerated bow. “The name’s Nathaniel Edward Mortimer Olysseus, at your service.” He winks. “Well, not for much longer now, anyway.” 

And then he drops a smoke bomb, leaving behind a confused Flash, and an equally amused Batman and Superman.

***

OMAKE:

It’s later on when The Flash is recounting the story to Wonder Woman—and by the small chuckle she gave at the name—did Flash realize the mystery man’s trick.

“Olysseus is one of the many variations of the Greek hero Odysseus,” Diana explained. 

Nathaniel Edward Mortimer Olysseus.

N.E.M.O.

Nobody.

Flash buried his face in his hands. “Can’t believe I fell for that. Should’ve known he wouldn’t say his actual name.”

Superman shrugged. “What can you expect? He’s a Bat.”

[sweetcloverheart]

Saw the ask about zoe/chloé/xy being related.

Reminded me I'm still on board with Gabriel being Zoé's father and 'Mr. Lee'(Mister Lee/Mystery) being a pseudonym. It fits with her running to NY and zero sign of Zoé's dad, or consideration for him when Andre steals adopts Zoé.

That does sound plausible (and absolutely hilarious) - but that brings to question why Gabriel did nothing about her when she arrived. You'd think a man who cared about reputation and "keeping the family image" would be concerned his secret half daughter was running around France.

(Poor Chloe would go ballistic. Does this mean her and Adrien are step siblings now? Does she get a share of the company? Who else did her mom sleep with? Is Marinette secretly her half sister too????)

(Zoe would be inconsolable. Probably feel real awkward around Adrien too)

I also have to wonder though...how? Did Audrey get him drunk? Did Andre call one of his fabric spools "Blood Orange"and he slept with her for revenge? Did he do it with her just to see what would happen? What exactly did Gabriel have going wrong in his life that he willing choose to bed Audrey "Queen Karen" Bourgeois?

(...And now I'm suddenly reminded of my "Chat is mistaken for Adrien's half brother post defeat" AU and how Audrey was in the running as "Chat's mom", only to be disqualified for being, well, herself. People in that verse would go nuts if they found out "Oh, Audrey can't be Chat Noir's mom because she already had a secret baby with Gabriel named Zoe".)

[brooklynislandgirl]

@kylo-wrecked {{xx}}

She might be a sea-sprite but let it not be forgotten all storms are born of her Mother's belly. A tiny tilt of her chin that exposes the tendons of her throat. "You hear me. I said wha' I said." She drinks of his rim, sipping with the dignity of a queen and searching the depths to see where his bemusement comes from. Or the way she's drawn to him the second his limbs settle beside her. Drunk of the sheer presence. Knee brushes thigh, her fingers flutter at the edge of his forearm. He grows in and through her. Which is why she wants him to come. Not to thumb a nose at the man who wishes her most destroyed, something he can point to as a source of his terrible grief on camera only to count the points on paper as the country flocks to him from empathy, but that there is someone she can genuinely admire. Converse with. Forget where she is when he flashes a smile and bears his teeth. She can relive what it feels like when they press in on her to the point of breaking flesh. There are probably specific words for Ben that Beth can't quite utter. He knows them just the same. It doesn't matter if he chafes in leather, he could be just as dangerous in a three piece Dior. Ben is her spine, and she will gladly be his snapped restraint. A shuddered utterance neither breath or vocalisation. Frail fingers bracelet his wrist. An inch either way brings release or relief. She keeps him exactly where he is in a flutter of lashes. "Sure you say dat to alla da folk." She doesn't distinguish between any of the genders, he's an aphotic angel in all of them. She nips at that thumb-tip and nearly takes flesh with it when she pulls back away from him. He asked for it. "Mister Snoke, this is Elizabeth Riley on behalf of Pearson, Spectre, Litt, and Morgan. Representing Ben Prestor Solo and any pseudonyms Mister Solo chooses to use in his arts, I am calling to let you know you'll be receiving a certified letter. It will hereby notify you to Cease and Desist any and all further unlawful acts of harassment in violation of 18 USCS section sign 2661A and all New York State statutes, including but not limited to harassing, stalking, and/or bullying, and any action which consist of physical, verbal, and/or non-verbal attacks, including but not limited to: harassment either in person or via written or electronic format; spying involving following or watching; causing distress through threat of violence, fear of violence and/or calling with the intent to harass. We will expect the documents enclosed in the certified letter to be signed and returned to our offices within ten business days. Should you fail to do so, we will provide you ample time to arrange your affairs and we will settle this matter in court." A pause. "Oh, and before I forget? Merry Christmas, sir." She reaches out and presses the big red disconnect. "Put up, or shut up, Ben." For one incandescent second, she looks gloriously and primordially alive.

[catboy-sinister]

i was on a discord call with two friends a few days ago and I was infodumping about x men and i was like "have you guys heard of the x men villain mister sinister" and they were like. no.... and so I gave a basic backstory and i told them that he ran the orphanage that cyclops was raised in after his prents died and they were like "imagine you grew up in an orphanage and the guy who ran it's name was 'mister sinister'"

also i showed them pictures and they think he looks like laszlo from wwdits

Okay first literally my friend also said he reminded her of lazlo 😭

also my hc is that he went by a pseudonym for one very specific reason. and that's because imagine running an orphanage full of tween/teen boys and having the last name Essex. that man would have gotten mocked to hell and back.

& saying "yeah the guy who tormented me + performed horrific surgeries on me + gave me my first dose of daddy issues ran the orphanage I stayed in. his name?... uh not important"

[damnasstyles]

film camera and yellow sunglasses

masterlist

famous!harry x photographer/spanish!reader

Part I of Finisterre: Till The End Of The World 🌹🐚☀️🌖🌊🫧🍃⚓️🚤🌄

word count:

genre: fluff

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Finally, some time to breathe! Harry thought to himself as the taxi dropped him off at the hotel. He had left the studio at 6pm and landed in Spain at 11pm. It was now 1am, and he was exhausted from the journey. But the purpose of this trip was not work, it was relaxing and exploring new places. Once the taxi driver helped him unload his suitcase and guitar, he tipped him generously, leaving him astounded, and he made his way into the hotel lobby.

He had done a little research beforehand on the area and found that most people did not speak English, so this provided him with a great opportunity to practice his – let’s be honest, non-existent – Spanish skills. He’d been cautious anyway, so booked the hotel online, under a pseudonym (not that he’d be recognized, seeing as most of the population was elderly, fishermen or cows), so all he had to do was to hand in his fake ID and they’d give him his room card and number.

