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miracvlovs · 4 years

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✗✗✗ you see [ kaleb yıldırım ] around lately? yeah i heard that the [ cis male ] is up to no good. [ he / him ] has been here for [ five years ] now but they’re still pretty [ abrasive ] which is fine because they’re also [ debonair ] so it balances out. the [ twenty-eight ] year old [ hitman for hire ] actually looks like a lot like [ alperen duymaz ], don’t you think? it’s best to watch out, though, because it’s been said that they’re really into [ strong cigarettes & even stronger whiskey ].

hey, hello, hi, bonjour! s’up buttercups? ‘tis i, your friendly neighbourhood loser chrissie ( a.k.a an irish doofus who is utter plot trash and the actual WORST at keeping track with discord messages, oops ) and i’m super duper excited to be here among you fab human beings! anywho, this is my first kiddo kaleb and he is … how do you say … morally grey. basically his morals are very questionable in every aspect. but! on the plus side, he’s very talented and good at his job even if he is ruthless and callous, oop. he is … the worst and also lowkey messed up inside tbh so pls excuse his blunt and sarcastic nature. plot-wise i’m open to literally anything and everything so come at me with any ideas ya got! i’m always diggity down to spit ball ideas and form some dope connections so pls feel free to invade my ims or hmu on le cord ( chrissie.#9606 ) and we can brainstorm until our heart’s content! if ya wanna, go ahead and light that lil grey heart up red and i’ll shimmy my butt your way for all of the good stuff. anywho, let’s get down to the nitty-gritty, shall we?

fundamentals.

KALEB EMER YILDIRIM — twenty-eight, hitman for hire, + one snarky son of a gun / troubled dude with daddy issues / all issues tbh !

aesthetics ➤ dried blood caked into the grooves of cut knuckles, the lingering scent of smoke and gasoline, silver slivers of past scarring, five o’clock shadow peppering a blunt jawline, discolourations of blue and purple decorating battered hands, a subtle smirk etched upon a devious countenance, calloused fingertips riddled with small paper cuts, dark circles under almost-black eyes, the noise of screeching tires in the middle of the night, a tall stature adorned in all-black attire, ghosts of bruises staining calloused skin green, a scuffed zippo lighter in a pack of marlboros containing only one cigarette, white shirts with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, a sly grin under stormy dark eyes, a sniper on the roof of a deserted building, the roar of a car engine, & clenched, white-knuckled fists.

nicknames. kal.

date of birth. november third.

gender. cis male.

pronouns. he + him.

birthplace. manhattan, nyc.

orientation. bisexual + aromantic.

education. bachelor of music degree obtained from manhattan school of music.

spoken languages. can speak fluent english, turkish, spanish, & french.

negative traits. haughty, abrasive, enigmatic, cynical, temperamental, calculating, hedonistic, distant, sarcastic, & volatile.

positive traits. adept, diligent, charming, resilient, candid, adept, charming, audacious, determined, & resourceful.

strengths. efficient, energetic, self-confident, strong-willed, strategic thinker, charismatic, & inspiring.

weaknesses. stubborn, dominant, intolerant, impatient, arrogant, poor handling of emotions, cold, & ruthless.

talents. piano, retaining information, memory recall, lock-picking, carjacking, hand-to-hand combat, automobile knowledge, tracking people down, & excellent problem-solving abilities.

physiology. dark brown eyes. dark brown hair. six feet, one inch tall. of a lean, broad stature with a straight posture and evident height. has a few silvery scars littered across his skin. has a few tattoos in a few less visible places. is ambidextrous.

psychology. scorpio zodiac. water element. slytherin house. entj-a. chaotic neutral. type eight enneagram. choleric temperament. interpersonal intelligence type. addicted to alcohol, tobacco, prescription drugs, cocaine, and cannabis. suffers from addiction and insomnia. his vices are lust, wrath and pride. his virtues are ... honestly, probably just diligence tbh.

background.

possible triggers : infidelity, divorce, alcoholism, drug abuse, cancer, death, car crash, funeral, blood, murder, suicide mention, gun mention, & various references to death and murder.

