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cherrybracelets · 4 years ago

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I’ll Take You On

bucky barnes x f. reader

18+ / drinking mentions, heavy smut (unprotected s*x, oral s*x (m receiving) )

inspired by: ill take you on by brockhampton

For your whole childhood, as long as you could remember, you wanted to be a veterinarian. You had loved animals, and couldn’t imagine a better way to spend your days than caring for them. But, as you grew up and the harsh realities of adulthood and capitalism dawned upon you, your dream was becoming less likely.

Vet school was way over you and your mom’s budget. It was just the two of you, and she wasn’t exactly bringing in buckets of cash at her teaching job. So, you had to get a bit more realistic.

After graduation college with a business degree, you set forth into the world hoping for a lifetime of amazing opportunities. But, a job didn’t come as easy as you’d hoped, and you were getting desperate. So desperate, in fact, that you called your estranged father begging for a job.

Your father left your mom when you were nine. You didn’t care much, as he wasn’t around a lot anyways. He was some big shot lawyer in Miami, and he was always traveling for work. It was honestly easier on you and your mom once he left. He didn’t make much an effort to connect with you after that, only calling every few months and sending wads of cash on Holidays, hoping to make up for his absence.

So, as you pushed aside your pride to call and ask for his help, it was really the least he could do. And lucky for you, his firm’s office manager had just quit. It didn’t sound like an incredibly difficult job and the pay was beyond what you wanted. Your father was most likely overcompensating with the salary. But he could afford it.

He also promised you a place to live, rent free. He owned multiple properties around the city, most of which he never used. It was kind of the perfect situation. A little suspiciously perfect.

But there were no other options. You needed a job and he desperately needed to feel like he wasn’t the worst father in the world. It was a win-win for both of you.

And obviously, Miami wasn’t the worst place you could be. You didn’t know anyone besides your father, but you didn’t care. The idea of relaxing on a beach alone soothed you way more than a group of screaming drunk girls.

After a week of settling into your apartment and the city, it was finally time to start your new job. You had met up with your father multiple times already, getting prepared for the job and visiting a few of his favorite spots around the city. He was actually really kind, but it was slightly uncomfortable talking to him.

You walked into his office on your first day, shaking in nerves as you prepared to meet your new coworkers. Would they treat you kindly, or did they catch up on the obvious nepotism that was lingering through this entire situation?

But your fears were quickly buried over as his staff welcomed you with open arms, talking highly of you and about how “proud” your father was to have you working here. You rolled your eyes at his obvious attempt to show a warmer side to his staff, but you let it slide. You had a job and place to live because of him, so it was the least you could do.

You spent the morning learning the phone and computer system, battling intrusive questions from everyone in the office and trying to learn how to work the damn coffee machine. But all in all, it wasn’t a bad job.

You never really knew what kind of law your father practiced, and maybe that was something you should’ve asked before, so you were a little less shocked. His clients were mega rich and famous. And your father was just mega rich. It kind of pissed you off, seeing how well he lived and how you and your mom never saw a penny of it. Part of you wanted to scream at him, break all the expensive glasses in his office and storm out. But what was the point? Caring about him was more energy than it was worth.

Your father met with his clients throughout the day, and part of your job was welcoming them to the office, getting them something to drink, and telling your father when they arrive. And today, at 2:12 PM, twelve minutes late for his appointment, he walked in.

“James Barnes. I’m here to see Henry,” he commanded, not bothering to look up from his cell phone and pay you an ounce of attention.

“Of course. Can I get you anything to drink?” You asked kindly, trying to keep your voice from quivering. He stood towering over you, his large frame blocking the light above, casting a shadow over your desk. He was one of the most beautiful and intimidating people you’d ever seen. You felt like you were going to choke if he looked directly at you.

But he didn’t. He walked cooly over to the sofa in the waiting area and sat down, mumbling “Scotch…”.

You stood up and walked away quickly, desperately trying to catch your breath. You slipped quietly into your father's office, smiling as you closed the door behind you.

“James Barnes is here. And he mentioned something about scotch, which I’m not sure if I’m authorized to give…”

Your father chuckled and stood up, walking over to a small bar cart in his office and pouring two drinks.

“Everyone calls him Bucky. He’s a good friend. Come on, i’ll introduce you.”

You followed behind your father in a daze, not ready to face him, not ready for his eyes to meet yours. Your skin felt hot and the room was spinning as your head, his loud voice greeting your father in excitement.

“Bucky! It’s been too long!” Your father yelled, handing him a drink and smiling sheepishly.

“Yeah, I had to be in New York a bit longer than I thought,” he trailed off, taking a sip of his drink. You were hiding behind your father, hoping he would forget about you and you could sneak away without a word. But of course you wouldn’t get away that easily.

“Bucky, I have to introduce you to my daughter. Today is her first day working here! (Y/N), come introduce yourself,” he instructed, turning towards you and ushering you in closer to Bucky.

“(Y/N)...” he whispered, the sound of your name in his mouth making your whole body light up. You had never heard it sound so beautiful before. He reached his hand out towards you, and you grabbed it lightly. His hands were soft and cold, shocking your skin as he touched you. As you shook hands, he leaned towards you, the smell of mint and tobacco pouring from his skin.

“Why don’t we head to your office, Henry,” he frowned, dropping your hand and turning towards your father. You brought your hand back to your side, confused and dizzy as you found your seat.

“Can… can I get you anything, Henry?” You stuttered, realizing awkwardly that this was the first time you’d addressed him, and you didn’t say dad. There was an uncomfortable silence between the two of you, and you cleared your throat awkwardly.

“Sorry, thought that would be more professional. Totally awkward, right?” You laughed, trying to ease the tension. You didn’t think your father would care if you called him Henry, but maybe he wanted you to play into the sweet daughter character at work.

“No, sweetheart, this is actually a private meeting. I don’t want any interruptions, unless someone’s dead. Okay?” He said in a serious tone, pushing aside any awkwardness. He hadn’t said this with any other clients he’s seen today, so it gave you an uncomfortable feeling in your stomach.

You turned towards Bucky, looking for some sign of a joke with him. But his face was carved of stone, his eyes locked on your father as if he expected Henry’s devout secrecy for any conversation they had.

The two walked quietly into his office and shut the door, leaving the image of him to only exist in your mind. You were curious who exactly this beautiful mystery was, so you did what you always did. Googled him.

You searched for a while, under both of the names he went by. But nothing. You couldn’t find him anywhere. Nothing on Facebook, Linkedin was empty, Twitter and Instagram were farfetched. It was like he didn’t exist. You even unblocked your father on facebook to stalk his friends and see if he existed there, but nothing. He was a ghost.

You got frustrated after a while, sitting back angrily in your chair, realizing you had three voicemails. Yikes, you were not very good at this job.

You finished all your work quickly, hoping it would distract you from him.

They spent the next two hours locked away in your fathers office, leaving you to wilt away in boredom. It only took about 30 minutes to catch up on calls and emails, and then all you could do was scroll aimlessly on your phone hoping someone would bother you.

But everyone seemed very quiet here. Beyond the initial excitement of meeting you in the morning, everyone stayed at their desks all day, focused intently on their own work. It was one of the quietest offices you’d ever been in. Maybe they were just trying to show off on your first day, or trying not to bother you… but it was odd.

At 4:15, your father loudly exited his office, Bucky following behind. He was smiling, something you hadn’t seen before. It was almost god-like, his perfect smile, radiating warmth and happiness. You wanted to be close to him again, missing the sweet smell of his lips…

“(Y/N), I have a request…” your father interrupted your daydreaming, making you jump as you stood up to help him.

“What’s up?” You asked casually, refusing to take your eyes off Bucky.

“Bucky and I are grabbing dinner tonight, and we’d love for you to join us,” he said quickly, Bucky finally turning towards you and meeting your glance.

“You… want me to come?” You asked quietly, Bucky still staring at you. He smirked slightly as you spoke, but refused to break your gaze.

“Well, Bucky would really love to get to know my daughter. You know how… proud I am of you. The light of my life!” He said, smiling intensely at you. You finally looked away from Bucky and towards your father as he spoke.

It was disgusting, the way your father was obviously using a fake relationship with you to get in good with his clients and employees. But you would’ve done anything to see Bucky again. So you agreed reluctantly, wondering why a man like Bucky would care about his lawyer's daughter…

“We’re going to a nice place so… dress up,” your father instructed, eyeing your clothes. You had noticed you were the least dressed up at the office.

“Um… I don’t really have a nice dress…” you whispered quietly, wondering how “nice” you needed to dress…

Your father pulled out his wallet, handing you a thick black AmEx card.

“I’ll have my driver take you downtown to some shops. Get whatever you want,” he instructed, pushing the card in your hand.

You didn’t refuse, why would you? Free shopping spree and dinner with some hot mystery man sounded like your perfect day.

You spent the next few hours in and out of shops, spending more money than your father most likely anticipated. But you needed a new wardrobe anyways, most of your old clothes were too warm to wear here.

You picked out a gorgeous light blue silk dress and some strappy white heels to match. You were maybe a little ‘under’ dressed for dinner with your father, but all you could focus on was Bucky. You felt high whenever he crossed your mind, your body unable to focus on anything except the feel of his cool skin touching yours.

By the time you were done shopping, it was almost time to meet them at dinner. The driver promised to bring the rest of your bags home and drop you right off at the restaurant. It was all the way across town, and you’d most likely still be late even if you left now. So you hopped in the car quickly, your new outfit looking perfect.

The drive to the restaurant took just as long as the driver said it would- maybe even longer. You were getting impatient as the time went by, wondering if he was thinking about you the way you were thinking of him.

It was unlikely. You still weren’t sure who exactly he was, but you knew he didn’t spend his time with ordinary girls.

But why did he want you to come to dinner? It was odd of him to take such an interest in you. None of your fathers other clients seemed to look twice in your direction. But then again, Bucky was the only one that required privacy.

As you got lost in your thoughts, your mind tumbling through expectations and excitement, your driver pulled swiftly up to the front entrance of Paterro’s.

Upon walking through the doors, you were taken aback by the overwhelming fanciness of this restaurant. Your father definitely undersold how nice it was. You felt slightly underdressed, but no one seemed to look twice at you. You were used to not turning heads, being able to walk through a crowd without notice.

That changed when you got to your table. Your father wasn’t there, most likely in the bathroom or at the bar. It was just him, looking just as beautiful as you pictured he would.

He wore a navy blue suit that hugged his skin tightly and left very little of his body up for imagination. As you walked towards him, his head lifted from the table and his eyes lingered towards your body. He gave you a soft smile, but he was obviously distracted by how much of you he was seeing.

“Your… Henry ran to grab a few cigars for later…” he mumbled, standing up awkwardly and pulling out a chair for you.

“Thank you…” you whispered, sitting shakily down in the chair as he pushed you in towards the table.

You were in between Bucky and your father’s seat, but much closer to Bucky. Your father came back less than 30 seconds later, which was ideal, since you couldn’t think of a single word to say to Bucky.