He walked up the small lobby stairs to the check-in area, where he saw a woman thanking the man behind the check-in desk. It was 1am, who the hell, apart from his stupid arse, would be checking in at this time? He observed her movements curiously. She picked the long strap of a small, squared bag from the ground and extended her suitcase handle before she made her way to the lift. That bag looked familiar: it had the name of a brand he always forgets, but Anthony, his tour photographer, always raves about.

“Buenas noches. ¿Le puedo ayudar en algo?” He hadn’t realised that he was staring until he was brought out of his trance by the man behind the desk. He turned his gaze to meet him and he made his way to the reception area. “Erm… Yeah, um…” He quickly pulled out his ID and handed it in. “Tengo una… erm… room booked?” He shifted his eyes quickly from the desk back to the elevator when he heard a ding. It was too late, though, the doors were closing, and he didn't get the chance to look at the woman with the camera bag.

“English? Do you have a room booked with us, sir?” Harry shook his head slightly, pushing the thought of the mysterious woman out of his mind. “Yeah” He cleared his throat, focusing now on the man before him. “Yes, Mick Green”.

“Alright” the man – Xosé, according to his name tag – said, typing in the information into the computer. “Here you go, Mister Green. Room 305. It’s on floor number three, a couple doors to the left of the elevator. If you need anything, our room service is available 24 hours. The kitchen’s closed until breakfast right now, but if you’re hungry we might be able to get something ready for you.”

Harry grabbed the card and smiled politely to the receptionist. “Thank you, I’m alright. I’ll just go to my room and get some sleep. Good night–” he tried to pronounce his name but stammered a bit. “Xosé, sir. I’ll be here all night if you need anything. Have a good night”.

Harry nodded politely, repeating his name. He wanted to learn. “Gracias” his accent showcased through his speech. “Good night”. He repeated the same actions the mysterious woman had done before he lost her to the elevator: he picked up his suitcase from the ground and, with his guitar on his back, he took the lift and made his way up to the third floor.

***

The morning was rather chilly despite the summer season; the crisp night cold still lingering in the air. Harry held a coffee mug on his left hand. He was stood in the large balcony of his hotel room with only a pair of boxers on. The sunrise was a calming mixture of yellows and whites, contrasting beautifully with the clear blue sky. It seemed like the clouds had banished that morning. The mountains were far, but he could make out different shapes and colours on their hills with how transparent the sky was. The wind was non-existent, and so were the waves. The rocks down by the beach at his feet him shone bright under the first rays of sun, thanks to the tranquil sea and the low tide.

It was barely 7am, 6am back home, but Harry’s internal clock was as British as it gets. It didn’t matter if he went to bed at nine in the evening or at two in the morning, he always woke up a little before seven. Sometimes, this habit came in very handy, when it came to meetings and work events, but when it came to holidays, it was a curse. He would eventually adjust though.

Some people would consider him a psychopath - being barely dressed so early in the morning and feeling the cold atmosphere almost to the bone seemed something out of a torture manual. However, the clash between the hot coffee down his throat and the chilly morning breeze were a nice shock to Harry’s system. It wakes him up quicker and more effectively, he’d say.

He spent a few minutes simply admiring the breath-taking landscape before him. It seemed like it belonged on a travel guidebook, or even on some National Geographic documentary — simply wonderful. Once he felt his body start to shiver, he decided it was time to go for a little run along the beach and then have some breakfast at the hotel restaurant.

***

His run was shorter than usual, the beach wasn't too big, and his stomach started growling not long after the third lap, so he simply decided to have some breakfast and explore the town for a bit.

He put his shirt back on and made his way back to the hotel. It was still fairly early, so there weren't many people walking around. As he stepped into the lobby, the mysterious woman from the night before was rushing out the door.

"Bos días!" She greeted him politely, waving quickly as they crossed paths. A bright smile adorned her face, which made him smirk lightly at the feeling of a silent tingle in his heart. It urged him to shift on his feet and follow her hurried figure attentively with his eyes.

She kept walking hurriedly, until she suddenly stopped: it had just dawned on her who she had just greeted. To pretend she hadn't just recognised him, she looked to both sides of the road before grabbing her phone and pretended to call someone. While the dial tones were supposed to be ringing, she shifted her torso to look around her and noticed him staring at her.

The second he realised he'd been caught, he felt like a teenager caught spying on his crush. To play it cool, he waved at her with wide smile on his face and his dimples making an appearance, and when she smiled sweetly at him and waved back, he turned around and tried not to rush in too quickly to catch the lift. This was so embarrassing. She probably thinks he's a creep now.

Was he seriously staring at her? Did he smile at her?! With dimples?! Hold up. Is this a dream? It certainly feels like it.

She stood in the middle of the pavement staring at the hotel entrance, hoping he'd come out and talk to her, or gift her another one of those breath-taking smiles of his, or just anything, really. Any excuse for him to come out again so she could assume it was not a dream was good enough for her. But when that didn't happen after five minutes of her just staring at the doors, she shook her head, trying to come back to reality, and resumed her rushed walk to her car.

Harry, on the other hand, felt a bit lost on his way up on the lift. It had been a while since he'd felt this way. Probably since his teenage years, because he had never felt all giddy inside just from an encounter with a stranger. A beautiful one at that, but stranger, nonetheless. And who probably didn't even speak English, so he felt a bit stupid for feeling this way.

He shook his head, not paying much attention to his feelings, or rather, not wanting to acknowledge them properly, and he took a shower before getting dressed in his yellow swimming trunks and a loose button up with the buttons mostly undone, leaving his moth tattoo almost on full display. He slipped on his trusty checked blue and white vans, Gucci sunglasses on his head and his personalised tote bag on his shoulder with all the essentials for a beach day, a small notebook, and a pen, and made his way into the little town to explore around and enjoy the day.

***

The afternoon had been quite exciting and relaxing. He swam and sunbathed for a couple hours without being recognised, and then explored the lively town, despite it being a weekday. After having dinner in a cosy little restaurant by the beach, Harry decided it was time to head back to the hotel. It was almost 10pm, but the warm colours of the sunset were still lingering in the sky – the twilight had started to set in, creating an aura of peace. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. He was overcome with the contrast of the crashing waves before him, and the bubbly hubbub left behind. It made a sense of calmness he had not felt in a very long time wash over him.

When he opened his eyes again, he looked down at the beach and noticed a few kids playing around with a football ball, a couple people making the most of the last rays of sun and a person putting away their camera. For a second, Harry thought of the mysterious woman he had seen the night before and that same morning, but it couldn’t be, it would have been too big of a coincidence to be true.

He discarded that thought and looked at the crossroad. Which way was the hotel again? It was first right and then left, right? No, right and then left. …. Left and left…? Oh, for fuck’s sake, I’m lost.  