a synopsis. ah, here he is—my tol, troubled, grouchy son : ' ) don't u just adore ur resident trashy, snarky, but precious and sad fuckboi muse? bc i know I DO! anyways, before i digress, i'll cut to the chase. so, waaay before he blessed the universe with his presence, his mother ( who was originally from turkey ) moved to the states where she met one alexander hale. you can probably guess the rest: the pair married, they had children, everything seemed to be going swimmingly, yada yada. here’s a lil background: the hale family—a line of manhattan-born businessmen / lawyers / diplomats etc. they're dripping in wealth, not always as squeaky clean as they portray themselves as to be. kaleb’s dad was a douche, expected both of his sons to follow in his shadow and become lawyers, ran around behind his wife's back: the whole shoot and shebang of a classic a-hole. he always kind of ignored kaleb in favour of his eldest son joshua so kaleb kinda became hard-hearted and resentful due to the lack of his father's attention. skip a few years and he spied his dad cheating on his mother with his secretary though he refused to tell another soul for fear of any potential backlash. soon enough, his mother found this out for herself, their argument ruined his thirteenth birthday party then they divorced soon after. his mother fell off the wagon, became terminally ill—all while his father was remarrying and expecting a daughter with his secretary. it was a hella rough two years for kaleb. it got even worse. eventually, his mother passed away and his step-mother divorced his father to breeze off into the sunset with her new lover; leaving her daughter with her piss-poor excuse of a dad. at this point, kaleb was lonely and angry but adopted the role of his step-sister's protector, shielding her from their father's increasing substance abuse induced violence. just before his seventeenth birthday, his father died in a car crash. of course, he didn't entirely mourn the loss. almost immediately, he and his younger sister moved in with their elder brother who helped kaleb get into university. with dear ole dad out of the picture, he could finally pursue his interest and flair for music. after he graduated, he moved to santa ysabel with his brother and brother's family. in the beginning, things were going fine. yeah, sure, he was struggling for work and felt bad that his brother had to keep him afloat. normal stuff. then, one day, things quickly turned sour in his world. [ TRIGGER FOR GORE, BLOOD, SUICIDE MENTION, GUN MENTION, MURDER, DEATH ] he’d came home to find the locks on the doors busted, advancing into the house carefully only to find his brother’s lifeless corpse crumbled on the kitchen tiles: his throat and wrists slashed, posed as a suicide. of course, kaleb knew better. he knew his brother; knew he would never leave him or his family. upon further inspection of the house, he’d discovered the body of his wife upstairs: a bullet hole between her eyes. [ TRIGGER OVER ] the whole ordeal was enough to turn his stomach but once the sickness had subsided, all kaleb felt was a strong thirst for blood. sure, it was pretty damn stupid to try and seek revenge or whatnot ... but kaleb had always been one to let his heart guide his brain. anyways, time skip now to the moment he’d uncovered his brother’s entanglement with some dodgy loan shark, drug dealing criminals who were responsible for his murder. in the end, he’d hunted them down and eradicated them one by one, over a span of weeks. at first, he hated himself and what his desire for vengeance had turned him into but he kept going until he’d got them all: until he’d grown numb. truthfully, how he wound up taking lives for a living is beyond him. he woke up one day, found himself hired by some big-wig businessman who wanted rid of his business partner and et voilà, he was tangled up in the dark side of existence. i mean, was he blackmailed into doing his first paid hit? yes. but who can blame him? especially when they claimed to have intel regarding the sudden demise of a prominent figure in the criminal underbelly of the city, a.k.a his brother’s killer. it was a risk kaleb simply couldn’t take. he prefers to keep himself anonymous, hidden behind shadows, unsuspecting. death has become a job. nothing more. nothing less. it’s simply the algorithm of his existence: receive a dossier, take care of the target, get paid a hefty lump sum. and all just for enacting a stranger’s revenge in the blood of another. he moves like a deadly phantom, his footsteps light as a feather, whipping through the night like a bullet through a target’s skull. sartre claims that hell is other people. and if you were to stare into kaleb’s eyes—eyes eerily similar to having been cut from coal—you might just see hell and everyone in it staring right back at you. as nietzsche wrote: “ he who fights with monsters should be careful lest he thereby become a monster. and if thou gaze long into an abyss, the abyss will also gaze into thee. ”

random extras.

he has a lot of small scars over his body, most of which he can’t account for or has forgotten about.

owns and drives a black 1969 boss 429 mustang which he loves arguably more than he loves himself.

speaking of, he actually is full of self-hatred so don’t let the haughtiness fool you.

trusts nobody but himself and is loyal to nobody but himself.

has a lot of anger issues so often ends up taking part in underground fights.

he rates around a solid three on the kinsey scale.

is a distant person; closed-off emotionally and prefers to keep himself to himself.

when it comes to whether or not he is morally decent or an extremely bad person, he is somewhere in the middle of that spectrum.

he isn’t heartless but he isn’t exactly compassionate either.

kind of shady but knows how to pass himself as charming.

has been thru sum shit n seen sum shit so he’s v messed up inside.

though he does have a soft spot for animals and children.

his marksmanship is impeccable.

he’s naturally gifted with firearms and his shot is always on point.

dark eyes and bruised knuckles are his ultimate aesthetic tbh.

actually really appreciates classical music, though he’ll never tell. blame it on his piano lessons from childhood.

speaking of piano, he’s low key gifted at playing although he rarely does these days.

has a very short fuse and can lose his temper quite easily.

he has a good heart and good intentions when it comes to those he actually cares about although he’ll never let this show.

favourite coping mechanism? isolation.

a bit of a lone wolf. he keeps people at arm’s length but acts in a way where people are under the illusion he’s their friend.

basically the tall, dark and handsome trope: ( most of the tall, dark and handsome men display aloof, cold and distant personality but they do have a gentle and caring side. )

is a little snarky and grumpy but if you manage to break this exterior, you’ll find he’s quite witty and easy going.

he got into fighting at a young age. it was the only way to try and learn how to defend himself against his father.

sleep?? he doesn’t know her.

tends to repress his emotions until he explodes.

healthy coping mechanisms?? he doesn’t know them either.

is prone to pushing the self destruct button.

you can find a pinterest board for him by clicking anywhere here.

#hey hi hello happy to be here !!!#this is my son kal n he's ... A LOT.#show this some luv n i'll come atcha for plots !!!#indulgence.intro

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judecz · 4 years

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damn, lucy, back at it again. this is the second love of my life, jude ! i am here for all the plots, so please, slide into my IMs & i’ll love you forever. click under the cut to hear me rant some more about this jerk, or give me a like to slide into ur d-scord ;~) ! you can check out his factfile here and his pinterest here !

TW: addiction ( drug + alcohol ), physical abuse, death !!!

[ LORENZO ZURZOLO / ARETE / MNEMOSYNE / MUSE 20 ] / [ JUDE CZERNY ] is a [ 21 ] year old [ MATHEMATICS ] major. [ HE ] is known for being [ GRITTY & LAID-BACK ] but [ FLIPPANT & MOODY ]. when i think of them, i imagine [ BLOODY KNUCKLES, SOUR CANDY, SPRINTS TO THE FINISH LINE, CHEAP T-SHIRTS ]. and even though they’re a proud HU student now, we all have our roots. theirs run back to them being an [ OAK PARK - COPERNICUS ] graduate. i asked around and it turns out they [ ARE ] an AOP student. in their interview, they managed to woo the admissions team by [ CREATING A NEW PROOF FOR THE BIRCH AND SWINNERTON-DYER CONJECTURE ]. i guess that’s all there is to know! unless…

when you’re born, you’re an inconvenience. it’s 9pm on christmas eve when you come wailing into the world. neither the nurse that swaddles you tightly nor your parents particularly want to be in the cold hospital, shivering under neon fairy lights in the depth of a south chicagoan winter. neither do you.

while you’re young, your mama is your hero. you don’t realise it yet, but she’s got a problem; there’s a reason why she sits zoned out on the couch as you tug at her cardigan, why your older brother has to cook you breakfast, brush your hair. and god bless him, he does it dutifully. when your mother tries to sober up, though, she’s perfect. she sings you lullabies in czech and kisses your nose, and you wish every night on the streetlight outside your window that the next day will be a good day.