Your father greeted you kindly, a wide smile that read as ‘You better be good tonight.’ It clearly wasn’t normal for him to have guests attend his business dinners. He seemed just as put off as you did, but the two of you kept your thoughts to yourselves and made small talk.

“This is one of my favorite restaurants, (Y/N),” your father smiled, handing you a menu to you.

“I’m excited to be here. Thank you for having me,” you responded kindly.

Bucky and your father started talking about business, leaving you to your own thoughts as you scoured the menu. The prices were insane, but obviously you weren’t footing the bill. You had half a mind to order the most expensive thing on the menu, for the hell of it, but you settled on a nice glass of red wine and pasta.

You weren’t included in much of the conversation, wondering why exactly you were invited in the first place. It seemed that the two of them barely even knew you were there. You sipped at your wine angrily, wondering how you could get Bucky’s attention.

It was then when you decided to make one of the riskiest decisions of your entire life. But, high risk, high reward, right?

Bucky cracked a joke with your father, and you laughed loudly and girlishly, forcing him to draw his eyes towards you. You then gently placed your hand on his knee, dragging your fingertips on his thigh lightly as you smiled at him. For a second, you forgot your father was even there, lost in the delight of finally having your hands on Bucky.

But you quickly drew your hand back, afraid of how far you’d go if you didn’t stop. Luckily your father didn’t seem to notice, or care. But Bucky did.

In fact, he was glaring at you. His fists were clenched on the table, his breath shaky and his stared. His face started to relax and he looked away, a slight smirk on his face as he grabbed his drink and gulped it.

“I have to run and make a quick phone call,” Bucky said abruptly, not waiting for a response before leaving the table.

You turned awkwardly to your father, not sure what to say to him at this moment. Thankful for you, he clearly felt the same, and buried himself in his phone. That was the nice thing about your father, he never forced you to talk.

Bucky was back quicker than you’d expected, looking relieved as he sat down.

“Sorry about that,” he smiled, clearing his throat. “Where were we?”

The three of you started chatting again, a feat that only lasted about five minutes, before another interruption. Your father’s phone started ringing loudly, much to your embarrassment.

“One sec,” he whispered, jumping out of his chair and answering in a rush.

Your heart dropped as you realized you were alone with him for the first time. You couldn’t bring yourself to look at him after you nearly groped him under the table. You felt a lump in your throat as you stared intently at your fathers empty chair.

“Do you wanna talk about what the hell you’re doing?” Bucky growled at you, making you finally turn your head and face him head on.

“I don’t know what you mean…” you whispered innocently.

“Oh, shut the hell up. I’m not gonna fall for your sweet girl act. Your father might, but I see right through it…” He snickered, taking a large sip from his third drink of the evening.

“I’m sorry if I’ve done something to upset you, James.” You could see him cringe at the sound of that name. You couldn’t help but to get under his skin. Something about him so angry made it hotter.

“Listen, if you wanna fuck me, just say it. I’m not here for all these little games.”

“You truly think every girl in the entire universe wants to have sex with you? Seems like somebody has a little ego problem,” you retorted, rolling your eyes and looking away.

“Oh, baby,” he laughed, touching your cheek lightly with his thumb. “You’re telling me you wouldn’t get under this table and suck my cock if you could?”

The thought of your mouth around him made you quiver, which was very evident to Bucky. He laughed coyly, before tightly gripping your chin. He brushed his thumb lightly over your lips, your body aching at his touch.

He dropped his hand quickly as your father approached the table, looking distraught.

“I’m so sorry guys... My client just called, major emergency. I’m gonna have to run… Bucky, can you make sure (Y/N) get’s home safe? I’m gonna have to take my car…”

Bucky chuckled quietly and nodded at your father, enjoying the obvious win.

“I’ll take good care of her, man.”

Your father thanked Bucky, throwing his credit card to you for dinner and running off in a hurry. You felt sick to your stomach, all the red wine dancing around in your body. You felt Bucky’s hand on your thigh, rubbing circles on your skin.

“You ready to go?” He winked, tilting his head for an answer. You could only nod, unable to think of any words to say.

Bucky tossed three one-hundred dollar bills down on the table, taking them from a large wad of cash hidden in his jacket. You felt dizzy at the sight of all the money, wondering where it could possibly be coming from.

The valet pulled Bucky’s car around, which was obviously something beautiful and fancy and nauseatingly expensive. He opened the passenger door for you, helping you up into the seat. He leaned towards you after you were sitting, pulling your face to his. He kissed you intensely, not giving you a second to think, or breathe. You melted into him, allowing his body to do whatever he wanted.

But he quickly broke away, closing the door and getting in the driver seat. He didn’t speak to you the rest of the ride, just casually glancing in your direction every few minutes. You wondered if you should tell him where you lived, or if he already knew. But you quickly realized you weren’t going home.

You pulled up to a large white house on the beach. The gates opened promptly as you arrived. They closed quickly behind you, making you finally realize the intensity of the situation. You were here now, locked inside, with a complete stranger. A very, very hot stranger.

Bucky opened the door for you, clearly picking up your awe at the size of the house.

“I’m just renting it. I don’t usually stay in one place too long…” he explained, a hint of sadness in his voice.

“What exactly do you do?” You asked, instantly regretting it as you noticed the distaste in his voice.

“You don’t need to know that, yet,” he snapped, emphasizing the word ‘yet’. What the hell did that mean?

He ushered you through the front door, offering you a glass of wine as you entered. You accepted happily, staring at his wide wine collection that was much nicer than the box sitting in your fridge.

You sat down on his couch, sinking into the soft cushions, realizing just then how tipsy you were. As he walked back towards you with your drinks, you felt a wave of excitement and spontaneity wash over you. Fuck wine, man. The worst and horniest decisions you ever made were because of wine.

Bucky set your drinks done and you didn’t waste any time. You jumped up towards him, pushing your lips onto his and dragging your hands down his body. He didn’t fight you, unbuckling his pants quickly. He began kissing your neck, pulling down the straps of your dress. You hadn’t worn a bra, giving his lips easy access to your breasts. He sucked your nipples lightly, grazing his teeth.

You pulled his shirt over his head, revealing a perfectly sculpted body that at this point, you had expected. You brought your hand down to his dick, already hard and poking out through his boxers. You pushed him off of you as you got down to your knees, removing his boxers and taking his length into your mouth.

You flicked your tongue across his tip, making him shake under you. He grabbed the back of your head and pushed himself deeper into you, hitting the back of your throat. He moved in and out of your mouth, his hand holding your hair out of the way.

Finally he pulled out of your mouth, beckoning you to stand up. You did as you were told, getting off your knees and following him to the catch. He sat down and dragged you onto his lap, feeling his cock under you. He kissed you for a while, but you never got bored. You could’ve kissed him forever.

But you felt him twitching beneath you, begging to be inside. You positioned him to your opening and slid down gently, adjusting to his size. He moaned slightly, throwing his head back as he went in.

“Don’t move for a second…” he commanded, sitting up and taking your face. He was inside of you, not moving, just holding you.

“You are the most beautiful person I have ever seen,” he whispered, the scotch spilling from his breath. He didn’t give you time to respond before he grabbed your hips and began to rock you on him.

You let him move you for a few minutes before you started moving yourself. You felt the overwhelming rush of pleasure take over as you got close to cumming, speeding up your motions.

“Shit…” you squealed, riding out your high as he kissed your neck.

“Keep going… I wanna cum inside you…” He whispered into your ear, his lips tickling your jaw.

You kept grinding your hips, moving faster as he got closer. He gripped onto your hips, digging his nails into your skin as you felt him twitch. You felt him fill you up with warmth, claiming you as his in that moment. The ultimate trophy of male dominance.

You felt sick to your stomach after you got off, feeling him drip down your thighs as you rolled to the other side of the couch. The fun of the wine had worn off into an annoying headache, and you were dreadfully thirsty.

For some reason, you wondered if you had dreamed the whole thing, before you looked over and saw a naked Bucky, staring blissfully at you.

“Can I get you anything?” He asked, kindly.

“Water.”

He smiled graciously, standing up and putting his boxers on. He walked down a hallway, presumably to the kitchen, and your fight or flight kicked in. You quickly grabbed your shoes and bag, bolting out the front door, unable to face him.

You were greeted by the fresh air, happy to be back in the realm of normalcy. And then you remembered. The gate.

“Fuck…” you exclaimed, dropping your shoes on the pavement.

“I’ll take you home.” You heard, seeing an uncomfortable Bucky standing in the doorway.

You got back in his car, staying uncomfortably silent as he started the engine and opened the gate.

“Do you regret it?” He asked. His voice snapped through the quiet like a whip. It made you jump.

“No. I don’t.” You answered. It was the truth.

“Good. We’ll talk soon, then.”

He dropped you off without another word, and you realized you never actually gave him your address.

Who the hell was James Barnes?

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #tfatws #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes x you #james buchanan barnes

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ddarker-dreams · 4 years ago

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Henry & Sylvain x M Reader Not SFW HCs. [COMM]

Warnings: NOT SFW, mind control, stalking mention, unhealthy power dynamics, and blood mention. Word count: 3k.

Henry:

Before meeting you, Henry had never thought about sex that often. He was aware of it but never saw the appeal. Why waste time with strenuous physical activity when he could be perfecting different hexes instead? It’s when he met you that his libido started to pick up. It started in the small, seemingly ordinary things. Paying extra attention to your exposed collarbones, the outline of your jaw, how you’d look when wiping sweat from your brow. It’d stir feelings up within Henry that he’d never experienced before.

He wasn’t sure what to do with all this new excitement that came from being around you. To sate this newfound urge, he’d touch himself at night to the thought of you, low groans and whispers of your name leaving his lips incessantly. Henry would imagine you in a variety of positions, even wondering if he could use his magical prowess to form some sort of double of you to enact these fantasies with. It’d be easier that way, he’d reason, without the prominent fear of rejection should he approach you about these feelings. Henry isn’t sure what he’d do with himself should you turn down him in a confession, so he tries to placate himself in other ways.

This solution works for some time. He’d start fixating over your discarded clothes, maneuvering in secret to steal your briefs while you wash up after a long day’s work. The aid his natural magic inclination brings makes the process smoother. He’ll jerk himself off with your briefs on his face, imagining it was your hands instead of his own wrapped around his cock. Henry will be creeping around your tent whenever he gets the opportunity to steal more personal belongings.

Henry has other, more practical uses for these items. They aid nefarious ideas of his own concocting, the darker side to the mystic arts. He delights himself in experimenting with different spells and hexes that’ll aid him at... a later time. It’s a fallback in case you do reject him. While Henry is typically inclined to follow orders, carnal pleasures of the flesh are too great a temptation to deny, his budding obsession with you not going anywhere.

He’ll of course hide all this unsightly behavior from you, wanting to leave a stellar impression of himself. Should you try and pursue a relationship with Henry, he’ll be more than delighted, accepting your advances without hesitation. Henry isn’t experienced when it comes to physical intimacy and would prefer to learn what you’re interested in before anything else. You’ll learn that he’s eager to please.