He went to grab his phone from his tote bag, but it wasn’t there. That’s when he realised, he had left it on the bedside table of the hotel room. He sighed defeatedly and brought his attention back to the beach. He’d figure out later how to get to the hotel, right now he wanted to enjoy the last minutes of the sunset. His focus went back to the mysterious woman, who had already packed all her equipment. Upon further inspection, and the fact that she was exiting the beach walking towards him, he realised that she was indeed the same woman he had seen that morning. Well, here goes nothing.

[ellorypurebloodculture]

Title: Misnomers and Pseudonyms (Name Mercy For What It Is and Mistake For Weakness No Longer)

Hmm. Maybe Tom Marvolo Riddle Jr. and Albus Dumbledore genfic?

High Lord Tom Marvolo Slytherin officially pardons Mister Albus Dumbledore for plotting against Avalon in childhood as recompense for assisting in the defeat of the Dark Lord Gellert Grindelwald.

[spartanguard]

most wanted (10/11) [CSSNS 21]

Summary: Killian Jones has been tracking Emma Swan, notorious cat burglar, across the realm as she’s wanted for murder. The sooner he finds her, the faster he gets back to his daughter. But meeting an enchanting lass in a small village—along with Miss Swan’s feline familiar (perhaps too familiar)—definitely affects his plans; this case might not be as open-and-shut as he’d like.

A/N: Ahhhhhhhh I can't believe there's only one more chapter after this one!!! I really enjoyed writing this one; hope you like reading it!! Forever thanks to the best beta ever @optomisticgirl​​​​ and to @cssns​​​​ for putting on the event each year, even if I am so far behind here.

rated T | 5.8k words | part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5 | part 6 | part 7 | part 8 | part 9 | AO3

That evening, they shuffled into the village of Meryton atop Roger after several hours of riding, eager for a meal and to hopefully (finally) get some rest. Longbourn was just over a day’s ride from his home, so he often used Meryton as a stopping point to break up the distance—and, if he was being honest, to drag out this journey just a bit more. 

He tried not to enjoy the perfect way Emma fit between his arms, or the arrhythmia he suffered when she eventually nodded off and rested against his chest. (She’d apologized when she eventually woke, but he assured her it was fine—she needed it. He was still hesitant to admit how little he minded.)

That said, he was more than ready to get out of the saddle. He’d forgotten how laborious riding while sleep-deprived could be, and even if it had only been a matter of hours since they’d left home, he was keenly feeling each one. 

At least departure had gone smoother than he anticipated. He wasn’t sure how Alice would take their leaving after such a short stay, but she’d been unusually accepting of it—nearly optimistic, even. “I know we’ll be together again soon,” she’d told him; her maturity toward the situation was appreciated, but also reminded him that his little girl was growing up, which brought on an entirely different slew of emotions.

“But Papa, please be careful; don’t get hurt,” she’d also said during their lengthy goodbye hug.

He wondered if she’d picked up on his emotional unsteadiness, particularly where Emma was concerned; Belle had obviously said as much to him. “I’ll try, starfish,” he promised her.

He’d been busy packing Roger’s saddlebags with a few days’ worth of provisions while Alice and Emma had their goodbye, mainly so as not to intrude, but what he observed seemed to be an amicable parting. Honestly, that was all he’d hoped for.

They’d spent a bit of time on the ride going over their plan for once they got to Longbourn, but other than that (and the aforementioned closeness), it was an uneventful journey and they were ready for this leg to be over. Thankfully, Roger knew the way to the stable he was usually boarded at and stopped there without being directed. 

“Hey there, Mister Rogers,” the stable lad called out, and Killian winced; he hadn’t forgotten that he used the pseudonym in Meryton, but he had failed to mention it to Emma—who promptly stiffened in his hold, but said nothing. 

The boy walked up and grabbed Roger’s reins, but waited for them to dismount before leading the steed away. “Just the one night, sir?” he asked after Killian helped Emma down, who was noticeably not making eye contact. 

“Aye; we’ll be gone by mid morning.”

A quick salute from the lad confirmed the arrangement and he led Roger away, while Killian turned back to Emma. She was giving him a slightly wry, though vaguely accusing, look from under her lashes. He knew he should apologize for the apparent jolt it gave her, but Meryton, despite its small size, wasn’t as safe as it might seem; it was a conversation to be held away from listening ears. 

Instead, he gave a brief nod of acknowledgment and offered her his arm, which she took. And he led them down the dusty main street, looking to all the world like a couple simply stopping for a night’s rest while on holiday. (If only.)

They didn’t have to walk far before they arrived at their next destination: an unassuming inn with an ordinary tavern on the ground floor. A sign hung above the entrance, but whatever it said had long worn off, other than the faint outline of a mug. “This is it?” Emma commented before he opened the weathered but sturdy door. 

“Aye; it’s not Granny’s, but it serves its purpose,” he answered. With any luck, the mattresses were fresh. 

“She does set the bar pretty high.”

“Incredibly.”

They managed to get the attention of the barkeep inside despite the fact the dining area was mostly full. And thankfully, there was still a room available to rent—although only one. He’d deal with that issue later, and went ahead and signed the guest book where indicated, then passed the pen to Emma. 

She quickly filled in the spot next to his (fake) name, with one of her own: Eva Plover. It seemed like whatever shock she had earlier had dissipated, and that she’d picked up on his cue—or, more likely, was going to use a false name anyways, as Emma Swan would certainly have drawn undue, unwanted attention. 

Actually, that was part of why he’d chosen this inn: despite its innocent appearance, it was one of the best spots in the kingdom to pick up on any gossip of the realm’s seedy underbelly. Which also meant that anyone hoping to keep a low profile needed to take extra precaution. As far as the world was concerned, Killian Jones had never set foot in the establishment, whereas Ian Rogers was a repeat customer. 

After they were checked in and he pocketed the key, they found a seat at an empty table to one side of the dining room, enough out of the way to avoid attention but where he’d still be able to hear anything interesting. 

A harried waitress came by shortly with mugs of ale, and dashed off just as quickly after taking their order, though he had little hope of it being soon fulfilled. 

At least they weren’t in any hurry. The hum of conversation surrounded them; it was just a matter of catching the name they needed to hear. 

“How did you even find this place?” Emma asked, then took a sip of her ale—and winced. “Does that even count as beer?”

He chuckled. “It’s heavily watered down; you’d need liquor if you wanted to get drunk. Which is how I discovered this establishment in the first place, back in my more, ah, wild days.”

“When you were on the other side of the law?”