most of the time, it isn’t. ruth sits complacent on the couch, glazed eyes fixed on the broken television. yet, even when she’s like this; she’s still better than your father. john drinks like a fish, and it brings out the worst side of him. he’s the most violent person you know. after every lost bet, every long night in the bar, you cower with your brother in your shared bed, head underneath the covers. yet it’s always still you that bears the brunt of his wrath.

it’s not your fault. thomas is the oldest, and the only useful one. phillip’s still small and cute, a couple of years younger than you, and looks exactly like your father. it’s you that’s stuck in the middle; you have your mother’s dreamy eyes and the sharp nose of your father, and it’s not enough to stop him from picking at you, pulling you apart. you always disliked him because he disliked you, right from the start.

you live like this for a long time. it’s not until you’re thirteen that your father drinks himself to death. he picks a fight with the wrong person, and bleeds out in an alleyway outside his favourite bar. despite all this, you can’t bring yourself to grieve. too often has your skin been tainted the same shade as your funeral suit from your father’s fists. good riddance.

your mom tries. she really does. but she can’t bring herself to get clean, even with your pleading. one day, they walk in on her shooting up. it’s essentially a death sentence for your family.

so instead, you three boys were torn from the last semblance of normality you had. no one wants three dysfunctional delinquents, but you cling together. screaming, tantrums, breaking things; you’ll anything to stop them from splitting you up. you’re not allowed any contact with your mother, and it breaks your heart, over and over again.

you never find a home for longer than a month. moving from group home to group home, they all have one quality in common: no one there really cares about you. quickly, you turn to crime. your father had taught you how to hotwire a care when you seven, baby-cheeked and innocent. he taught you how to pick a lock when you were six. it was the only thing he was good for.

it started with breaking and entering. you usually get away with it, too. burglary is easy when you were scrawny and small, and can shimmy in a window in seconds. besides, the money helps provide for the three of you; you run away often enough. you have to fend for yourself. at one point, you manage to spend an entire month homeless. but at least you’re still together.

as you grow older, you grow better at what you do. carjacking and vandalism seem more and more fun. the kids at the foster homes aren’t exactly shining examples, either; you were either being tossed around by the older kids, or asked to join in their schemes. you much preferred the second option.

your life continues like this until you’re sixteen. you learn to throw a solid left hook quickly. you switch from high school to high school as you move from house to house, never able to settle. but you have your brothers. you’re as close to happy as you can be. then everything goes wrong. thomas gets caught.

you can’t let him get locked up. he’s just turned eighteen, and that means prison time. so instead, you take the fall. vandalism. breaking and entering. theft. willful destruction of property. you stand in front of the judge; she’s a pristine blonde woman from the lake forest suburbs, and she is not lenient on you. it’s juvenile prison or nothing. as your brothers watch on, you’re led away.

you spend a year there. it’s worse than any foster home, but you develop a thick skin. at least all the punches you take aren’t for nothing. it’s here that you learn you have dyslexia & adhd. it’s here you’re blinded in one eye after another inmate gets hold of a knife, catches you in the dark, makes you pay for someone else’s sins. it’s also here that you learn you’re extraordinarily gifted at maths. a prodigy, someone calls you. it’s funny. at school you had sat at the back of the classroom, never able to see the blackboard in maths class.

when you turn seventeen, you’re let out. thomas is nineteen, working as a mechanic, trying to make a legitimate living. quickly, he gets the paperwork sorted to make him your legal guardian, and phillip’s too; for the first time, the three of you are reunited again.

you finish your final year of high school at oak park academy. you’d won a scholarship while in juvy, swearing you’d never return to the halls of your old school. oak park is an opportunity you’d never even dreamed of. you keep your head down and for the first time, you enjoy school. you make a few friends. no one here knows your troubled past, and you don’t tell them. you fly through maths problems like they’re simple sums, but english still evades you. you persevere, however, and graduate at the end of a long twelve months. not long enough. you wonder what your life would be like if you’d been here all along.

and with the opportunity of oak park, comes hatchett. you applied to every university in the country, but you have your eye on one in particular. you turn up to your interview, stomach churning and hands shaking. still, you spit numbers like they’re silver, quick fingers scraping chalk across the blackboard, ignoring the observant eyes of the panel. you work like you’ve never worked before. by the time you leave, your arms are dusted with white, your brow sweaty; but from the approving looks, your heart soars. you get your acceptance letter, and you glow. a full ride. it’s a blank page, simply waiting.

before you leave chicago for good, however, you have one last thing to do. after a mile long trail of paper and records, of doors slammed in your face and unanswered calls, you find your mom again. you’re surprised she’s still alive. she cries when you show up at her door, and your heart still bleeds when you watch her. even now you still call her, your voice thick with affection; yet you still tell people both your parents are dead. it’s easier that way.

your label is mnemosyne; memory. the memory of the life you used to live haunts you, like a ghost, long fingers digging into every corner of your brain. you’ll never forget the sharp glint of a knife, the screeching sirens of a police car, the smell of blood fresh on your knuckles. still, you tell yourself. you can change, you can change. you’re a shapeshifter now, boy. you’ve erased your old life from both your memory and everybody elses’. no-one needs to know — so you keep the memories of the real you tucked away deep inside your mind. you remember the soft smell of your mother’s hair. the pattern on your childhood duvet. your brother’s laugh, your brother’s crooked smile. you remember the important things, and leave the rest to be washed away by the tide of memory.

#hatchet:intro

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searchingwardrobes · 6 years

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Black Balloon

I have found that making these gifts for all my fandom friends can be a little nerve-wracking because I want so much for my birthday girl to love her gift. It’s especially so when the birthday girl is insanely talented like @artistic-writer. How do I give her a birthday gift worthy of her? She makes the most gorgeous art and weaves the most beautiful words. I don’t know if I succeeded, but happy birthday anyway, my friend! I hate that you’ve been through so much difficulty lately, and I wanted your gift to be extra special. I guess that’s why it ended up being over 6,000 words! I was tossing and turning one night, wracking my brain for the perfect fic for you, when “Black Balloon” by the Goo Goo Dolls got stuck in my head. From there, my muse concocted this rather bizarre, fractured fairy tale of that song. I’m not sure why, but it just felt perfect for you, so happy birthday!