There’ll be hours of conversation between the two of you, with mostly him speaking, asking questions about your kinks and various preferences. Oddly enough, he doesn’t go much into his own until later into your relationship. You didn’t take him for the type to be more reserved on his own kinks. The reason being is that they tend to linger on the darker side -- like mind control -- so he won’t mention it to you until he feels more comfortable. For now, that’ll stay in his private fantasies.

It goes without saying that Henry is into biting or any form of making, to the point it draws blood. He’ll laugh lightheartedly about it should you ever point out all the marks he leaves on your neck. When he’s pressing kisses and nibbling against your skin, it’ll be one of the few times he’ll open his eyes, wanting to drink in your every movement. Henry doesn’t want to miss out on anything you can offer him.

The spots he’s most sensitive are underneath his ears and his wrists. Henry will go from joking and teasing to dead silent when you place kisses against these areas, shivers wracking down his spine and blood rushing in between his legs. Should you blow on his ear it’ll be enough to get him riled up, Henry pushing you onto your back and hovering above your vulnerable form. Be prepared to have aching legs and hips the next morning.

He’s both a sadist and a masochist, though he leans more towards the latter. He’ll be just as pleased to receive pain as he is to inflict it on you, depending on his and your mood. Blood has always interested him, but seeing it in this light is new and thrilling, especially if it’s yours. Henry gets the most pleasure from licking the blood from the newly formed cuts and bruises on your pretty skin.

Henry prefers giving rather than receiving. While he enjoys it when you pleasure him instead, there’s something more appealing to him about being the one getting you riled up. Unfortunately, he has a penchant for teasing, kissing around your waist and thighs while leaving your dick untouched. He could continue amusing himself like this for ages if it weren’t for your convincing whines for him to just get you off already.

He loves to swallow your cum, enjoying the taste of it and makes sure that he always swallows every last drop. He’ll tease you about it afterward, always loving how he can make your cheeks flush with his lascivious comments. You’ll get the opportunity for payback when you finally go down on him, Henry being too preoccupied with how good you’re making him feel to think of any more lame jokes or quips. That doesn’t mean he won’t throw in a few after though.

His dick is around five and a half inches fully erect, more on the long and thin side. He has a prominent vein that stretches from the base to his tip that’s very sensitive. You’ll earn the most unholy sounds from him when you touch or lick it.

Henry is extremely possessive of you but doesn’t channel in a way that most would. As he’s still new to relationships and intimacy in general, it doesn’t feel like there’s a productive way to channel these negative feelings, other than being unusually rough and demanding with you during sex. He’ll be far less talkative, focusing on making you writhe beneath him. It’s an unusual, albeit mildly frightening sight. Bitemarks will be left in overt places that can’t easily be covered with clothes. Whenever the bruises do start to heal, he’ll pull you aside to make new ones, muttering about how that’s better before scampering off.

He also loves to cum deep inside of you. Henry insists on doing so when he’s the one fucking you, the way you tighten around him driving him crazy. You can tell he’s close when he stops talking, thrusting into you while gritting his teeth, his hands gripping your hips tight enough to leave bruises. For a mage, he has an abundance of physical strength, you’ve learned.

Traditional dirty talk isn’t really his forte. Henry just says what comes to his mind, which tends to be odd or even questionable, but you’ve grown used to it. He’ll say the nastiest things without an ounce of shame. You’re not sure if it’s because he doesn’t know the sexual implications of what he’s saying, if he doesn’t care, or both. This has landed you in some embarrassing situations. If any of the Shepherds mention you look more tired lately, Henry will joyfully pipe up and say it’s because of him. It’s a nightmare. He seems to enjoy riling you up, so it’s best to not give him the reaction he’s looking for.

He’s been waiting a long time to bring up the prospect of mind control magic to you. When he finally does, he’ll be rambling excitedly about all the possibilities, how he’s been preparing, etc. It’s better not to ask why he has a lock of your hair already prepared in a jar. Since he’s more proficient in magic, he insists on being the one to use it on you, though offers to teach you how to use it on him one day.

Henry loves how subservient you are when you’re under his spell, literally, your eyes blank as you wordlessly obey his every order. His favorite orders are things you’d normally be too embarrassed to do. Things like slowly stripping for him, giving a lap dance, telling you to moan as loud as humanly possible. He loves telling you to get on your hands and knees for him, praising you for your obedience as you do exactly that without question.

A dark voice in the recesses of his mind entertains the thought of keeping you in this state permanently. You’re just being so good for him, it’s tempting to keep it up, despite his promise to release you after your time together. Henry might keep you in this listless state just a bit longer than he said he would, for the sole purpose of pampering him in kisses and burning touches. When he finally does release you from his spell, he’ll joke about not knowing which version of you he likes more. He likes both equally, don’t worry.

Sylvain:

Sylvain’s reputation proceeds him, it’s no surprise that his advances towards you consist of flirtatious remarks and “accidental” touches. Especially when you’re training at the monastery together, instructing him on how to properly wield a weapon, he takes advantage of the time to fluster you. Sylvain will ask for help on adjusting his form, not so subtly leaning into your chest with his back while you make the proper adjustments. He has no sense of shame. You can get back at him by giving a genuine compliment, that’ll be enough to ignite a blush on his face.

He’s always jumping at the opportunity for private tutoring, even if he doesn’t need any additional help, believing that the alone time with you will advance his goals. Sylvain will pull his chair extra close to yours, his voice notably deeper than normal as he asks questions that’ll get you talking. Eventually, he’ll give up the pretense of wanting to learn altogether, focusing the conversation more on you as a person than the lesson material. Sylvain will look at you through lidded eyes as you answer his inquiries in depth, wondering how your lips would look somewhere else.

His language consists heavily of sexual innuendos. It feels like everything he does is for the sake of riling you up, a knowing chuckle leaving his lips when you cross your legs to hide how hard you’re growing from his flirtatious comments. That’s when he decides to grow bolder. He’ll teasingly rub his hand over your crotch, maintaining eye contact while he does so, asking with a smug voice if something is wrong.

Sylvain’s preference is to be the one in total control. He finds it thrilling to have you pinned down underneath him, fucking you relentlessly when just minutes prior you were the one lecturing him. It gives him a rush of adrenaline found nowhere else, not even on the battlefield. It’s immensely satisfying to know that you’re like putty in his hands, canting into his every touch as you try your best to chase down your release. He can’t get enough of it.

He has a huge exhibitionism kink. The risk of being caught with your dick in his mouth never fails to get him going, his own member hardening as you harshly bite down on your lip to keep quiet. He’ll expect you to return the favor once you come in his mouth, whispering for you to get on your hands and knees for him. Sylvain cares slightly less about being quiet, far more carefree on the matter than you. He finds your anxiety in the situation to be endearing.

The physical training that he’s undergone for years has molded his body well, particularly his biceps. He adores it when you kiss and nip up and down his arm, moaning louder than normal as you do so. His favorite part of your body would be your inner thighs. From the years you spent as a mercenary, your muscles are well defined as well, and earn extra attention from Sylvain. He makes sure to linger in the areas he likes the most.

Sylvain is downright cruel with his orgasm denial. He’ll spend all day teasing you, winking and brushing against you in the hallway, getting you worked up for later. When you finally do get alone time together, he spends the most time on foreplay, but noticeably ignores your throbbing member. Sylvain won’t relieve you until you’re a begging, incomprehensible mess, and even then he still keeps you waiting.

One surefire way to end Sylvain’s teasing is offering to let him face fuck you. He’s fantasized about it before, and would likely do it with or without your suggestion, but there’s something about you offering it so willingly that sends heat to his crotch. Sylvain greedily accepts your offer, thrusting his dick deep into your mouth, his balls hitting your chin as he does so. He’ll pull on your hair, forcing your face as close to his pelvis as humanly possible. You won’t hear the end of it unless you swallow every last drop of his cum.

Even when you’re the one fucking him, he’s giving orders, telling you exactly what he wants. You’re both pretty equal in terms of strength, but his personality makes him more domineering. He loves watching how you try your best to please him, slyly telling you exactly what he wants at every chance. It’s only when he’s close to coming that he finally shuts up, focusing on how good you’re making him feel. He’s a guy who knows what he wants and how to get it.

Sylvain’s moans are low and breathy, sometimes guttural as he gets closer to his release. He tends to curse underneath his breath, especially when he’s fucking you, practically chanting your name with every sharp thrust. For someone that loves denying you release, he doesn’t appreciate the same treatment and prefers to come as fast as he can. He has a lot of pent up frustrations, after all, and has found this is the best way to deal with all the stress.

He loves pulling your hair, forcing you to maintain eye contact with him when you finally come. Sylvain would insist that you look him in the eye as he fucks you, wanting to see your face when you get your release, slowing down if you try to look away out of embarrassment. He could practically get off on the sight of you coming undone alone, and has a few times, but only when you’re unavailable for whatever reason.

Sylvain loves watching you jerk yourself off and will ask to see you do so. It can feel a bit embarrassing at first, but he’ll encourage you, saying how badly he wants to see it. You’ve found it’s difficult to deny Sylvain what he wants and that it’s more productive to do as he asks. You’ll be rewarded appropriately, feeling his lips on your dick when you get closer, Sylvain murmuring that he’ll take things from here.

His dick is about six inches fully erect. He’s both long and girthy, making it a bit painful the first few times he fucks you, especially since he doesn’t seem to mind being rough. His dick gets incredibly red when he’s aroused, you’ve learned.

You’re not entirely sure how he managed to get ahold of one, but Sylvain shows up to your personal quarters one night with a cock ring. He explains with a wink that it’s meant for you. You almost miss the teasing he made you endure before, as it was nothing compared to this, Sylvain entertaining himself with your body for hours without letting you come once. He’ll make you say the most humiliating things for even a chance to come. Of course, he rewards your obedience later, but the wait until then can feel borderline painful.

His favorite way to take you is against the wall. There’s something primal and thrilling about it, watching how your body contorts while he fucks you against it. It’s a perfect position to get deep inside of you, as you have no choice but to lock your legs around his waist to avoid falling, so this position is his go to. He also gets a kick out of all the noise that it makes, not even attempting to be quiet to avoid rumors. If there’s anything Sylvain has grown to disdain, it’s the opinions of others, especially nobles. This causes him to care less about anyone who might hear the two of you.

Sylvain is likely to introduce toys into the occasion at some point in your relationship. He wouldn’t care much for using them on himself, no, he wants to use them on you. To see all the cute faces and noises you make as he pleasures you in a variety of ways, it makes him hard just thinking about it. He’s especially fond of having you wear a butt plug throughout the day. He’ll make your life extra difficult, innocently asking you to get things for him in public. It’s all in good fun, he just enjoys seeing you struggle to maneuver around all day, having to act like nothing is the matter. Sylvain will promise to make it up to you later.

Expect to be called a wide variety of pet names. Sylvain does moan your name the most by default, but when he starts getting more comfortable with you, a few affectionate nicknames will get mixed in there. He’s partial to calling you professor, or prof, depending on his mood. Sadly for you, he’ll still call you that outside of the bedroom, with a knowing wink at how your cheeks flush. He can be a bit of a cheeky bastard at times.