“Indeed, which came in rather handy when I made the switch.” He took a sip from his own mug, which was truly awful, but thankfully not potent enough to tempt him to any excess. “Don’t tell me you’ve never passed time in a bar like this before.”

“A few times,” she conceded, “but I was usually the lookout, or on the prowl; Neal was the one actually taking care of any business.”

“Neal Cassidy?” another voice chimed in; a middle-aged man at the next table over was looking their way. “Not to eavesdrop, but is that who you’re talking about?”

“Aye; you know him?” Killian replied casually. He’d long since learned to answer questions—as well as to ask them—as simply as possible and let the other party do most of the sharing.

“Unfortunately,” he scoffed. “Bastard owes me money.”

“An old debt, I take it?”

“Naw, he bummed it off me just the other day. Overplayed his hand in a game of cards and I spotted him what he owed; said he’d get it back to me after he got back from Longbourn—that he’d have it then—but I ain’t holding my breath.”

“What’s in Longbourn?” Emma asked, though Killian didn’t miss a hint of nervousness in her voice.

“Said he was gonna get his cat back. Surprised he even let it out of his sight; it was always crawling all over him. Think I like it better than him, so it wouldn’t surprise me if it ran off. Hell, I’d take it in if I found it; you ever seen it?”

“No,” Emma said quickly, in time with Killian’s “Afraid not.”

“You must not know him very well then; it’s like his furry little shadow.”

“We’re actually supposed to meet up with him in Longbourn,” Killian lied. “So perhaps we’ll yet get a chance.”

“Might want to hurry, then,” the man told them. “He was in a rush to get there, and you know he’s not patient. Think he got there yesterday.”

“Shit, he’s a day ahead of us,” Killian cursed, perhaps laying it on a bit thick. 

“There’s no way I’m getting back on that horse tonight, so don’t even think about it.” Emma’s tone was warning, but he could see the mischievous glint in her eyes as she played—whatever character she was playing; they hadn’t established that in their planning.

“I’d listen to the lady,” the man said, chuckling. “But good luck when you get there. Do me a favor and tell him August says hi. And don’t give him any cash.”

“Will do,” Killian said with a nod as the man stood from his seat and made for the bar, likely to pay his tab. Once he was out of earshot, he turned back to Emma. “Well that was easier than expected.”

“No kidding,” she sighed. “Although, it’s a little funny to me—Neal hates August.”

“You’ve obviously met him before.”

“Yeah, but only ever in cat form. Like I said, Neal was the main one working when we were in public, and he was worried about the optics of having an attractive partner, or some bullshit like that. He said it was to protect me, but looking back, it was probably just plain old misogyny.”

“He clearly has a reputation as a bastard.”

“A well-deserved one at that.” She offered a toast, which Killian took, tapping his mug against hers. She nearly gagged on her drink this time, though. “Gods, I hope the food is better than that.”

“It…will suffice,” Killian replied, scratching nervously behind his ear like he usually did while telling half-truths.

Emma just groaned in complaint, but when their bowls of stew arrived a minute later, they did prove to be on the better side of palatable. “Granny could teach all of these barkeeps a thing or two about food. And beer,” she griped when she was done.

“Granny actually cares about running an establishment with quality fare,” Killian countered. “The owner here only cares enough that people spend money and don’t burn the place down when they get too drunk.”

As if on cue, some of the more sloshed patrons on the far side of the room began to shout at each other, and fists began to fly. But before any furniture could be destroyed, the burly owner had taken them both by the ear and was dragging them to the door. The bar was quiet for a moment, but began buzzing again fairly quickly.

With that excitement done and their only other goal achieved, dinner began to sit heavy in his belly and the ale was only making him more drowsy. Emma let out a jaw-cracking yawn as well that clearly indicated their evening was over. “Come on; to bed with ye,” Killian told her gently, standing and offering his hand.

She took it—and kept hold, as he led them through the tavern to the dimly lit stairs leading to the rooms. 

He regretted having to let go of her hand to unlock the door of their assigned room, but she stayed close—likely as much for security as desire; he didn’t like the look of the man at the other end of the hall, and made sure to set the deadbolt as soon as they were in the room. 

However, that confirmed the issue he’d been delaying thinking about, especially once Emma lit the oil lamp on a small table: though the room was tidy, it was small…and there was only one bed. 

And while logically, he knew they’d shared closer quarters on his bedroll, there was something about the idea of that sole mattress that felt uncomfortably intimate. 

He glanced over at Emma, and she too was staring at the bed and chewing nervously on her lip. Well, he was nothing if not a gentleman. “You can take the bed, love; I’ll be fine on the floor.” It looked…mostly clean.

“No!” she quickly countered. “I can just transform and take a corner of the bed or something; gods only know the last time that floor was swept.”

“But how well will you sleep that way?”

She shrugged in response. “I’ll deal.”

“I won’t. I couldn’t sleep if you weren’t either. And I’ve slept in far worse places.”

“So have I, but come on—there are mouse droppings in the corner. The bed is big enough for both of us; there’s no sense in us not sharing it.”

He hoped his subsequent swallow was subtle, but that was the solution he’d been hoping to avoid the most. Not out of any chivalrous desire or some prudish theology, but more out of self-preservation; a man of honor he may be, but he was still a man, and he feared that what such proximity might do to him physically could put him in a rather embarrassing position. “Fine. But I’m sleeping atop the covers.”

Emma rolled her eyes, but stepped closer to the bed and ran a hand over the comforter. “Okay, but only because it’s clean. Or, at least, it’s not dirty.”

They both quickly washed up in the room’s chipped wash basin, but he waited for Emma to crawl under the covers before he turned down the lamp and settled down on the other side of the lumpy bed.

Though he was exhausted, sleep did not come as quickly as he wanted; he was too aware of Emma’s presence next to him. Even when he turned on his side, away from her, he felt her warmth at his back and heard her own steady breaths. 

At least hers eventually evened out as she drifted off. He cast a glance over his shoulder and could just make out the way she had the covers tucked under her chin in the light from the moon that seeped through the thin curtains. She looked younger in her sleep—free of the stresses and worries she’d carried for so long. And if this was to be her last night of peaceful sleep for a while, he’d not do anything to disturb it. 

He settled back down and let her gentle snores carry him off to slumber. 

◇─◇──◇────◇────◇────◇────◇────◇─────◇──◇─◇

Sometime in the middle of the night, something jolted Killian awake—a sound he was all too familiar with: the sound of a nightmare. 

Without thinking, he was on his feet, ready to rush into Alice’s room and soothe her back to sleep. Until he remembered—he wasn’t at home, and Alice was miles away. 