Summary: “The balloon chooses you,” the witch told him, but Killian didn’t want the black one. Then he sees the little blonde girl with a yellow one, and he chases her into the forest. And that, as they say, is how the fairy tale begins . . .

Rating: M for mature situations and brief voyeurism

Words: 6,000 +

Also on Ao3

Part of my Fandom Birthday Playlist series. Previous gifts can be found here ,here , and here.

Tagging @snowbellewells @whimsicallyenchantedrose @kday426 @kmomof4 @snidgetsafan @teamhook @hollyethecurious @winterbaby89 @courtorderedcake @thislassishooked @bethacaciakay @delirious-latenight-laughs @shireness-says @killian-whump @cocohook38 @darkcolinodonorgasm

Baby’s black balloon makes her fly

His brother is dead. When father left two years before, it had hurt, but he didn’t feel numb. Because he had Liam. But now he’s gone, and Killian can feel nothing at all.

He knows hunger is tearing at his stomach, he knows that he should be afraid. But he can’t actually feel any of it. The fear had propelled him to run at least so he wouldn’t end up like Liam with cuts to the bone on his back that would fester and . . . He can’t bring himself to say it. Liam is gone, and nothing else matters.

He is absent from the sights and sounds swirling around him. The carnival ur was only appealing because of the crowds. He could lose his pursuers that way. Children are laughing and squealing with joy, sweethearts are holding swinging hands, loving parents are offering sweets to their exuberant, chubby cheeked children. But no one notices the skinny slave boy in the tattered clothes and bare feet. He doesn’t notice the wrinkled woman with the rainbow-colored scarves until she calls to him.

“Free balloon, my boy?”

He blinks and lifts his head to meet her gray eyes. They are kind, yet mysterious and searching. He tilts his head farther to see the colorful spheres bouncing in the wind at the end of bits of string. He tilts his head in wonder. How do they float that way? It must be magic! He reaches out a trembling hand.

“Oh no, the balloon chooses you!” she shoos him with a gnarled hand. “Back up a bit, and let the balloon come to you.”

She makes a gesture with her hands, perhaps some sort of spell, and the balloons rustle. Then one descends from the rest of the cluster, bouncing against Killian’s shoulder.

“Ah . . .” the woman muses, her eyes piercing his.

“But I don’t want a black one!” Killian protests.

“You don’t?”

He shakes his head and points. “I wanted that yellow one.”

“But this one,” she says as she pulls the string of the black balloon free from the rest, “has chosen you. That’s why they’re free.”

He forces a smile as the woman pats his cheek and then turns away dejectedly, his fist clutching the string. He sees a flash of yellow bobbing above the crowd ahead of him, and at the end of it, a little girl with hair to match. Her dress is brown muslin, scratchy, torn, and dirty. Like his own clothes. Her green eyes widen when she sees him looking her way, and she dashes off.

“Wait!” he cries, running after her. He doesn’t know why he follows; he isn’t going to take her balloon.

She dodges the crowd with practiced ease, but he’s no stranger to disappearing himself, and he keeps up fairly easily. But the lass is fast, and he loses her for a moment as he bursts out of the edges of the carnival grounds. Then he catches sight of the bright yellow and sees the lass dashing into the forest. He takes off as fast as he can, crying out that he isn’t trying to take her balloon. So why is he chasing her then? He doesn’t know.

“I know you’re around here somewhere!” he shouts as he crosses the tree line. “Just show yourself! I won’t hurt you!”

He hears a gasp, then her yellow balloon floats out from behind a large tree, and he jumps around it.

“Found you!”

“My balloon!” she cries, looking up instead of at him.

He looks up as well to see her balloon bouncing through the tops of the tallest trees. Then it breaks free and heads for the clouds, becoming a tiny speak.

“You made me lose my balloon!” she shouts, shoving him in the chest.

“You’re the one who ran! All I wanted was to say hello!”

“Chasing someone isn’t the way to make friends,” she grumbles. Then she gets a mischievous glint in her eye. “I’ll just take yours.”

“Hey!” he shouts as she snatches his balloon out of his fist. “That’s mine! It . . . it . . . chose me.”

She just laughs and spins away as he grabs for the string. They do a dance of spins and lunges for a moment, but it doesn’t take long for Killian to grab the string. Yet the girl refuses to let go and a tug of war ensues.

“Let go!”

“No, you let go!”

Then suddenly, the lass screams and throws her free arm around Killian’s neck. He startles before noticing what gave her such a fright. They’re floating through the air at the end of the black balloon.

“Maybe we should let go,” Killian whispers.

“No!” she protests, clinging to him more tightly. “We’re already really high.”

She��s right, he realizes as he looks down to see the ground far, far below. They soar higher and higher, over the tops of the trees, and Killian is now clinging to her just as much as she is to him, their knuckles turning white from clinging so tightly to the string. They seem to pick up speed when they find themselves floating over the ocean, and soon even that is far beneath them as clouds surround them. They are both still wary, but not quite as terrified.

“My name is Killian,” he tells her finally.

“Emma,” she says, her voice trembling.

Maybe only he isn't as terrified. He grips her waist a little tighter, and he gets a mouthful of hair as she tucks herself under his chin. There’s a break in the clouds, and Killian squints to see land ahead. As they draw closer and float lower, he sees that it’s an island. Soon they are floating down through thick jungle. Emma lets out a squeak and buries her face in his chest as the ground rushes up at them. They both crash into the ground, rolling away from one another. Killian opens his eyes just in time to see the black balloon turn to dust and disappear. Emma groans and scrambles to her hands and knees. He sits up and rubs at his hip.

“Look what dropped in,” a voice says. A boy, only a few years older than Killian, is standing above them. More boys of various ages step out from the trees, surrounding he and Emma. She scoots a little closer to him. The older boy squats down with a sinister smile upon his face. “Welcome to Neverland. I’m Peter Pan. Let’s play.”