As your relationship progresses, Sylvain will sometimes get softer when you’re intimate together. He didn’t care much for love, thinking most suitors only wanted to be with him for his crest, so he is truly greatly for you. He’ll prove this by slowing down, murmuring praises and peppering loving kisses against your skin. He wants to make sure you know how much he cares for you, even if he struggles to show it in a genuine way at times.

#not sfw #henry x reader #henry fire emblem #henry fire emblem x reader #henry imagine #henry fire emblem awakening #fire emblem #sylvain #fire emblem three house imagines #sylvain x reader #my stuff #sylvain gautier #commissions

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walviemort · 5 years ago

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hidden blessing (6/?)

Summary: Killian thought the only thing he was left with after Milah’s death was a broken heart and a thirst for vengeance. It’s not until he gets to Storybrooke, after so many years spent in stasis, that he discovers something else: he’s carrying her child. How does this new, tiny blessing change his path? (Canon-divergent from 2x12.)

a/n: I didn’t realize it had been so long since I updated—apologies! Hopefully I haven’t lost you, and hopefully the next one will go up sooner. Dedicated as always to the amazing @sherlockianwhovian <3

“If you must know,” he started, then leaned in closer and lowered his voice to a whisper. “I’m pregnant.”

Emma stared at him for a moment, then scoffed. “Seriously? This is no time for jokes.”

A spark of anger quickly ignited within Killian; he wasn’t sure if that was his normal temper, or the hormones playing a part. “Why the bloody hell would I make something like that up?”

“I don’t know; some weird attempt to lighten the mood.”

“Am I lying?” he snapped back.

She opened her mouth a few times, trying to come up with an equal retort, but he saw the realization of his truth wash over her. She finally came up with, “That’s impossible.”

“Afraid not.”

She blinked in disbelief and looked him up and down, her gaze eventually settling on his midsection. His bump was still mostly hidden by the bulk of his vest, but if one knew to look, they could see the way his stomach curved just above his belt. “Wait, for real?”

If it weren’t for the taste of bile on his tongue, he probably would have found humor in her reaction. As it was, he simply longed for a drag from the waterskin Snow was carrying and his temper was wearing thin. Impulsively, he reached out for her hand and placed the back of it against his stomach, against the spot where its inhabitant was currently moving about—not strongly discernible kicks, not from the outside, but definitely noticeable, especially (hopefully) to someone who had been through this before.

Emma’s eyes grew wide in shocked recognition and she snatched her hand back. “Holy shit; you’re pregnant.”

“Aye; and if you don’t mind, I’d like to wash my mouth out with something other than rum.” And without another word, stepped around Emma to join the rest of the group.

Emma only paused a moment before rushing to catch back up to him. “But...how?” she stammered.

“Well, when a man and woman love each other—”

“I know that,” she cut off. “But like...is that a normal thing in the Enchanted Forest?” She cast a worrying look in the direction of her father.

And as quick as the anger had come, it was replaced with sympathy just as fast; he couldn’t fault Emma’s confusion, when it evidently was an impossibility in her realm. “Not necessarily; it’s rare—only runs in certain families—but it does happen. Obviously.”

He hoped that might be the end of it, not quite wanting that revelation to drop on any unsuspecting ears just yet, but Emma had more questions. And honestly, it felt nice to talk to someone about it, however briefly, and equally nice to have someone take an interest.

“How far along are you?” she continued.

“About sixteen weeks, the doctor says.”

“Does anyone else know?”

“Just Regina.”

“Is she the...mother, or whatever?”

“Heavens no.” Though he could see why she’d think that.

She grew silent for a bit. “You should have told me,” she finally scolded.

“I know,” he agreed.

“I can’t afford to be worried about you, too.”

That honestly took him aback; it had been centuries since anyone had any concern for him. “I’m flattered, love, but you don’t have to; I can take care of myself,” he assured her. Her focus needed to be on Henry—not his sorry arse.

She was about to say something, but David’s voice interrupted. “Up here! We made it!”

They jogged ahead to join the rest of the group at the ridge, which gave an unparalleled view of the island, specifically the Dark Jungle—or at least, it had; it appeared to have grown over quite a bit in Killian’s absence. They heeded his warning on going through it, at least, and agreed to his recommendation to make camp with only minor protest.

He thought sleep would claim him quickly—while he wasn’t as fatigued as he had been weeks ago, he still found himself needing more than in the past; given the excitement of the last day, he knew he needed it. But the island wasn’t quite ready to let him.

The crying—how had he forgotten it?

The sound of the Lost One’s wails echoed in his skull, and if he wasn’t careful, his own would likely join them; it certainly had in the past. Regardless of the number of decades that had passed since his father deserted him and his brother, the cries never failed to bring up the feelings of hurt and abandonment that lay buried within.

But now it wasn’t just for him—gods, what if that happened to his child? For not the first time (and likely not the last), he worried that one or more of his enemies, or even just his penchant for ending up in life-threatening situations, would leave his child parentless.

He rolled from his back to his side, away from the others, and curled in on himself, hoping the fetal position—and feeling of fetal movements under his palm—might calm his thoughts and mind, but it was to no avail. He squeezed his eyes shut in concentration, but all that did was force out the tears that had been brimming at them. It had been many years since he’d silently cried, but as a lad, it had been a lifesaving skill; thank goodness he still remembered how.

Gods, how was no one else reacting to this? Even with the echoing sobs in the foliage, he could still hear the prince’s snores, and the general silence told him everyone else was equally still.

He let his crying jag run its course; he’d need the waterskin again soon, but hopefully he would at least cry himself to sleep. Alas, he did not, and the rhythmic sounds of the others in the camp did nothing to lull him, either.

Sighing, he returned to his back, hoping the stars might give some comfort—but they were invisible through the foliage. He quietly sighed again and let his head fall to the other side, glancing at the rest of the camp. The first thing he saw was a blanket lying in a heap and Emma’s jacket—but no Emma.

He sat bolt upright. He had no doubts she heard the voices, too. He’d known her for a lost girl from the moment he’d locked eyes with her. But why the bloody hell had she gone off alone?

His jacket was on and he was ready to search for her when she returned on her own, a blank sheet of parchment in hand that he could immediately tell was anything but harmless.

It was Pan; of course it was. A shiver went down his spine at the thought of the demon child being close and he not being aware of it.

After rousing the others, she explained: the map would lead them to Henry, but first, she had to stop denying who she really was. Regina scoffed at the idea and questioned its validity, but he set her straight: Pan loved his games, and this is just another they had to play.

(Surprisingly, he had the Charmings on his side. “I’m winning you over; I can feel it,” he teased David; he took the responding roll of eyes as progress.)

Of course, Emma coming to terms with her identity was much easier said than done. It took a certain kind of confidence—and many years—for most people to fully own their selves; for Killian, it had taken a handful of decades to achieve that kind of self-awareness. That was time they didn’t have for Emma.

In her typical impatience, Regina decided a quicker plan: use a tracking spell on the parchment itself to lead to Pan. Again, he found himself in agreement with the Charmings, that using magic was a risk. But Her Majesty wouldn’t hear it, and off they went into the jungle…

...Right into an ambush. He should have known that would happen; alas, the only warning he could give was of the danger hidden in the Lost Boys’ poisoned arrow tips. He said a silent prayer to whoever might be listening that he and his child would manage to avoid that fate; and, to his surprise, a warm wash of magic ran over him—shielding him, it felt like. He caught Regina’s eye from across their circle and she nodded at him. Well, at least she’d done that.

They somehow made it through the altercation relatively unscathed, though David seemed to have had a too-close encounter with an arrow, and Killian really did not want to deal with Felix ever again. Pan repeated his smug instructions to Emma, and then their foes retreated...leaving them no closer to finding Henry.

He took small comfort in the gentle movements he felt within while he subtly rested his hand on his belt on their trek back to camp. They may not have come out ahead, but at least they weren’t behind (he hoped).

He and Regina hung back at the campsite while Emma and her parents continued at the map. His adrenaline from the fight was starting to fade and his interrupted sleep was calling for him—but at the same time, he was too spooked to sleep. Regina’s pacing seemed to suggest the same thing.

“Thank you for the protection,” he said quietly; his voice seemed to startle her from her thoughts, but she recovered quickly.

“No problem. I wasn’t about to risk anything happening to...you know.”

“I appreciate it. But I’d also rather we not find ourselves in that sort of situation again.”

She nodded. “I know; I was hasty. I just...I hate not knowing where he is.”

He stepped closer. “I know I’m not as familiar with your boy, but we’ve all got our motivations to get him back. You need to trust the rest of us.”

She scoffed. “Afraid I’ve never been much of a team player.”

“Well you best figure out how, because not only does your son’s life depend on it, but all of ours—including my child’s, as well.” He turned and stalked away, letting Regina brood while he did much the same.

The sooner they worked together, the sooner they saved the lad and got out of this bloody realm, and his child would be safe again.

It seemed like the Charmings were having a moment, so he stepped aside briefly to deal with another stirring of nausea, then rinsed his mouth out with rum after. He was rather annoyed that he’d likely be dealing with that for the duration of their stay here; all the more reason to find any way to hasten it.

He’d barely returned to the clearing and pocketed his flask when Emma was running towards him. “The map is working! We know where Henry is,” she practically shouted, shoving it in his face.

Sure enough, a map of the island had appeared on the parchment—a deceptively simple one.

Emma stood at his side as he studied it, and Regina was quick to jump on the other. “Where?”

It took him aback, for a moment, that they were both willing to listen to him. “Uh...We're here at the southern tip of the isle, in the middle of the Dark Jungle,” he explained, gesturing with his hook, “and Pan's camp lies due north.” A bright red X marked the spot; but it didn’t detail the dangers that lay between here and there.

“That's where he's keeping Henry,” Emma stated matter-of-factly.

Regina clearly hadn’t taken his previous lecture to heart. “What are we waiting for?”

“Well, the terrain’s not easy,” he warned. “There will undoubtedly be some nasty impediments along the way.” He shot her an annoyed look.

“We should prepare,” David stepped in. “We only made it out of our last encounter because Pan let us. We need a new plan.”

“Agreed. It's time we stop playing his game and he starts playing ours,” Emma concurred.

Regina bristled. “And if I disagree?”

Emma wasn’t having it. “Go ahead, but I think you know our best chance is together.” Again, Killian sent a knowing look in Regina’s direction.

She swallowed bitterly. “You better be right.”

Everyone dispersed to either sulk or plan, but Emma lingered in his space. He hadn’t missed her reddened eyes, or the general sense of emotional exhaustion.

“Excellent show of patience, luv,” he encouraged her. “And that's what defeats a nasty little boy.”

“I hope so,” she confessed. He wished he knew of a better way to comfort her, but he was still on the outside looking in when it came to her walls, and had little more than a crack to peer through. That said, he knew where he usually turned in moments like that, and pulled his flask back out. She rolled her eyes as he did. “Is rum your solution to everything? You shouldn’t even be drinking that.”