He turned back to the bed, and Emma was curled in on herself tightly, whimpering in her sleep. It broke his heart, but he had to hold back his instinct to immediately jump in as he didn’t want to startle her. 

That said, he did hurry back to the bed, but was cautious as he knelt on the mattress. “Emma,” he whispered. “Swan, it’s alright—it’s just a dream.”

She didn’t hear him, though, and cried out and thrashed in her sleep. 

Gently, he placed a hand on her shoulder and said her name just a bit louder. “Wake up, love,” he told her. “You’re not alone.”

She gasped and her eyes flew open, darting around the room until they landed on him, and she drew another sharp breath, but then sighed. “Sorry,” she said quietly. “It’s been a while since I had one of those.”

“It’s fine; it happens,” he assured her. “Do you want to talk about it?”

She shook her head. “Not sure I can; it’s already fading, but they’re never very clear—more just the feeling of being left behind again.”

Given what lay ahead, he wasn’t sure he had any words of comfort to offer in response to that. He could only keep her in the present. He took her hand, which had just been running through her hair. “I’m here now,” he assured her. 

She gave him a sad smile, likely as much as she could muster at the moment, and squeezed his hand. “Thank you.”

They stayed like that for a while as she came down from the adrenaline of the dream. He didn’t dare move, but when they both yawned at the same time, that was a hint that they needed to go back to sleep. 

However, when he tried to pull his hand away, she held on tighter. “Stay?”

He could have quipped about the fact that he’d be only inches away, but could tell that she needed more proximity than that. So he nodded, and did his best to slip under the covers while still holding her hand; the small hole his hook made in the blanket was hardly noticeable along the moth-eaten edge. 

“Sleep tight, Emma,” he whispered now that he was facing her.

“You too,” she murmured, already half asleep, and he quickly followed her. 

◇─◇──◇────◇────◇────◇────◇────◇─────◇──◇─◇

The sun on his face woke Killian the following morning. Despite the unevenness of the mattress, and the middle-of-the-night interruption, he was surprisingly well-rested and content.

He blinked his eyes open slowly and marveled at how cozy he felt, even though he could feel a draft blowing across his face. The blankets were evidently warmer than they appeared to be. 

Or so he thought—until he felt the sensation of warm breath across the skin above his sternum, where his undershirt was unbuttoned. And became suddenly aware of the warm body tucked into his side. 

As he became more alert, he became conscious of the weight resting on his chest, of the arm wrapped around his stomach, of the soft hair casually attempting to smother him. 

He didn’t need to look down to realize that he and Emma had found each other in their sleep—he too had his right arm wrapped around her—but he stole a glance anyway. That peaceful look she’d had the night before was back on her face, and she was nearly nestled in the crook of his neck. It was the most relaxed and comfortable he’d seen her yet, and he hated that it couldn’t last. 

He couldn’t help himself: he placed a small kiss at the peak of her brow, gentle enough that he hoped it wouldn’t wake her, but firm enough that she might still feel it in slumber. 

Alas, he wasn’t as subtle as he thought. As soon as he pulled away, Emma tightened her arms around him and made a sleepy noise of complaint, but then blinked her eyes and tilted her head to look up at him. She made no effort to move, though. 

“Mmmorning,” she slurred and gave him a drowsy smile. “Sorry if I drooled on you.”

“No worries, love,” he assured her (though he could tell there was a slightly damp spot on his shirt). “You needed the rest.”

“You make a pretty good pillow.”

He chuckled. “I’m glad to hear that.”

She laid her head back down, and continued in a small voice, “Thank you for staying.”

“I wasn’t going to go anywhere.”

“I know, but—people tend to leave me. Especially in moments like that. So…it means a lot.”

Carefully with his hook—which he’d apparently kept away from her subconsciously all night—he nudged her chin back up to look at him. “Emma, you know I’m familiar with that feeling, too. But as long as you want me around, I’ll be there.”

She scoffed and gave a sarcastic smile. “Of course, I find someone who says that and means it right before I have to leave you behind.”

“It won’t be forever.”

“It might be.” There was an edge of fear in her voice, and he couldn’t blame her for that—prisons weren’t the most civilized places, and it wasn’t uncommon to hear of fights breaking out among the convicts that ended poorly. But, if all went well, Emma wouldn’t find herself in the company of the more ruthless felons, and wouldn’t be there for long. 

“It won’t,” he insisted again. “And when all this is over, there’ll be a bed and a place waiting for you.”

“Why?”

He was taken aback at what seemed like a simple question, but in his mind was fairly obvious. “Why wouldn’t there be?”

“Seriously, Killian?” She shifted so she was propped up on an elbow, now looking down at him from above. “I don’t deserve that. I don’t honestly deserve any of the kindness you’ve shown me. I appreciate it—more than you’ll ever know—but I should have just been another job for you.”

He sighed, because she wasn’t wrong. But it was also too late to be questioning his motives. They’d come this far already. 

“Aye, you should have been. And you were, at first. Until you weren’t you and I wasn’t me, and I thought I didn’t have to worry about protecting my heart. And yet, here we are.”

“What, in a cheap rented room on a crummy mattress, about to turn me in?”

She was deflecting. It was painfully obvious, and he knew it was in self defense. 

“No, love,” he started, reaching up to tuck her hair behind her ear, and leaving it there to cup her face. “Together.”

And he pressed up to find her lips with his, hoping his kiss might calm whatever worries she had, particularly where he was concerned. 

She stilled a moment when their lips first met, but not for long before she was pushing him back down into the mattress, deepening the kiss. 

It was certainly a bittersweet kiss, knowing it’d be an indeterminate amount of time before they had another, but he was tired of fighting his feelings, and it was apparent that Emma was, too. 

Though his body reacted instinctively to the sensation of a woman above him (a woman who was dangerously close to straddling him), they both knew it couldn’t go any farther. Still—they were going to enjoy this moment for what it was. 

(The awkward moment he feared from the night before did inevitably happen—he was sorely out of practice in that area—but Emma merely giggled at his physical reaction and continued on.)

They eventually (regrettably) needed air but stayed close, and he pulled her back into his side. 

“Thank you,” she told him. “For everything. In case I don’t get another chance to say it.”

“You will, love. But you’re welcome.”

“At least one of us has hope.”

“Hey,” he started, tone turning serious, and again nudged her chin to look at him. “I know you face an uncertain future, but there’s one thing I want you to be certain of: that you can always rely on me. No matter what lies ahead, I’m here for you.”

She gave a somewhat sad smile, placed another kiss on his lips, and said, “I’ll try to make it up to you someday.”

“Just don’t get in trouble with the law again and we’ll call it even.”

“Deal. But I’m guessing we need to get a move on turning me in for the trouble I’ve already caused.”