Coming down the world’s turned over

And angels fall without you there

“Playing” seems to involve tying Emma up (we don’t like girls, Pan says), then shoving her into a makeshift cage. Killian looks sadly at her as she gazes at him through the bars, but he doesn’t think he should cross Pan, so he follows the teenager to a bonfire in the middle of their campsite. Until the moon and stars shine bright, the boys eat, wrestle, and dance. Sometimes they poke at Emma through the bars with sticks and laugh and tease her. She flashes her green eyes at Killian, and he ducks his head in shame. It seems to take forever, but finally all the boys are asleep, and he creeps to Emma’s cage. She’s curled up in the corner, her knees pulled to her chest, crying softly. He says nothing, simply picks up a large rock and starts to smash at the crude locking mechanism.

“Oh, so now you’re going to pretend to be a hero,” she snaps at him.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, “but you saw his gang. How was I supposed to fight back?”

Luckily a bunch of children aren’t the best at constructing a proper brig, and he manages to get the door open. He reaches his hand out to her, which she eyes warily.

“I think we can make quite the team,” he tells her sincerely.

She manages a smile and slips her hand into his.

Then they run.

It’s dark, but they clasp tightly to one another’s hands, not wanting to get separated in this eerie place. Branches lash at their faces, but they keep running, knowing that as soon as one of the Lost Boys awakens and sees Emma’s cage is empty, they’ll have the entire gang on their tail. Suddenly, there’s a springing noise, and the two of them are suddenly airborne again. They both scream before realizing they’ve been caught in a trap – a net made of vines. They’re an uncomfortable tangle of arms and legs, and Emma starts to cry again. Killian is tempted to get irritated with her tears, until he hears low voices and the net begins to sail through the trees on some sort of pully system. They find themselves swinging through the window of a tree house, then deposited with a crash upon the floor as the net is sliced open. The two of them look up to see two women by the light of flickering lamps; one with blonde hair pulled up in a bun, the other with braided black hair. Both have spears pointed at them.

The blonde relaxes first. “Wait, Pan doesn’t like girls.”

“So?” the other woman asks, keeping a fighting stance. “He looks like a Lost Boy to me.”

“I’m not one of them!” Killian snaps.

“Do you miss your mother?” the blonde asks sweetly.

“Sometimes,” he mumbles, “she’s dead.”

“And your father?”

“He left.”

“See, Tink!” the dark-haired woman says, “Pan will want him, regardless of the girl.”

“Excuse me!” Emma snaps, scrambling to her feet. “The girl has a name, and it’s Emma.”

“Aww, she’s got spunk,” grins the blonde, who Killian gathers is named Tink, “Can’t we keep her, Tiger Lily?”

Tiger Lily scowls but at least drops her spear. “We can’t. Remember Wendy? Besides, Pan will still come for the boy.”

“But he has no mother,” Tink insists, then turns to Emma, “or do you have a mother?”

Emma shakes her head sadly. “My parents left me at the orphanage when I was a baby.”

“Now what,” mutters Tiger Lily, “the shadow won’t take them back if they have no mother.”

“Shadow?” Killian asks with a tilt of his head.

Tink reaches out and pats him on the head, and he wrinkles his nose. “Didn’t the shadow bring you here? Oh, Tiger Lily, they both are so cute!”

“They aren’t puppies, Tink.”

“We didn’t come that way,” Emma speaks up, “it was the black balloon.”

“Balloon?” both women cry out.

“Do you think we could - “ Tink begins.

“I think so, we have enough magic for that,” Tiger Lily finishes for her.

“You have magic?” Killian asks skeptically.

“We’re fairies!” Tink exclaims proudly.

Emma tilts her head. “Then where are your wings?”

Tink’s face falls. “We lost them and then were banished here.”

“I was the Purple Fairy,” Tiger Lily adds, pointing to her chest. Then she gestures to Tink, “She was the Green Fairy.”

“What happened?” Killian asks.

Tink shrugs. “We broke the rules.”

Tiger Lily gasps as she looks out the window to see the darkness of night beginning to abate. “Dawn is coming! We must hurry!”

The fairies rush Killian and Emma down the ladder of their tree house and down to the nearby beach. They send flashes of magic from their palms, and just as dawn breaks over the horizon, a black balloon is clutched in Tiger Lily’s fist. She offers it to them just as shouts from the jungle fill the air.

“Hurry, take it!”

Emma and Killian exchange glances, then grab onto the string at the exact same time. Immediately, they are airborne, and they watch as the fairies wave goodbye as they rush back towards their tree house. By the time the Lost Boys burst onto the beach, the black balloon is so high in the sky they look like an army of ants.

Emma still clings to Killian, but this time she isn’t trembling. They both actually look around this time, awed by the clouds, and the glittering sea below. The balloon takes them lower just as they see a ship come into view.

“I think it’s taking us to that boat,” Emma says.

“Ship,” Killian corrects her, then his heart sinks as he sees a familiar black flag, “a pirate ship,”

They swoop a bit on the wind as they draw closer, and before they have fully prepared, they crash down upon the ship’s wooden deck.

“What have we here.”

Killian and Emma are both sprawled out on their stomachs, and they look up, blinking as the black balloon once again disintegrates right above them. Silhouetted by the morning sun is a man who epitomizes every pirate cliché: feathered hat, handlebar mustache, long curly hair.

“My cabin boy just got washed overboard yesterday,” he says, rubbing his chin, “you two will do nicely.”

His presence and rough voice are so intimidating, that all Emma and Killian can do is swallow hard, their eyes growing wide. The man squats to get closer to them when he realizes they aren’t moving anytime soon.

“Don’t be frightened, me hearties. Tis a pirate’s life for you now!”

You know the lies they always told you

And the love you never knew

What’s the things they never showed you

That swallow the light from the sun inside your room

Killian finishes securing the last canon on the gun deck and looks up to see Emma dumping the captain’s chamber pot over the railing. He walks towards her, admiring her figure in her leather breeches, blouse, and leather vest. Her unruly wavy hair is pulled back in a messy ponytail, but her cheeks are sun kissed, and her nose is freckled prettily. At fifteen, she’s grown into a beautiful young woman, and Killian isn’t the only one who’s noticed. He hasn’t liked the looks Captain Blackbeard has been giving her lately, and it makes him wish he hadn’t been promoted from cabin boy to powder monkey. Not much of a promotion for a sixteen-year-old, but he would rather still be at the very bottom rank and more often at Emma’s side.