“It certainly doesn't hurt. And it’s not for me; it’s for you.” She eyed it briefly in his extended hand, then took it from him and drank a very long swig. It seemed to help; she relaxed a bit—as much as she could, given the situation. Which was good, because his curiosity got the best of him and pregnancy brain meant he had little to no filter. “So just how did you unlock the map?” he asked.

“I did what Pan asked,” she shrugged.

“And just who are you, Swan?”

She smirked and handed the flask back. “Wouldn't you like to know?”

“Perhaps I would,” he confessed solemnly. She’d clearly been expecting flirtation and not blunt honesty, if the way she was taken aback was any indication.

But it was quickly followed by a small smile. “Ask me that again when we get home and I might have an answer for you.”

She then wandered back to her parents, leaving him in an almost stunned silence. The fact that she hadn’t shot him down was not something he had prepared for—but he was far from complaining.

Logically, he knew there were far more important matters at hand than flirting with his crush. But who said he couldn’t do both? (Especially if she was going to be receptive to the idea?)

Intense fluttering started behind his navel again; he rested his palm against it while he was still out of everyone’s sight. “All the more reason for us to fight to get home, eh, little one?” he murmured.

They still had a fight ahead—gods only knew what they’d face—but for the first time, he was feeling optimistic.

(And hopefully, it wasn’t just the hormones talking.

(Emma, meanwhile, was starting to plan and prep with her parents, but was running over that conversation in her mind. He’d been genuine with her—as much as when he confessed his condition to her earlier. Despite his past proclamations, he really knew her about as well as she knew him: not as much as she’d like. That realization was throwing her for a loop; she was in the middle of a cursed jungle trying to rescue her son—why in the hell was she flirting with a pirate? A pregnant one at that?

And why didn’t she regret it one bit?)

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

thanks for reading! tagging @cocohook38 @wyntereyez @jennjenn615 @superadam54 @ashley-knightingale @justsomewhump (let me know if you want a tag!)

#cs ff #killian jones ff #mpreg #hidden blessing #My ff

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chiseler · 4 years ago

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Harry Stephen Keeler: The Paper Blackener of Bagdad on the Lakes

Marry a moustachioed alcoholic and erstwhile magician to a Welsh-American beauty shortly before the World’s Columbian Exposition. When their son is born, widow the mother. Widow her again—twice. Put her in charge of a boarding house for vaudevillians. Make her son a prankster and give him a degree in electrical engineering. Bake him in the Kankakee mental asylum for a year. The result: the one and only Harry Stephen Keeler.

Keeler (1890-1967) was, in his own words, one of the most obsessive “paper-blackeners” ever to inhabit Chicago—“London of the West, Bagdad on the Lakes.” In this regard he is not wholly unlike Henry Darger, the janitor and outsider artist who spent his life a few blocks away creating the 15,000-page chronicle of the Vivian Girls. One difference is that Keeler got published.

When he was out of the asylum and working as a steel mill electrician, Keeler started frenetically punching away at his L. C. Smith, turning out surprise-twist short stories and, soon, complicated serial mysteries in a whimsical vein. He also landed a job as editor of 10 Story Book, a pulp featuring humorous tales and half-naked girls. With Find the Clock (Dutton, 1927), he achieved U.S. hardback publication. Keeler was to publish 37 volumes with Dutton until he exhausted his publishers’ patience in 1942. He published 48 books with the British publisher Ward Lock (1929-53), nine with the fourth-rate Phoenix Press (1943-48), and a dozen or so further novels written directly for Spanish or Portuguese translation at $50 a pop, in addition to several manuscripts that never saw the light of day.

That’s a story of decline—and even at the early peak of his mild popularity, Keeler struggled to sell more than a few thousand copies of his novels. The Great Depression was part of the problem, but so was Keeler’s prose. Over the course of the ’30s, Keeler transmuted his early style—convoluted “webwork” plots and somewhat Victorian diction—into screwball concoctions where the narrator and characters sink into morasses of dialect and ludicrous phraseology, as the reader is challenged to sift through layers of implausible interpretation to uncove an even more implausible solution. Ignoring the pleas of his editors, HSK churned out huge, multivolume creations that tried his readers’ brains and now seem boldly postmodern, as if they had been dreamed up by Pynchon or Oulipo. To mention a few:

The Box from Japan (1932) is set in 1942 and runs to over 700,000 words, with extensive digressions on intercontinental 3-D television, a Nicaraguan canal, and the Japanese emperor’s love of Virginia ham.

The Marceau Case and X. Jones of Scotland Yard (1936) are “documented novels” that consist of newspaper stories, telegrams, photos (including one of a topless woman and one of Keeler himself), astronomical charts, cartoons, a Bible verse, two ten-page long footnotes, and much more. The premise is a twist on “locked room” mysteries: a man was strangled on an open croquet lawn, with only a few small footprints in his immediate vicinity. Was he garroted by a Lilliputian in an autogyro? The case is given a three-dimensional solution by an American in the first volume, and a four-dimensional solution by an Englishman in the second.

The Mysterious Mr. I and The Chameleon (1938-39) trace the Chicago peregrinations of a narrator who keeps us and everyone around him guessing as he switches identities no fewer than fifty times (once posing as a professor of philosophy who provides yet another solution to the Marceau case).

The Man with the Magic Eardrums (1939) is an all-night dialogue between two mysterious characters who discuss interracial marriage, telephone technology, and a laundry list of other Keelerian obsessions. It was followed by three sequels.

The exhausting, quasilunatic plots of HSK’s novels are larded with gems of Keelerian writing: awkward, preposterous, and hilarious. The laughter is always uncertain, though, because you are never sure just how much of the effect is intentional. (I have come to believe that most of it is.) Contemporary Keelerite Edward Bolman has recently started tweeting some of these gems (twitter.com/harryskeeler). Here’s a small selection.

“I—I thank you, Governor,” he said with dignity, “on behalf of the Great Science of Mathematics and Joe the Duck.”

For all’s not gold that glitters; and everything that makes an inky black aqueous solution isn’t the pure oxyrhodomate salt of platinum.

“I—I don’t want any women,” Joe managed to ejaculate.

Real estate law oozed out from all over him.

“I’d like to be Hong’s gold watch in his pocket—but able to listen, like as if it were my own ear—yeah, a gold ear-shaped listening watch.”

“Nuts!” exploded Monk Onderko. “Bull,” came from Pox in the rear.

His conscience was invariably an amoeba hypertrophied to the size of behemoth and capering about, centipedal with a hundred elephant legs!

Unlikely as it may seem, Keeler got a small taste of Hollywood in 1934, when Monogram Studios put out two films based on his Sing Sing Nights. In the movie of that name, three murder suspects are tested by a lie detector. (In the novel, the three men shot their victim nearly but not quite simultaneously—so two of them are guilty of no more than pumping a bullet into a corpse. One shooter espouses the theory that racism will eventually be overcome thanks to interbreeding, plastic surgery, and international air travel. None of this makes it into the film.) In The Mysterious Mr. Wong, a film based on a story told by one of the characters in Keeler’s Sing Sing Nights, Bela Lugosi plays Wong, a tepidly creepy Oriental who is stalked by a feebly wisecracking reporter. These movies have some interest as period pieces, but retain little of the distinctive Keeler touch. Extensive research has not supported Keeler’s claim that Sing Sing Nights inspired yet a third film, titled The Gorilla’s Brain.

Nearly forgotten by the end of his life, Keeler has experienced a small posthumous revival thanks to the Internet (which he would have adored). The Harry Stephen Keeler Society, founded in 1997, publishes a newsletter. All of Keeler’s books can be printed on demand by Ramble House. In 2005, McSweeney’s republished the 1934 novel The Riddle of the Traveling Skull. Keeler’s confessed fans include Neil Gaiman and Roger Ebert. Now we await a truly Keelerian film—a movie that somehow captures the erudite, juvenile, loquacious, gleefully unrealistic world of a Harry Stephen Keeler novel.

by Richard Polt

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toziersoneliners · 6 years ago

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Losers! [Chubby Reader]

⛓ | summer |

For some, the last day of school could be sorrowful. However (Y/n) couldn't help but feel a little relieved. She wasn't worried about not seeing her friends until school started up again, Richie was her neighbor and she practically spent all of her time with either Eddie or Bill. Though recently she'd been hanging around the nice boy Mike Hanlon. Though a bit shy, he was sweet and gentle, something (Y/n) wasn't really used to. Though she was apart of the Losers Club and hung around all boys, she was never really a tough girl. Some could have said it was due to her abusive home, but nor her or the boys thought so. If it was really because of her constant abuse, then she'd be strong, not weak. Her mother was the villain in her story, and that woman scared the daylights out of the chubby girl.

(Y/n) feared nothing like she feared her own mother.

Usually you'd see the father being the abusive one, but that wasn't something (Y/n) could ever see happening to herself. Her father, Matthieu Snow, was the kindest man in Derry, Maine. No one could ever convince her otherwise, either.

Despite her horrid home situation, she was often finding herself distracted these days. Her best friend Eddie Kaspbrak had been locked up in his house for a few days, no doubt to the fault of his overprotective mother. (Y/n) was bored out of her mind. While Eddie sure wasn't the most exciting person to be around, she found the boy to be wholesome, reminding her of a lost puppy almost. Like mentioned before, she wasn't strong willed, so she didn't have the guts to show up at the Kaspbrak residence to go and ask to see Eddie. Sonya was terrifying to (Y/n), intimidation making her hesitant to even go near Eddie's house. It was extremely annoying, because she couldn't find Richie either. Her last bet was Mike, but then she'd have to take the risk of bumping into Henry Bowers, something that too, just like her own mother or Sonya Kaspbrak, scared the girl numb.

Instead, she went to find fun elsewhere, by herself. The arcade was the first place that jumped into her precious little head. Though she hated being alone, she knew that a good game of PAC-MAN or Street Fighter could cheer her right up, distract her from her loneliness. She should have known, of course, that Richie Tozier would be at the beloved arcade, training, as he called it.

The arcade was dark, but the neon lights from the various game machines lit up the place like a huge Christmas tree. The only adults to be seen was the owner of the arcade and a few man-children, ones her father would tell (Y/n) to stay away from in the future.

'Whether you marry a man or not, stay away from those boys who still live with their mothers past the age of twenty.'

She could see why, of course. As soon as she was able to understand the complexities of boys, she knew what kind of person she'd want to marry in the future. Whenever she thought about it, Mike ended up coming to her mind, as odd as it may have sounded. She wasn't interested romantically, or at least she didn't think she was. (Y/n) had no idea what love was, and wasn't sure if she really wanted to know. Love, according to some of the girls at school, entailed showing your private bits to every boy who asked, and (Y/n) knew for a fact that she wasn't that type of girl, in fact she was sure that she never would be.

"Fuck!"