He grubmled. “Aye, we should.” The sooner they got to Longbourn, the sooner she’d be free—right? 

After another lazy kiss, they finally got up and gathered their things, few as they were—the lone perk to this short trip. The cost of the room included breakfast, which wasn’t anything special (and again, nothing compared to Granny’s meals), but at least had some flavor and didn’t sit uncomfortably in his stomach when he was done. 

He slipped his arm around her waist as they exited onto the dusty street. Even though it was late morning, the area was still fairly quiet—that particular neighborhood saw more action after dark. But that meant they were uninterrupted as they made the short journey back to the stable, and few eyes were there to judge how close they were standing or how slow they moved. 

He was equally meticulous in picking up Roger and making sure they were ready for the next several hours on the road. But there wasn’t much to do—they’d done all the packing they needed to at home and none of it had been disturbed overnight; he was doing more to put the saddle bags into disarray with his needless digging. 

His hook snagged on something, and when he pulled it out, the chain of his handcuffs was caught on the tip of it. He pulled them off, but held onto them and stared for a long moment—because, as much as he hated the idea now, he’d need to use them before they got to Longbourn. Though they were made of steel, they felt heavy as lead in his hand. 

“Go ahead.” Emma’s voice drew his attention; he looked up to find she was next to him with her arms extended, nodding toward her wrists. “May as well get it out of the way now. Should probably put the magic-blocking cuff on, too—whatever you need to do if it helps my case.”

He couldn’t argue with any of that, but he didn’t feel good about it. Still, he went ahead and latched the shackles to her wrists, then dug the cuff out of the bag and slipped it on, too. He’d intended to wait until they got closer, but if her wrists were free of cuff marks, it would seem suspicious. 

And without any further ado, they headed out on the last part of this adventure. 

◇─◇──◇────◇────◇────◇────◇────◇─────◇──◇─◇

The road between Meryton and Longbourn was relatively narrow and quiet at first, which afforded them a last opportunity to enjoy their proximity. They stopped for lunch just before the road met up with the main highway and exchanged a few last, hurried kisses in the shadow of the trees.

But then the road widened and the traffic picked up considerably, more than they’d yet seen. For appearance’s sake, they kept a bit more distance—a bit more propriety—between them, lest anyone question why an obvious prisoner was getting cozy with her captor (especially should they run into one of Killian’s colleagues).

The avenue continued to get larger and busier as they approached Longbourn, and they soon found themselves on the outskirts, with homes and shops popping up and getting closer together, as well as the general sounds of civilization continuing to pick up in volume.

Though he’d traversed this street many a time, something felt different today and it had him on edge. He was used to scanning ahead for any potential danger, but it felt like there was something keeping an equal eye on them this time, even though he couldn't pinpoint anything amiss. Still—he stayed alert as they made for the center of the city.

Nemo’s office was in the heart of downtown, adjacent to the headquarters of the kingdom’s law enforcement. They weren’t technically officers of the law—more like privateers, honestly—but considering the amount of back and forth they did with the actual lawmen, their proximity made sense. It also typically meant that the area typically saw little trouble itself. 

They rounded a corner and saw his office just ahead, so he began to relax a bit. But he didn’t fully let his guard down, and wouldn’t until they were safely inside. 

And it was a good thing he hadn’t, because he had hardly reached the hitching post when he felt something solid, cold, and cylindrical jab into his side, just below his ribs. He sat up straight in surprise, pulling Roger to a halt. 

“I’ve pulled this trigger many times, and I ain’t afraid to do it again,” the holder of the weapon sneered. “The fact that you’re a lawman won’t stop me either.”

“Neal, stop,” Emma said, though she kept her head down. Bloody hell. Killian turned his head to face the man, who was glaring at them from under the rim of a bowler hat. His vest and shirt were dusty, like he’d spent several days on the road, and the horse he sat atop was clearly rented, but visibly swift. And he was definitely Rumplestiltskin’s son; it was evident in his facial features.

“You really think you’d get away with it in front of a building filled with cops?” Killian warned him quietly, but nodded his head toward the many uniformed officers milling about nearby. “And I’m only the bounty hunter; no idea why you’d condemn yourself over someone you have no qualms with.” He hoped Emma didn’t think he was trying to redirect Neal’s attention—he was only trying to defuse the situation, and getting Neal to back down seemed like the best way. 

“Fine,” Neal countered, unconcerned. “I’ll shoot her, then.” And pressed the barrel of his pistol into Emma’s back. “Nice to see you, too, Ems. Love the hair.”

Killian swallowed. Now it got complicated. How did he protect Emma without playing his hand about his feelings towards her? He got the impression Neal wouldn’t hesitate to use that against them, but also feared he would if Killian went too far the other way.

It didn’t seem to matter, though, when another gun barrel found Killian’s opposite shoulder. He turned to look at this other assailant, and quickly realized they were surrounded by several of Neal’s cohorts, and all the men had their eyes—and weapons—on Emma. 

He could easily shout for help—draw attention—but he didn’t want to put Emma in the crosshairs of the (likely) ensuing shootout. And any weapon he owned was inaccessible.

They were stuck.

“Why don’t we go talk somewhere private?” Neal hissed; Killian could only nod.

But as the group led them away, he subtly wrapped the reins around his hook and wrapped his hand around Emma’s arm, giving it what he hoped was a reassuring squeeze.

The throng of horses and people made their way a few blocks down the street, likely (hopefully) drawing some attention—it was odd to see more than a couple of people riding together like so in town—and turned down a dusty alley, then through the wide-open doors of what appeared to be an empty warehouse. The barn-like space had a hard-packed dirt floor and all the windows were up high, only accessible by a catwalk around the upper perimeter of the building. In other words, a perfect place for doing something illicit without getting caught.

Once they came to a stop, the crew circled around him and Emma, and one of Neal’s cohorts barked at them to get off the horse. Based on the number of guns aimed at them, they had no choice but to comply; thank the gods Roger was obedient enough to not run off (though all bets were off should a gun fire). Almost instinctively, both he and Emma lifted their arms to indicate they meant no harm—though only then did he remember the hook at the end of his left wrist might say otherwise.

But no one seemed too concerned with him, especially as Neal approached Emma, keeping his firearm aloft. “Now what’s this I hear about you trying to clear your name?” he accused.

“I’m not the one who murdered someone, Neal,” Emma argued. “I’m not taking the fall for things you’ve done. I shouldn’t have to.”

“See, I thought you knew what you were getting into with me. I never proclaimed to be good, and neither did you.” He leaned closer and smirked. “I thought that’s what you liked about me anyways.” 