She chuckles as he comes up next to her. “Are you here to assist me in this disgusting task? Or are you just rubbing it in that you’re above it now?”

He laughs with her as she lifts another chamber pot and tosses its contents into the water. It’s her last one, and she wrinkles her nose in a fetching way as she turns to wash her hands in the rain barrel.

“Emma,” Killian speaks lowly, close to her ear, “I’ve been wanting to talk with you. I’m worried. You’ve grown . . . taller.”

He scratches behind his ear and blushes, knowing he’s stumbling over his words. Emma just smiles knowingly at him, patting his arm.

“Taller? Killian, really.” She leans against the edge of the barrel, gnawing at her lower lip. “I’ve been wrapping my chest as tight as I can, but . . . I’ve noticed the crew looking at me differently anyhow.”

He wonders if he’s included in that statement. He can’t help how his thoughts towards her are changing, but he hopes at least that the gleam in his eye isn’t as uncouth as the rest of the crew. He clears his throat nervously.

“Perhaps at the next port -”

“How?” she cuts him off. “You know what Blackbeard does to deserters.”

Her eyes are wide and fearful, but she hurries away when Blackbeard shouts for her, and Killian’s heart sinks that he has no good answers.

Later, he’s heading down to the armory to check on their store of gunpowder before they make port, and just as he passes the Captain’s quarters, he hears Emma’s name and pauses.

“Why can’t we keep her for our own use, Cap’n?” asks the first mate. “Men at sea have needs, after all.”

“I can’t look at her that way,” Blackbeard snaps, “not when I still remember the lass she was. Others will be the same. Besides, Captain Silver offers good coin for a virgin. Especially one as pretty as Emma.”

“And he’ll be there when we dock at Misthaven?”

“He always is this time of year.”

Killian’s heart sinks. Captain Silver! The same man who killed his brother! He doesn’t care how dangerous it is, he and Emma have to get away. He won’t allow someone he cares about to be harmed by that man. Not again.

Anxious though he is, he waits until they are close enough to shore to make it quickly in the row boat, yet still far enough out to give them a head start. He doesn’t tell Emma until he wakes her from where she sleeps in the hammock below him. Thankfully, he’s earned her trust over all these years, and she comes with no argument. The only concern she expresses as they lower the dinghy to the water as quietly as they can is what will become of Killian if they get caught.

“My safety means nothing if tragedy comes to you,” he tells her as he clasps her hand.

Emma smiles with watery eyes and squeezes back.

They are almost to shore, and the sun is breaking when they hear shouts and turn to see Blackbeard’s ship gaining on them. They are just scrambling out of the dingy when the crew comes racing down the docks towards them. They duck into the busy streets of Misthaven, dodging the crowds just like at that carnival when they were kids. Killian’s heart is pounding, knowing they are out-numbered with only a cutlass a piece to defend themselves. They run as fast as they can, never letting go of one another’s hands.

“A free balloon for the pretty lass?”

The old, wrinkled woman appears out of nowhere, the black balloon pinched between two fingers. They both glance at one another, blinking in shock. Yet the shouts that come from the other end of the street makes the decision for them. They reach for the string at the same moment and almost instantly, they are sailing far above the town, then over the trees.

The cabin that the balloon deposits them in front of has been abandoned for quite some time, judging by the layer dust on the furniture, the weeds overtaking the gardens, and the loose hinges on the front door. But perhaps it could be a home . . .

A thousand boys could never reach you

How could I have been the one?

They manage to carve out a life for themselves in the simple cottage, even coaxing a meager crop from the rocky soil. They sell what they can at market, but never in Misthaven for fear that Blackbeard is still searching for them. There’s another village, smaller and more rustic, farther inland, but the people accept them. At least enough to buy their fruits and vegetables. Their potato crop does well enough to purchase them a goat for milk and a couple of chickens for eggs.

They tell people they are brother and sister, since they live alone together in the one room cabin. They share the one bed without ever really having a discussion about the arrangement. They’ve been together now since she was seven and he was eight. It’s only a sleeping arrangement, nothing more.

Although Killian doubts Emma knows the torture he has endured for the past year sleeping by her side. She’s sixteen now and only grows more beautiful with each passing day. There’s no denying to himself now how deeply he loves her, but he’s unsure. Unsure of her feelings, unsure of how it might change things if he speaks up. So he says nothing; does nothing.

Until one night he hears her sniffling beside him. He rolls over to see her shaking slightly. “Are you okay?” he whispers.

She rolls over, and the moonlight shining through the window illuminates the streaks of tears on her cheeks. “Why won’t you kiss me?”

He swallows, blinks, and words fail him.

“Do you not want to?”

“Oh, Emma,” he breathes, and all he can do is trace her soft cheek, wiping away her tears.

“Never mind,” she mutters, but before she can roll back over, he pulls her close and presses his lips to hers.

Except for occasional knowing smiles and heated glances, nothing much changes during the day after that. But every night, their intimacy grows. Their bed is now filled with passionate kisses, heated touches, gasps, and sighs. But Killian is hesitant to let things go too far, not when Emma is so young, when they’re both so young. He doesn’t want Emma to regret anything.

But one night, he turns from the fire to find Emma standing there nervously, her shift pooled on the floor at her feet. He’s rooted to the spot, too in awe of her body, soft in the light of the moon, the candlelight playing with her hair. She reaches her hand out to him, trembling as she lowers herself to the bed. He thinks he should probably say something as he comes closer, shedding his own clothes as he goes, but he’s left speechless. He lowers himself on top of her, relishing the way she sighs as their skin presses together. He kisses her, slowly at first because he keeps thinking that surely this is a dream, but then she responds eagerly, her fingers tracing down his spine, and the kisses become deeper, hungrier.

Later, he holds her in his arms, both of them damp with sweat, the sheets tangled up around them. She says nothing as he combs the tangles out of her hair with his fingers.

“Did I hurt you?” he finally whispers hoarsely.

Emma tilts her head up to look at him, a shy smile upon her face. “You could never hurt me.”

“But when I . . . ,“ he swallows hard as he trails off, “you cried out.”