The vulgar manner of speaking belonged to none other than Richie Tozier himself. The boy groaned to himself in irritation as he lost a battle in SF, pushing his large glasses up with one finger. He catches a hint of light blue and turns around only to see the chubby girl he'd come to know over the years. Richie wasn't sure what had made (Y/n) a loser, but she was one... a very cute one. He didn't give a damn about her weight, she was too cute and it killed Richie. Her sweaters and ripped up jeans, high top converse, it all made her so... LOSER. It didn't bother Richie in the slightest, damn he'd say he loved her weird sense of style.

He'd wanted to ask her to join him in the arcade just as school let out, but like always she had run off with Eddie. Was it disappointing? Yes. But did that really matter now? Not really.

Richie could guess from her bored expression and no one accompanying her, that Eddie Kaspbrak was indeed locked away in his house. She only ever wandered around when there was no one else from the Losers Club to hang out with. However, she always seemed to find one of them anyway, just as she'd found Richie in the arcade.

He smiles goofily, stepping away from the video game machine and walks towards the shy girl. Sliding his extra coins into his pocket, Richie comes up behind (Y/n) as she was momentarily distracted, staring at the greasy seeming floor of the arcade with slight disgust. She loved the arcade, she really did, but couldn't they make it a bit cleaner?

Sneakily, Richie wraps his arms around her shoulders, scaring the living crap out of her.

"HOLY FUDGE!" She squeaks out, looking behind her only to see the toothy smile of Richie Tozier. She really should have known it'd be him, after all, who'd just come up behind some girl and squeeze them like that?

"Gotcha! Where's Eds?" Richie asks, letting her go. He kind of already knew the answer, but the girl in front of him didn't know that. She huffs cutely, fiddling with the ends of her light blue sweater. Richie was of course the one who scared her, her neighbor.

"Mrs. Kaspbrak won't let him leave the house, so I came here." (Y/n) explains, looking a bit sad. Though she definitely loved all of the Losers, Eddie was by far her favorite. After all, she'd known him for such a long time, what was she supposed to do without him?

"I was going to find Mike, but then I'd have to pass Henry's house and that definitely wasn't going to happen. After all of that I was boredom so I came to the arcade."

Hearing her explanation, Richie couldn't help but flinch. Earlier that day he'd seen Bowers walking around with his dumb goons, Belch and Vic. The freckled Tozier knew very well how scared they made (Y/n), and he had a sick feeling in his stomach telling him that they weren't too far away. It didn't matter though, Richie thought to himself cheerily. He would be there to protect (Y/n), because he was in every way, a man. He'd be damned if he'd let some dumb Henry Bowers scare him off. Still... it'd be good to stay away from the easily irritable teen. There couldn't be any harm in staying inside the darkness of the greasy arcade, right? Sure, it wasn't the best place to hang out with a cute girl, but shoot, she didn't seem to mind either.

"You're still here? I thought you'd at least go home for a nap." She says, snapping Richie out of his thoughts. He lets out a funny sounding laugh, that type of laugh he gave whenever he was nervous but trying to keep a good mask on.

"Yeah well, I might have seen Bowers outside of the arcade earlier, so I wasn't about to leave." Richie says, letting out another weird laugh. She was half expecting him to go back to his game, but he instead grabbed her hand and dragged her away from where they were standing. A soft squeak left her as Richie pulled her down underneath a dusty table, pushing her to the ground while holding a hand to her mouth.

He looked scared, she realized.

She also realized that Henry Bowers himself was snooping around the arcade, eyes glowering dangerously. She, of course, didn't know how long he'd been there, but he seemed like he knew what he was looking for. He didn't happen to see her enter the arcade, did he? A sudden feeling of guilt washes over (Y/n). Richie was just having a grand time before she decided to show up and ruin everything. There would hav been a huge chance that she was completely wrong, but she couldn't help the disgusting, slimy feeling.

The feeling she'd done something wrong.

Whimpering, she pulls Richie closer to her, her eyes wold as she watches the bully stalk through the dusty arcade. The neon lights of the games seemed to illuminate Henry's face, making the experience that much more horrible. He looked... terrifying.

Though he was trying to act brave in front of (Y/n), Richie was sweating, and he was sure she could feel it. His hand that was still covering her mouth was sweating. When he realizes this, he doesn't think much of it. Though he was sure if Eddie was there they'd get caught. The hypochondriac would flip his shit if he saw Richie touching (Y/n)'s mouth, it was, for some reason, a big no no.

Eventually, Henry passes.

Richie grabs his friend by the scuff of her light blue sweater and yanks her right out from under the dirty table, dragging her quickly out of the arcade.

"I'm sure he didn't just follow you into the arcade." Stan says, flipping through his bird book with an uninterested expression. Really, Richie brought out the worst in (Y/n). He brought out her paranoid side, and it was showing obviously right then.

The two eleven year olds were nearly screaming at Stan about their terrifying encounter with Henry Bowers. (Y/n) wasn't yelling like Richie was, and she definitely wasn't cussing like he was, but she still seemed panicked. If it had been just her that came to Stan, he would have believed her and tried to comfort her, but of course Richie was there. The trash mouth was always putting stupid idea into (Y/n)'s mind, and Stan was fed up with it. She was, unlike some of the Losers, a good kid. She got good grades, she was nice, and she was undeniably cute. She just seemed to choose to hang around with the wrong people.

People like Richie Tozier.

"Are you sure this actually happened? Or is this some stupid fantasy Richie put in your head?" Stan questions, rubbing the back of his neck hole looking at the wide eyed (Y/n) and Richie. The two of them were sweating, near tears, and motioning with their hands wildly. It was an odd scene, you could imagine. Suddenly (Y/n) stopped to stare at Stan with a monotone expression.

"Of course it happened!" She exclaimed, her eyes searching for any kind of doubt in Stan's expression. He sighed, pressing a hand down to close his bird book.

"Are you sure, though?" Stan asks, rubbing his eye slightly. He looked, above all, bored. His first day of summer break had been going pretty slow. He knew he was probably supposed to be studying for his Bar Mitzvah, but he wasn't exactly in the studying kind of mood. He had, initially, gotten himself into a better mood when he saw (Y/n), but this ridiculous story, or maybe it wasn't so ridiculous, had put him right back where he started.

She stopped to give Stan a look, that look. In all rationality, (Y/n) was the mom of the group. That look, it was the kind of look a scolding mother would give her young child for coming home too late or something similar. Stan never really payed attention to it, but he guessed that it wasn't just some fantasy Richie had put in her head. She only ever gave him that kind of look when she was serious about something, that Stan knew.

"Stan."

"Alright, I believe you."

"Didn't take too much to convince you." Richie muttered, wiping his sweaty palms on the material of his jeans.

Stan, Richie and (Y/n) had spent their first day of summer break walking around Derry. Running around with ice cream, soda, and several other things. They had caught Bill running around as well, and he had hitched with them too. Besides the encounter at the arcade, there had been no sightings of Henry Bowers or his stupid goons, and all of them were glad.

"I wonder... how long do you think Eddie will have to stay locked up?" (Y/n) asks, looking at Bill and Richie as the sun started to disappear from the sky, leaving the pink cotton candy to float around. Bill, handing her another cone of vanilla ice cream, lifted his lips up in a small smile.

"What? Can't deal with us by yourself?"

Richie snorts while (Y/n) takes a bite of her ice cream, it was her third one that night, but no one in the group was complaining.

"No... I just miss him."

Once again, Richie snorts.

"Hey, Marshmallow."

The Losers freeze.

{I'm reading the book, so things may be different, but I've also watched the 2017 movie, so that's the character design I'm thinking of. Probably not going to go in when they're adults, I prefer the younger version just because. This book is a little bit of an AU, not a lot of major character death happens. Trigger warnings for death and abuse, but it's not really that bad.}

#it #it chapter one #it scenarios #richie tozier x reader #eddie kaspbrak x reader #stan uris x reader #bill denbrough x reader #ben hanscom x reader #mike hanlon x reader #henry bowers x reader #beverly marsh x reader #pansexal reader #demisexual reader

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welllpthisishappening · 5 years ago

Text

Once Again as in Olden Days

She’s absolutely freezing cold.

It’s a dumb metaphor, one that only serves to make Emma even more pissed off than she already is. Because two hours ago it was summer. But a few more hours before that, she was also locked in a tower guarded by a fire-breathing dragon. And now she’s outside. With her kid. And a pirate that isn’t hers, explicitly, but keeps staring at her like he wouldn’t mind if he was.

So maybe it’s not the worst. Maybe she’ll be able to get warm eventually.

-----

Rating: A whole bunch of teen-type canon divergence. Word Count: 6.4 K to fit in all the ridiculous Meet Me in St. Louis references AN: Back at it again with the Festive Fic Prompt A Thon and two anon prompts today: "you can put your cold feet on me." & "i don't wanna get up-- you're comfy." I started writing this as Lieutenant Duckling the other day, got a thousand words in, was like nah, then came back today and wrote nearly six and a half thousand words of 4x22 canon divergence with a frustrated Emma, enthusiastic Henry and deckhand!Hook who just wants to help. And listen to badly summarized movies. Anyway, they kiss.

|| Also on Ao3 if that’s how you roll ||

-----

She can’t stop shivering.

Every inhale comes with an almost automatic exhale that seems to wobble its way out of Emma, uneven and shaky and neither of those are good adjectives, but none of this has been good and the storm had come out of nowhere.

She assumes it’s a last-ditch effort to steer them off course, and while he might not be exactly the same man, Killian Jones is still exceptionally good in a crisis. And on his ship.

She hasn’t told him that the Jolly is his ship yet.

So, really, she might be the world’s biggest coward.

Mostly Emma is pissed off.

Magic storms. In the middle of summer.

Of course.

Fuck this reality, honestly.

She lets out another burst of air, and it’s cold enough now that she can see it linger in the space in front of her. Every inch of Emma feels frozen—muscles tense and skin raw from the shackles she is positive she can still feel and she’s starting to think in metaphors now, anger curling at the base of her spine and threatening to burst out the tips of her fingers, but that may also just be her magic and—

“Mom?” Henry mutters, snow clinging to the edge of his hair. She jumps approximately forty-seven feet in the air.

It is admittedly a rough estimate.

Henry’s teeth find his lower lip, far too familiar to be anything except vaguely jarring. Emma huffs, and she’s not sure where her lungs continue to find enough oxygen to keep doing this, pressing the heel of her hand into her cheek, like that will help ground her and her vaguely vertical emotions.

“Yeah, kid?” He jerks his head behind him, lights Emma hadn’t noticed before glimmering in the not-so-far distance, and maybe this will be ok. At least passably acceptable. Possibly warm. God, she wants to get warm again.

That’s another metaphor.

Killian hasn’t said a single word since they anchored the Jolly. Emma hopes that isn’t because she’d teleported them off the Jolly. She was actually surprised she’d been able to do it, but Regina had always told her magic was about emotion and she’s been feeling nothing except emotion, every single thing she hasn’t said yet and wants to say and is hopeful she’ll eventually be courageous enough to actually say.

She’s started biting her lip at some point too.