Emma pointedly was not looking at him, her eyes cast down and her posture starting to curl in on herself with something resembling shame.

“Remember that night in Lambton?” Neal continued, stepping into Emma’s space. “That night we hid in the hayloft…the sounds you made, gods…”

Now Emma was squinting her eyes shut, clearly embarrassed. It was definitely time for Killian to interject.

“Bad form to kiss and tell, mate,” he scoffed at Neal. “On top of all your other crimes? Your mother would be so disappointed.”

As expected, that gripped Neal’s attention, who was now staring daggers into Killian (appropriate, given who his father was). “What did you say?”

“You heard me.”

Neal quickly put himself in front of Killian. “The hell you know about my mother?”

“Plenty. I loved her.”

Neal’s eyes grew wide. “It was you?” he said under his breath, and Killian could see in his eyes as everything clicked—as he realized he’d killed the wrong man. 

He screamed in anger, and then his knee swiftly and firmly found Killian’s abdomen, right on the edge of his ribcage. 

The world blurred then and Killian doubled over on himself and collapsed, trying to reclaim the breath that had just been knocked out of him as stars swam in his vision. 

While he was on the ground, sputtering in the dirt, Neal returned his focus to Emma. Killian looked up in time to see him twirling his pistol before pointing it back at her. 

“You sure know how to find ‘em, Ems,” he chuckled. “I guess I should be thanking you for bringing him here. But what I haven’t decided yet is if you’ll be dying alongside this guy. Because I can’t think of any other way to make sure you stay quiet, and he’s definitely not making it out of here alive.”

Nerves started to creep up Killian’s spine, a prickle that had nothing to do with his physical discomfort and everything to do with his well-honed instincts at recognizing trouble, paired with more than enough self-preservation. But his mind wasn’t clear enough to find a way to interject without possibly making the situation worse for both of them. 

“You won’t have to do any of that,” Emma started to plead. “I won’t say a thing.”

“What?” Killian blurted out, looking up at her, but his voice was still raspy and neither of them noticed his exclamation. 

“You can turn me in and I’ll keep quiet,” she continued. “Take the bounty for yourself. All I ask is that you save half of it for me for when I get out.”

Bloody hell—what was she thinking? Why on earth would she condemn herself like this? 

Even Neal gave something of a confused look, though for very different reasons. “When you get out? In what, thirty years? You know how long a murder sentence is, right?”

“Not when it’s in self-defense,” she quickly replied. “The guy you shot? They were allies,” she explained, nodding towards Killian, “This one told me all about him, and they’re both scum,” she spat.

Killian was speechless. Just what was she doing?

“I mean, it says a lot when he was friends with the guy who killed your mom, right?” she went on. “I just gotta bat my lashes at a sympathetic judge and I’ll get a reduced sentence. And then I’m all yours,” she purred, putting her arms around Neal’s neck even though her wrists were still cuffed. “I love you, baby.” 

Sounds of the city were still audible through the open door, but all Killian could hear were those three words, ringing in his head—mocking him. Bloody hell, he’d done it again.

He could feel a fissure starting on his heart, but that was unimportant right now. Now, he had to hope he’d be able to escape with his life.

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thanks for reading! tagging some (let me know if you do/don’t want a tag!) @kat2609​​​​​ @xpumpkindumplingx​​​​​ @shipsxahoy​​​​​ @shireness-says​​​​​ @ohmightydevviepuu​​​​​ @profdanglaisstuff​​​​​​ @thisonesatellite​​​​​ @winterbythesea​​​​​  @mryddinwilt​​​​​ @cocohook38​​​​​ @annytecture​​​​​  @wingedlioness​​​​​ @word-bug​​​​​  @distant-rose​​​​​ @wellhellotragic​​​​​ @welllpthisishappening​​​​​ @let-it-raines​​​​​ @pirateherokillian​​​​​ @its-imperator-furiosa​​​​​ @fergus80​​​​​ @killianmesmalls​​​​​ @thejollyroger-writer​​​​​ @ineffablecolors​​​​​ @laschatzi​​​​​ @ive-always-been-a-pirate​​​​​ @nfbagelperson​​​​​ @stubblesandwich​​​​​ @phiralovesloki​​​​​ @athenascarlet​​​​​ @kmomof4​​​​​ @ilovemesomekillianjones​​​​​ @whimsicallyenchantedrose​​​​​ @snowbellewells​​​​​ @idristardis​​​​​ @scientificapricot​​​​​ @searchingwardrobes​​​​​ @donteattheappleshook​​​​​ @jrob64​​​​​ @the-darkdragonfly​​​​​ @itsfabianadocarmo @stahlop​​​​​ @klynn-stormz​​​​​ @resident-of-storybrooke​​​​​ @deckerstarblanche​

[fictionkinfessions]

canon names? does it count if your name can vary greatly in form among fanon…? i think it does.

personally, my full title was “doctor wingdings aster serif, royal scientist of the underground kingdom of monsters.” though, my name was only “wingdings aster serif.” “gaster” was a nickname i picked upin my youth, derived from my secondary typeface (and, subsequently, my middle name), aster. i had something akin to a very thick accent when i used it, according to my non-skeleton peers, and “gaster” was such a common mishearing that it became something of a name in its own right.

i used the pseudonym “w.d. gaster” on my published research and within the public sphere for sake of ease, but those close to me — asgore, toriel, and gerson are the ones i remember — called me “wingdings” and variations thereof. gerson in particular sometimes called me “young mister serif” and things of that caliber, which…even now, i cannot fully articulate how it made me feel. happy, i suppose. warm. but also sad. i missed my grandfather semi very much, and being called by a family name that began with him was a touch bittersweet.

…ah. it seems i’ve gone on for quite a bit, haven’t i? apologies, mod party cat. i offer skeletal scritches and delicious treats in return for listening to my rambling. 💜 -gaster

'

[oddnamesinhistory]

Tench Coxe

1755-1824, American economist and writer under the pseudonym “Mister Facing Bothways”

[mediocre-eternity]

Hello. Today is 30 December 2022

I didn’t realize my holiday preoccupations and rebuilding of our Island would take me so far away from writing but I do appreciate the interest in my life and my various wisdoms.

To hold such adoring fans over, I figure I’d fill you in on some conversations I’ve had as of late.

Daniel and I hadn’t realized the “Devil’s Minion” chapter of Queen of the Damned was as popular with fringe audiences as we expected. Daniel, in fact, had no plans on becoming as much of a character as Lestat and in fact, uses pseudonyms for most of his literature. We had a good time looking through your various posts and speculations about us. Honestly, we aren’t as much of a whirlwind of succulent romantic horror as Lestat and Louis. We’re more like two rats kissing in front of an inferno at the dump. Regardless, we thought it would hilarious to fill you in with tidbits about us two.