She laughs as she scoots up so she can look him better in the face. “And you almost stopped until I told you it was okay.” She runs her fingers through his hair. “And I meant it. It was wonderful.”

Emma leans down, taking his face in her hands, and kisses him softly. He relaxes into the bed, wrapping his arms around her.

“I love you,” he tells her.

“I love you, too.”

They are so euphoric after their night’s activities, that they almost don’t notice the subtle shift towards them in town. It isn’t until they've set up their cart of goods that they notice the townspeople looking at them differently. When Rumplestiltskin, the town magistrate, approaches them with fire in his eyes, Killian shifts slightly to put himself between the man and Emma. They are in town so rarely, that they don’t know the man well, but they’ve heard enough from the villagers to know he leads with a heavy fist. Killian glances over the man’s shoulder at his son, Baelfire. Killian has also never liked the way the magistrate’s son looks at Emma.

“Do not do business with these people!” Rumplestiltskin cries, pointing an accusing finger at them. He pauses dramatically to allow a crowd to gather. “They are either liars or are consumed with deviant lust!”

A gasp ripples through the crowd, and Emma inches closer to Killian’s side.

“They claim to be brother and sister,” the magistrate continues, “yet my son saw them through their window last night engaged in either fornication or unnatural relations for a brother and sister!”

Rage wells up inside of Killian fast and hot. He glances at Emma, who has turned pale as a ghost. Baelfire gazes at the two of them with barely concealed lust, and it turns Killian’s stomach to think of what they had shared last night, something so intimate and beautiful, being turned into voyeurism for this debased young man.

“She’s not his sister, she’s his whore!” a male voice from the crowd shouts, and a hand seems to shoot out from nowhere to grab Emma by the hair. She screams as she’s dragged backwards by a burly, middle-aged man. Killian shouts and lunges at her attacker, but he’s pulled back by the other half of the growing mob. He doesn’t see Baelfire pull a dagger from his boot.

But Emma does. She screams Killian’s name, simultaneously shoving off the growing crowd around her and thrusting her arms towards the young man who is her everything: her best friend, her soul mate, her lover. She can’t lose him. And to everyone’s shock, including hers, magic bursts from her palms and hits Baelfire square in the chest. He goes flying backwards, his dagger slipping from his grip and skittering across the packed dirt.

The mob shifts from dragging Emma the whore down to the ground to backing away from her with fear etched upon their faces. “Witch!” someone cries, and soon it becomes a chant. Killian rushes to Emma’s side.

“Do you trust me?” she asks him.

He doesn’t know why she asks, but he doesn’t hesitate. “Always.”

Emma takes his hand, and before he can blink, they’re both enveloped by a cloud of magic. Then he blinks again, and they are safe in their cabin

“How did you know how to do that?”

Emma shakes her head, her eyes wide. “I - I don’t know!”

Her shaking worsens, and Killian cups her face in his hands to steady her. “You didn’t know you had magic, did you?”

She shakes her head again, her eyes growing wet with tears. “No.” She bites her lower lip, her nervous habit. “Are you afraid of me, too?”

He kisses her with all the love he can convey. “Are you kidding?” he laughs, his forehead pressed against hers. “You were bloody brilliant just then, love. Amazing. You saved my life, you know.”

She lets out a little cry and flings her arms around his neck, kissing him sloppily. He smiles against her lips as he kisses her back. But then shouts from the forest send them jumping apart. Killian grabs their only two chairs and shoves them against the front door. Through the branches of the trees, he can see the flicker of torches even though it’s the middle of the day. His heart sinks as he realizes – they intend to burn a witch today. He doesn’t know what to tell Emma, so he says nothing as she helps him shove their bed against the back door.

“They’ll just burn us both,” Emma tells him in a broken voice.

So she knows.

He pulls her close. “We’ll figure something out.”

“If only that balloon -” Emma breaks off abruptly.

“The balloon!” they both gasp.

“If the fairies could -”

“then surely you can, love,” he finishes for her.

It takes her awhile, but just as a torch flies through their front window, Emma has the string of a black balloon gripped in her fist. Just as the angry mob crashes through their back door, Killian trusts Emma completely once again, and they go flying away on their black balloon.

I saw the world spin beneath you

And scatter like ice from the spoon that was your womb

For two years, they travel this way, with Emma’s black balloons. Kingdom to kingdom, realm to realm, never staying in any one place for too long. They have adventures at times, while at others they fall into a routine of mundane domesticity. They make friends at times, while at others they are secluded in their own little bubble. But always suspicion eventually falls upon them, and they take to the skies once again. So long as they have each other, they are home. No clergy will marry the likes of them, but they vow themselves to one another all the same. In every way that counts, they are one. He is her husband, and she is his wife, whether others recognize it or not.

Today, however, there can be no black balloon. Even if Emma had the strength to conjure one, she couldn’t make it far enough way. They can hear the sounds of the mob surrounding them in the forest, but time is up. Their baby is coming.

Killian puts his arms around her, helping her walk even as she doubles over with her next contraction. He presses his lips together, willing himself to be strong for her. He’s only 19, and he’s already scared enough about being a proper father, and now he can’t even find a safe place for the child’s birth.

“I can’t go on, Killian.”

And suddenly, it appears. Through the mist, as if Killian had wished it there, stands a humble cabin. The sounds of the mob seem louder, closer, so he hurries them to the door.

“We don’t know if we can trust these people,” Emma gasps out.

“We don’t have much of a choice, love.” He prays to every deity he can think of for compassion.

The door opens before they have even reached it, and a grandfatherly looking man with a gray beard is standing in the entryway. He smiles and gestures them forward.

“Come, come, I’ve been waiting for you all day.”

Killian glances curiously at Emma, but she’s in no shape to question this sudden turn of fortune. The man ushers them in, and immediately helps Emma to the cabin’s only bed.

“You should know,” Emma pants between contractions, “that a mob’s after us. I’m a witch. Apparently.”

“First of all, the mob won’t find you here,” the man tells her calmly. “My master, when he left me to watch over this place, ensured that only those who needed assistance could find it.”

Killian idly wonders what he means by that, but he’s far more concerned with the way Emma has pulled up her knees and how hard she’s squeezing his hand.