“We could get inside,” Henry suggests, already backpedaling and Emma knows there’s not really another option. The ends of her gown are drenched. She doesn’t want Henry to be out in this snow much longer.

She’s going to strangle Issac as soon as she sees him.

And then Rumplestilskin.

And then Isaac again, for good measure.

“Maybe get some food,” Henry continues. “That’s how it always works in the stories, right? Roadside taverns and mead and—’ “—You are not getting mead,” Emma cuts in.

Henry makes a distinctly teenage noise in the back of his throat, a bit of normal that Emma is going to think about for at least the next forty-five minutes if only because she can practically hear the nervous energy rolling off Killian. She wishes he would talk. She’s not sure what she’ll do if he does talk.

“Alright,” Emma says, inhaling sharply. She’s desperately got to learn how to breathe. And control her magic.

Killian flinches slightly.

Henry widens his eyes. “Unless you guys want to break into some barn somewhere. Hay is warm and it’s not like we have any gold, do they use gold in the fake Enchanted Forest?” “No idea,” Emma shrugs. “I could probably just magic it, though. I think that’s possible and—” “—I have gold.”

She whips around so quickly she almost loses her balance, far more fabric around her ankles than she’s used to. Killian’s staring at his shoes by the time she straightens out her knees, lips tugged tightly behind his teeth and impossibly straight shoulders, more nerves and anxiety wafting off him.

Emma resists the urge to reach her hand forward.

They’ve got to get out of here.

She needs to magic herself some new clothes too.

“You don’t have to do that,” she whispers, but that only gets him to furrow his brows, a small smile tugging at his lips.

Her magic flares, racing up her spine and taking root in the back of her brain and the center of her soul, which also seems impossibly melodramatic. Killian lifts his head.

“What else am I going to use it on?” he reasons with a shrug, and Emma can’t help the sound that flies out of her.

It’s not a laugh — there is absolutely nothing funny about any of this — but it’s not quite the sigh she expects, something closer to a scoff and a hint of disbelief and her hand moves.

She absolutely cannot help it.

Her fingers brush over his, a quick hitch of his arm, like he’s not sure if he should pull back or push her away and Emma rocks closer, ducking her head into a gaze that can’t seem to hold hers for more than five seconds.

Those few strands of hair drifting over his forehead may be the death of her.

“It’s a fair question,” Henry mumbles. He’s smiling. She can tell, hear it in his voice and Emma’s cheeks object to her own lip-type movement, but it’s still snowing and freezing cold and—

Seriously those strands of hair.

“See,” Killian says, “the lad’s got some sense.” Emma lifts her eyebrows. “Seems to suggest that I don't.” He blushes. It’s absurd and wonderful and entirely awful. All at the same time. She has no idea how she’s going to sleep when her magic is roaring in her veins.

“No, no, no, that’s not—” Killian stammers, and Henry doesn’t even try to mask his laugh that time.

“No?” Emma prompts. Killian swallows. The muscles in his throat move, jaw clenching and it’s another rush of passably familiar that Emma wants to hold onto with both hands. “No,” he echoes. “I—we have to get out of this storm.” “This is what I’m saying,” Henry groans. “So we’ll use Killian’s money and we’ll get some food and maybe some mead and—” “—Seriously, how is no mead confusing?” Emma asks, glancing over her shoulder. Henry sneers. Killian is back to being frustratingly silent.

The color in his cheeks hasn’t disappeared.

It doesn’t have anything to do with the snow.

Seriously, the snow has to stop soon.

“Let’s go,” Emma says. She claps a hand on Henry’s shoulder, trusting that Killian will follow them when they start to move and that’s not quite a metaphor, but it might be the basis of everything else and—

She’s right.

She can hear the snow crunching under his boots behind her.

The air is musty and tinged with what smells like a mix of sweat and ale as soon as Emma pushes the door to the inn open, biting back a groan while her stomach does its best to rise up in the back of her throat.

There are people everywhere, crowded at clearly sticky tables and tucked into dark corners, a surplus of leather and more than a few flashes of steel, the telltale sound of dice rolling on a variety of wooden surfaces. Emma’s eyes scan the space, gaze falling on what looks like the world’s oldest bar and a bald man with a round face and a towel draped over his shoulder.

She snaps her fingers.

And the magic that twists across her own face isn’t entirely uncomfortable. It’s warm, but it also makes it feel as if her skin is melting—like candle wax, shifting and reforming until her nose isn’t quite where it’s supposed to be, her eyes deep set and her forehead a bit wider.

Her clothes have changed as well, gown replaced by breeches and boots that almost provide some warmth to her otherwise frozen toes, a vest and empty sword belt.

She’ll have to fix that last part eventually, she’s sure.

“Whoa,” Henry breathes. “Mom, that was so cool!” Emma can’t help the quick smile she gives him, a flash of pride that disappears almost as soon as her brand-new eyes land on Killian.

He looks stunned.

And maybe just a hint terrified.

Of her. And her magic.

The witch in the tower, indeed.

“I’ll, uh—” she starts, but the words scratch at the inside of her throat like they’re not all that interested in being spoken. “I just figured it’d be best if no one saw me. I mean—do people even know what I look like?” “Lily did.” “Yeah, but she was a dragon.” “That we knocked out of the sky,” Henry reasons. “She’s probably got people to report back to. That’s how it always works in the—” “—Stories,” Emma finishes. Her stomach twists again, fear mixing with dread and those are kind of the same words. “We get a room. We eat. We get a few hours of sleep and then we get out of here. Got it?”

Henry nods once, and Emma doesn't bother glancing back at Killian. That’s not great. She’s not—

It doesn’t matter.

This isn’t real.

They’re getting out of here. She’s going to save all of them.

And Killian isn’t freaked out by her magic at home.

So.

Emma stalks forward, twisting and turning between tables and half-drunk townsfolk, doing her best to breathe through her mouth while ignoring anyone’s curious gaze. It doesn’t matter. No one casts her a second glance, and it takes a few moments of pointed coughing to get the attention of the barkeep.

He brings up the crazy weather at least six times.

Emma keeps nodding. It leaves the muscles in her neck aching, fear tugging on the nerve-endings there because she’s not entirely convinced this is a good idea, but then it’s only a few more minutes for gold to exchange hands, Killian dropping a small pouch of clinking coins on the wood in front of them.

The key to the one room they have left in this entire godforsaken place is cold in Emma’s hand.

One room.

Naturally.

She might kick Isaac too. Several times.

“C’mon,” Emma says, nudging at Henry’s back when his eyes widen at the sight of several foaming mugs of...something. “Right, left, kid and up the stairs.” He grumbles as he moves, and part of her is loathe to to be responsible in a moment like this. Part of her wants to down several tankards of ale and a few more rounds of mead, but Emma also isn’t entirely confident in how to mix Enchanted Forest alcohol and—

There are two beds in their one room.

Naturally.

Version two point oh.

She sighs, running a suddenly exhausted hand over her face, which is only a little jarring because it’s not really her face. The string of curses that fall out of her is more than a little surprising, even to herself, but— “I forgot to get food,” Emma hisses, half to herself and half to this version of the world and Henry is already perched on the edge of one of the beds.

There are only two beds.

She’s going to scream. She’s trying very hard not to cry.

“I’ll take care of it,” Killian says, soft enough that Emma barely ears him. Her magic is doing that thing again.

So is his jaw.

She’s got to stop staring at his jaw. It’s far too close to his lips.

“You sure?” she asks. He lowers his eyebrows again, a quick jerk of his head that feels a little placating and a little hers, as if he’s amused every time she lets him do anything for her.

And Henry.

For them.

Collectively.

“Positive,” Killian promises. “I’m not sure it’ll be very good food, but—" “—We’ll live,” Emma interrupts.

“Aye, I’m sure we will.” It’s not another promise. She knows. He knows. Henry knows. The goddamn barkeep probably knows. And yet. The words slink under Emma’s skin and find a rhythm with her pulse, a guarantee for a future that she’s only just started allowing herself to dream about.

Idiot.

“If you’re not back in ten minutes, I’m going to come downstairs and do something vaguely threatening,” Emma says.

Killian’s lips twitch. “I’ve no doubt.” “And there aren’t clocks in this realm,” Henry adds. He’s definitely still smiling.

Killian nods again—although that one has a distinct air of confusion to it, which only serves to make Emma’s stomach do something else she doesn’t have time to think about and she’s honestly got to stop thinking such absurd things. Because then he’s sweeping back into the hall and his boots are heavy on the stairs and she doesn’t have to turn around to see the expectant look on her son’s face.

She can feel it. Behind her eyelids.

“So, uh—” Henry starts, but Emma waves both of her hands and she’s not all that surprised he ignored her. It’s a weird thing to be proud of. “He didn’t even argue, you know. When I found him.” Emma licks her lips. She shivers again.

And Henry isn’t done. “I got rid of Black Beard and then he just...I mean, it’s not right. Anything here, and especially Killian because he’s—” “—Yeah, I know,” Emma whispers.

“Still didn’t argue, though. He might not remember everything, Mom, but I know he’s—he still cares. About you. About us.” She hums, a noncommittal sound because her tongue appears to be taking up most of the real estate in her mouth and she’s still as much of a coward as advertised. Even more so than the man who’s not quite the man she—

Emma lets out a shuddering breath, stumbling back against the nearest wall. Her knees have started to wobble as well.

And Henry doesn’t say anything else.

She’ll thank him for that eventually. When they get home. Let him play video games for an extra hour or something.

Maybe go sailing.

She’d like to go sailing.

She’d like—

The door swings open again, a tray of food in Killian’s hand and a smile on his face that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. As if he’s worried it’s wrong.

Until.

The warmth of something Emma resolutely refuses to name as soon as her gaze meets his is like falling back into blankets and some joke about the tides and a steady rhythm and his smile stretches, settling on his face like he’s just been waiting for her to make sure it lands there.

Henry snorts.

Whatever is in the bowls Killian is holding is steaming.

“Not exactly dinner at the palace,” he says, kicking the door closed behind him. Emma feels her eyes widen. “But it’ll at least keep the chill at bay and—”

He jerks his chin down, a small pile of fabric Emma hadn’t noticed before tucked under his left arm. Blankets.

Some of her muscles loosen.

In a nice way.

“Thank you,” she says, hoping she’s able to infuse as much emotion into two words as possible. Killian hums, another quick nod that isn’t quite as terrified or concerned and— “Can we eat?” Henry asks.

Emma laughs softly, reaching out to grab bowls and blankets and the food isn’t great, but she’s fairly certain none of them have been poisoned. So, she’ll take what she can get at this point.

And the whole thing is oddly comfortable—blankets strewn across the floor and Henry’s tugged his boots off at some point, recounting his defeat of Black Beard and Killian’s ability to sail through that storm, as if Emma weren’t there too, but she can’t bring herself to tell him to stop.

Not when his voice picks up that way, excitement and adventure and he’s so sure they’re going to fix this.

She’ll regret that later, she’s sure.

Letting that hope linger.

God, but she’s the most depressing person in any reality.