Although we can see the appeal of assigning “The Only Time” by Nine Inch Nails as “our” song, “We’re In This Together” is much more accurate to how we operate. We’re shocked and delighted, however, that a lot of readers could pick up on our 20th century musical fixations. And seeing Trent Reznor aged about thirty years since we discovered him sort of…propelled Daniel into the present time period. Well, thank you Mister Trent Reznor for in part helping a small immortal’s fledgeling regain some of his mental acuities. At least you haven’t died yet.

We are also absolutely astounded that readers picked up on what the final “nail in the coffin” (as he likes to say) was for Daniel’s poor mortal body. But that’s all he’ll let me get into.

Daniel started calling me “boss” as a joke about four years after we met. Since then, the nickname has spilled over into our larger coven. Benji uses “boss” for me as well and Jesse, occasionally. Lestat keeps me in his phone as “chef” after laughing so hard at the explanation for it I thought he’d started seizing. Still, my pet name remains one of my favorite things in the world.

Daniel did, in fact, call me an “immortal idiot” for asking him to show me how to use the phone. Speaking of, Daniel’s portion of Queen of the Damned was entirely volunteered by Daniel to Lestat; no psychic tricks necessary. Because of this, we all ended up with a much more comical rendition of our relationship. I believe if Lestat had stolen from my mind (or just asked me) readers would have understood a much different perspective. But in this reality, I’m famed for blenders. Merci, mon amie.

Daniel wants everyone to know that he hasn’t stopped smoking. It’s part of his “vampire aesthetic,” as he likes to call it.

Daniel is not monolingual. He picked up some Italian in our time together while he was still mortal and perfected the language further from his decade with my maker. Teaching him French is another task as me and Lestat speak two different dialects of French and Daniel has trouble floating between the two. It’s hilarious how Daniel has become somewhat of a case study for American lacking in linguistics.

We love looking at fan art of us two, especially one’s highlighting my eccentricities. I believe more people need to understand how self aware I am of how I speak and move my body, and what I ultimately decide to do. So it’s extra silly when fans try to guess how I might present myself. I did see a small comic strip of my desires to be ultra-close to Daniel. I’ll admit that I have sat on his lap when other seats were perfectly available.

That’s all I can think up for now, plus I shouldn’t divulge too much all at once. If I were to, perhaps you’d be more keen on picking myself and Daniel out from the Times Square crowd tomorrow night. In case you felt bored, anyway.

[prync3r3n]

☀️☀️☀️

idk what this is. writing disconnected oc lore is fun though. TW ; implications/mentions of burn out.

"Can a star feel tired?" "What?" Ihrin chuckles, a little embarrassed asking his brother what he thinks is an arbitrary question. he works as a magician, he probably gets weird questions like these often. Should've just asked Asra or...whatever. "I...perhaps they do. Burning all the time in the sky every night, maybe they are feeling a tad tired." a slight grimace pulls at his brother's lower lip, the tea is still hot after all. the older pushes a plate of semi-stale bread across the table, stopping by his sibling's arm with ease. "Knew you had an answer, Ovidius." The younger scrunches in nose into the loaf, cringing. "Don't call me by my pseudonym, dammit." they both laugh. Sighing, Ihrin wore his smile a little longer; behind those lips his jaw is locked shut almost painfully. Better not to ask anymore weird questions. "Why do you ask? like, all of a sudden?" shit. "Ah..." He keeps his back to his sibling, eyes distract themselves with the windowsill's shadows against the golden hour's light. Admittedly, its a pretty distraction. Ihrin swore could hear himself swallow down his spit and words. "As you said, stars must be tired every night. And-and the sun is a star," he stammers, "it has to be the most tired of them all since its busy almost all the time." Creaking floorboards echo louder than his words, while the younger heaves a tired sigh. "Doesn't answer my question, but I see your point. Kinda." A cold chill dances across the room, all the warmth from the windows now dimming. Ihrin washes down his dinner with one last swig of his now lukewarm tea, all while his muscles begin to tighten. 'The perks of not having employees ; muscle cramps.' he bites down a wince as his shoulders plead for respite again. 'I should buy more ointments. Can't have these bleeding into tomorrow like last week.' "I'll take my leave." the screech of wood against wood brings Ihrin back from his thoughts, although painful to the ears. "I wouldn't want to be shoo'd out by mister manager again." Guiding his brother out the door, he chortled "Finally, you remember my shop hours now-Also don't forget to pay your rent on time!" They shrug. "Old habits die hard. Goodnight, mister manager."

As soon as he bids his brother goodnight, the door shuts louder than intended. For a moment, time didn't seem to exist. Even as he lifted both feet across the shop and into his upstairs apartment, the heavy feeling of...something, was weighing down on his already beaten shoulders like bricks. Whatever was in front of him simply didn't exist. 'I need to rest, for a while. Maybe a little over five minutes, no less.' Each foot disturbs the rickety wood floor, whose squeals and creaking serve as the only other sound his fogged mind recognizes. 'Need to get to the scheduled event planning tomorrow. Then finish Mrs. Elir's bouquet before Wednesday evening. I think I still have some Lilies for her.' A weary sigh escapes the man's lips, feeling his back ache against the pillows that are all too warm. This is too soft. Too comfortable, it's almost sickening how easily his consciousness wavers. 'Fuck, don't forget to clean the shop..! Won't have enough time before tomorrow morning...'

Fatigue takes over his thoughts before he can reach for his medication, ironically. Every being is truly the victim of sleep, as every waking feeling fades into the obscure void of slumber. Some would feel comforted in the embrace of unconsciousness, Ihrin couldn't disagree more. He'd rather burn alive than let himself indulge in any sort of comfort. If the sun can truly feel burnt out, well, he chooses not to entertain those thoughts. Ihrin buries the mere idea that he relates to it under a six foot deep bottom line, like he does with all his troubles.

[mistermixmania]

1986zig räumt mit der Vergangenheit auf und spricht über seine „Zweite Chance“ 📣 https://mister-mixmania.com/de/news/musik-news/1986zig-raeumt-mit-der-vergangenheit-auf-und-spricht-ueber-seine-zweite-chance/ Tagged as 1986zig Seine Identität verbirgt er hinter seinem Pseudonym. Seine Wunden und Narben unter seiner schwarzen Sturmhaube. In knapp einem Jahr hat sich 1986zig alleine durch seine Musik eine riesige Fan-Community aufgebaut, ..... : #musiknews #musik #1986zig Foto Credits: Universal Music