“And you are not a witch,” the man continues as he fills a basin with boiling water from the fire, “you are filled with the strongest kind of light magic. The kind that only comes when one is the product of true love.”

Even in the midst of her labor, Emma scoffs. “My parents dropped me off at an orphanage. They had no love in them.”

“If there is one thing I recognize, it’s magic. Trust in what I say.”

“You’re a sorcerer,” Killian exclaims.

“No, but my master was.”

He washes his hands and then gathers a knife, salt, and some blankets which he sets near the bed next to the basin of water. He seems to know what he’s doing as he calmly instructs Emma through the rest of her labor. Soon, after one last push and a tremendous cry from Emma, a baby’s wail fills the air. Killian is overwhelmed as the squirming bundle is placed in his arms.

“It’s a boy,” he tells Emma as he hands their child over to her. His heart swells in his chest as he watches Emma – his wife, his love – hold their son close, tenderly stroking his tiny cheek.

“And this one will have strong light magic too,” the man tells them, “a product of your true love.”

Emma looks into Killian’s face with awe as he bends to kiss her. “I love you.”

“What will you name him?” their rescuer asks.

“What about Henry?” Emma suggests.

Killian reaches out to touch his son, and the baby clasps his finger tightly. “I think he likes it.”

The man, they come to find out, goes simply by Wart. With him, they find the steadiest home they’ve had since their youth. Henry speaks his first word, takes his first step, learns to read all in Wart’s small cabin. Emma and Killian make their home with their son in the cabin’s loft. It may not be much, but it is filled with love.

Wart, as he had once told them, had been the apprentice of a sorcerer. What became of his master he would never say, but his cabin was filled with scrolls containing the sorcerer’s prophecies. People would come to the cabin, sometimes even from far away realms, to receive guidance from these prophecies. Sometimes they would pay coin, sometimes they would pay in produce or livestock, but somehow there was always enough provision without any of them having to leave their safe haven.

One day, desperate parents knocked on the door seeking not prophecy, but a magical cure. Their daughter had been bitten by a poisonous spider. Wart, having no magic himself, was about to sadly turn them away, when Emma rushed forward,

“I may be able to help.”

Killian could tell she was nervous, but she reached her palms out towards the child anyway, her magic coming out in that bright, warm light. The black veins of poison marring the girl’s skin slowly disappeared, and color returned to her cheeks. She took a deep breath, then opened her eyes.

Killian had never been so proud. The parents were overcome with relief and gratitude. It turned out they lived not far away, and that the little girl, Violet, was about Henry’s age. After that, life in the cabin was filled with even more life, love, and happiness. And many others came to Emma for miracles.

They honestly saw no need for anything more.

And I’ll go on and I’ll lead you home

And all because I’ll become what you became to me

Everything changes on Emma’s 28th birthday. They celebrate simply, as they always do, with singing and a cake. But after Emma blows out her candle, Wart sets a scroll down before her.

“It is time for you to leave. You have a destiny to fulfill.”

“But this is our home!” Emma protests.

“Do you not want us here anymore?” ten-year-old Henry asks, sounding hurt.

“Of course I want you here,” Wart assures, embracing the boy, “if I had my way you would live here always. But . . . read the scroll, Emma.”

“The Savior’s name shall be Emma. In her 28th year, she will find her parents, Snow White and Prince Charming, and break the Dark Curse.”

Killian can tell by the way Emma furrows her brow that she doesn’t believe that the prophecy is about her. But his heart sinks as he turns to the window.

“It’s you, Emma,” Wart insists, “I’ve known since the day you first arrived. I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want it hanging over you for ten years. I wanted you to have a home for once, a safe haven. I hope you aren’t angry with me.”

“It’s true, Mom,” Henry says with conviction. “Somehow I just know.”

“Killian?”

He turns from the window at the sound of Emma’s voice. She’s only grown more beautiful as the years have rushed by, more precious to him. Every day he thinks he couldn’t love her more, and then tomorrow comes. He remembers the little girl he first saw with the golden hair and he knows now why he chased after her. He was chasing her light.

“Yes, Emma, it’s true. It has to be.”

She rises from the table and goes to him. “What’s wrong?” she asks gently, cupping his face in her hands.

“I always knew, deep down, that I wasn’t worthy of you,” he whispers hoarsely. “That day, at the carnival? The black balloon was mine. It chose me, Emma. Darkness chose me, but you . . . “

Emma presses her forehead to his, her thumbs making circles on his cheeks. “I choose you, Killian. Every day. Doesn’t that matter more?”

“Emma,” Wart says from his place at the table, “conjure one of those black balloons for me.”

It’s been years since she’s done it, but after a decade of honing her magic in many other ways, she does as he asks with ease.

“Now a yellow one.”

Emma tilts her head in confusion, but humors Wart anyway. The two balloons float up to the ceiling, bouncing and spinning until their strings become entwined. Then an amazing thing happens, the two balloons meld into one; a gray balloon. It floats down, bouncing upon first Killian’s shoulder, then Emma’s. Wart reaches out and grabs its string.

“That day at the carnival, you had just lost your brother, Killian. The enchanted balloons picked up on your pain, your grief, your anger. So the black balloon chose you. They picked up on Emma’s light magic, not yet realized, but just under the surface. So the yellow balloon chose her.” Wart extends the gray balloon to both of them. “But we all have both within us. Each choice we make, we have the opportunity for good or for evil. I see before me two people who have over and over again chosen love.”

Emma reaches out and takes Killian’s hand. He smiles at her, then she reaches out for the string of the balloon.

“Does this mean we’re going on an adventure?” Henry asks, and they chuckle at his eagerness.

So they take one last trip with their black balloon. Gray this time, actually. As the three of them land gracefullly in the middle of a paved street on a dark October night, they look around in awe at this very peculiar realm. They see a man in a brown suit walking a spotted dog on a leash.

“Excuse me, sir,” Killian says, “but what’s the name of this town?”

The man smiles. “Welcome to Storybrooke.”

#cs ff #enchanted forest au #childhood friends #teen romance #angst #angst with a happy ending #fandom birthday playlist #artistic-writer #on her birthday #black balloon #goo goo dolls

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