Henry’s eyes start to flutter shut eventually, head lolling towards his shoulder and chin bumping against this chest and Emma makes to move, but then Killian’s mumbling something under his breath that sounds a lot like I can do it and Emma’s far too busy making sure her heart doesn’t explode to object.

It might explode anyway.

She tugs her legs closer to her, resting her chin on her knees and eyes never leaving Killian as he hauls Henry up, moving him towards a bed with, she assumes, slightly scratchy sheets. Every shift of Killian’s arms is slow, almost calculated, like he’s holding something important and a word that’s bigger than that, but Emma’s having enough difficulty coming to terms with any of this that she can hardly be expected to care about syntax.

It’s still snowing out.

Henry doesn’t wake up when he rolls over, stuffing a hand under his pillow and twisting one leg across the mattress.

Exactly the same way Emma sleeps.

And exactly the way Killian has complained about Emma sleeping. Her mind jumps to memories — weeks of calm and seasonally-appropriate snow, tucked into a different bed with sheets that seemed to drape themselves over her skin and her soul and she’s clearly losing her grip on her sanity. It is, Killian frequently tells her, because Emma’s feet refuse to retain their natural heat.

It makes him jump every time, a soft gasp that leaves her laughing and giggling just a bit and she’ll never admit to that second one, but he always knows and he’s always known and the tenses don’t matter.

Emma shudders, standing up abruptly and all but sprinting towards the window.

The snow drifts look unnaturally large. If she didn’t know better, hadn’t spent the morning with sweat dripping down her back and hair plastered to her forehead, Emma would think it was Christmas. And if she didn’t know better, hadn’t watched a dragon try and burn her alive a few hours earlier, she would believe that she could be happy here.

An Enchanted Forest princess with a son and a man who would go to the ends of the world for her, no matter what he believed or who he remembered and she’s started rocking her weight between her feet. There’s a certain rhythm to it, matching up to a song no one else in this realm has probably heard of from a movie Emma only barely remembers the plot of.

Maybe she can do something about the snow in the morning as well, still emotional enough that her magic could probably move mountains and that may give up their position, but she’s not a battle strategist either or even a pirate and— “Are you alright ma’am?” It’s probably for the best that her heart has already exploded. Makes it less likely for it to shatter. Dramatically.

Emma doesn’t look behind her, can’t actually bring herself to move at the sound of Killian’s half-mumbled question and she can see his outline in the foggy glass anyway. He’s got his fingers in his hair.

“Fine,” she bites out, and the lie tastes bitter on her tongue, threatens to scorch away all those other words hanging there.

He hums, a step towards her. It’s not as cautious as it’s been in the few hours since he and Henry found her. She can’t believe it’s only been a few hours.

Emma’s perception of time is entirely skewed — and not just because of the goddamn snow, some twisted winter wonderland that leaves her thinking of more possibility and decidedly misplaced wants and there are no goddamn clocks in this realm. She can remember everything and nothing, her real life and her life here, but that’s a generous descriptor for what’s felt like decades chained in a tower.

She wonders how long it’s really been.

She wonders if this Killian Jones has ever wanted the same things she does.

“You may want to practice that a few more times,” he continues, and the floor creaks when he steps that time. “If you’d like me to believe it.”

Emma’s head nearly flies off its neck. “The cheek on you, Captain.” “I’m not a Captain.” “God, that’s so weird. It’s—do you have a sword?” “No.” “Shit. That’s—do you have enough gold for that? I mean...I don’t want to use your life savings or anything here.” The last thing she expects is him to laugh, so, naturally, that is exactly what happens. Killian throws his whole head back with the force of it, Henry mumbling at the noise, and Emma is not entirely prepared for that specific shade of blue. He’s smirking at her. The asshole.

“None of this is mine,” Killian says, laughter clinging to the words even as he keeps inching closer to Emma. “Black Beard didn’t leave much of his horde on the ship—wanted to spread things around, you see, make sure no one would be able to rob him, but—” “—You’re a pirate?” Emma suggest. “Something like that.” “You’re blushing, though.”

“Aye, that too.”

Emma twists a strand of hair around her fingers, desperate for something to do with all the excess energy she’s suddenly bursting with. And the air around them isn’t quite tension-filled, but there’s a certain charge to it, an electric current that’s always been there. More jokes about tenses.

“Were you singing just now?” Killian asks. The windows in that room have a distinct draft to them.

“No.” “No?” “We’re going in circles,” Emma grumbles, and his mouth doesn’t change. She’s got to stop staring at his mouth.

But it had taken everything in her not to throw her arms around him before, to push her own fingers into his hair and yank him forward, find some kind of steady something in the feel of his mouth against hers and the way he always seems to fall into her. Or the other way around.

Seriously, syntax is not important right now.

It’s probably best she didn’t.

Emma would not have been able to cope with it being different.

“What was the tune?” Killian asks, voice almost steady, and Emma is greedy enough to want the conversation. If only because of the color of his eyes when he looks at her.

“You wouldn’t know it.” “Try me.”

“No, honestly, it’s—” She has every intention of being stubborn. She does—walls that she can practically establishing themselves around her heart and her soul and it’s incredible that one person can be so consistently idiotic.

He still cares. About you. About us.

“When I was a kid,” Emma starts, sliding down the wall and pointing towards the space next to her. Killian sits. “I used to uh—well I never lived anywhere very long. And this time of year—” “Summer?” “Nah, winter. Well, this is fake, but—” “—The snow felt fairly real when it was falling on us. You were shivering quite a bit, ma’am.” “Noticed that, did you? And you’ve got to stop with this ma’am stuff.”

“Ma’am stuff,” he drawls. “God, of course you’d be able to tease me,” Emma grouses, but Killian’s staring at her expectantly. Almost as if he’s waiting for marching orders. That probably doesn’t happen on a boat. Ship. “I just—” “—The last thing I want to do is offend you.” The sincerity in the words rock through Emma, leaving her teeth digging into her lip again until she’s threatening to bite the stupid thing in half and Killian’s eyes flicker towards the movement, like he’s thinking about things too and— “I’m not exactly the most respectable person in the world,” Emma reasons. “A crazy witch with out of control magic.” “That’s not true.” “You didn’t know that until Henry found you.” “Aye,” he agrees. “But I—well, it was easy to believe him.” Her lungs have got to get a grip.

Or, whatever.

Work. She needs her lungs to work.

“Thank you,” Emma breathes. That’s not the working she was hoping for. “I—well, I…thank you. For all of it. Dashing rescues—” “—Did you say dashing?” “If you don’t stop calling me ma’am, I’ll punch you in the face.”

Killian barks out a laugh, the sound leaving him almost looking like him and feeling like him and Emma’s fingers flutter on instinct. With magic. He clenches his jaw. “And, uh—what am I supposed to be calling a magical princess, then?”

“You’re trying to flatter me.” “Is it working?” “Maybe,” Emma admits. “More cheek, though.” “Aye, that’s—unexpected, I suppose. But so are you, Swan, it’s—” Killian cuts himself off, eyes bugging and the veins in his throat are obvious when he jerks back, staring at Emma like she will actually punch him.

The magic in her vibrates. With want and desire and goddamn normal.

“That works,” she says.

He blushes again. He might not have ever stopped. “Has that happened before?” “Hmmm?” “The cold,” Killian says. His voice shifts again, sounding a bit farther away than it had, like he’s trying to place a memory or moment and Emma doesn’t want to hope again. It’s not the best thing to remember, anyway. “You were—we...I was…” “You were?” “Worried. Terrified, even. I can—there was ice or—” “—No, that’s right,” Emma interrupts. “It was a giant wall and it wasn’t really Elsa’s fault, but—” “—Should I know who Elsa is?” “Probably not.” He makes another noise, a slow nod that only serves to shift those pieces of hair clearly designed to ruin Emma’s whole life. “The song, then? It was inspired by the snow?” “No, I don’t—well, I don’t know, really, but the song is kind of depressing, honestly.” “Is it?” Emma nods, and her head is close enough to his that her chin nearly bumps his shoulder. She’d like to put her head on his shoulder. That may freak him out.

It’s kind of freaking her out, admittedly.

“I haven’t thought about that movie in forever,” Emma continues, “It was old when I used to watch it. A beat up VHS—” “—What is that?” She clicks her tongue, not sure how to explain now-redundant technology to a pirate who isn’t her pirate in a realm that does not have clocks. The whole thing makes her head hurt. And it’s just absurd enough to make her laugh a bit too.

Killian’s eyes flash.

“That’s not the important part,” Emma says. “And it’s not even really a Christmas movie. It’s, um—well, it’s about a family. In this place called St. Louis—” “—Is that in the Enchanted Forest?” “Has anyone ever told you that you’re a rather pitiful listener?” “You’re teasing.” Emma grins. “St. Louis is not in the Enchanted Forest. It’s a city. In the reality—shit that’s so weird to think about. You know what? That doesn’t matter either. The point is that there was a family and they lived there and then they were going to move. And Judy Garland was upset because the guy she loved—”

She doesn’t finish her sentence.

It feels like it’s weighing down on both of them anyway, more metaphors and passing similarities and she wants him to call her Swan at least forty-seven thousand times.

“She didn’t want to leave this man, then?” Killian asks. “Judy Garland? Was she a princess as well?” Emma shakes her head. “No, but she did get to go to a ball. At Christmas. With a very red gown.” “Red?” “Yuh huh.” Killian swipes his tongue across the front of his teeth, that same thoughtful look Emma’s grown to memorize and maybe covet just a bit. It’s because it always ends with that pinch between his eyebrows. “So, John,” Emma adds, “That’s the guy that she loves. HIs name is John and he...he couldn’t get to the ball at first because he didn’t pick up his tuxedo. He was playing basketball.” “What a strange word.” “It’s a really strange game if you actually think about it, honestly. Henry’s more into soccer, though, so—we’re drifting from the point.” “Are we just?” “You’ll make me think you’re not enjoying my garbage storytelling, Killian.” The pinch disappears.

At the same exact time his lips part.

Seriously, his lips.

“Does John eventually get to this ball?”

“Yeah,” Emma nods. “Romance conquers all. He gets the tuxedo and they dance and it’s—well, Judy Garland wasn’t shy about being in love with him. She sang about it at the start of the movie, but everything kind of comes to light there and, um...when I was a kid, I always thought it was very pretty.” “The dancing?” “The whole thing. Happily ever after.” She can still see the tip of his tongue pressing into the side of his mouth — another tell for her Killian and this is her Killian, just with altered memories and ridiculous allusions to 1940s musicals and—

“What happened after the ball?” “John asked Judy Garland to marry him,” Emma says. Her voice cracks. It’s ridiculous. “She says, yes, of course, but they’re still leaving St. Louis and her sister is there and she’s beats up the snowmen.” “What?” “They’ve got the most ridiculous snowmen in the backyard and Tootie—” “—This child’s name is Tootie?” “I didn’t write the movie.” He chuckles, slumping a bit against the wall. His hand is very close to Emma’s. “And where does your tune factor in?” “Uh—before the snowmen, I think. Freshly engaged Judy Garland sings this song called Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas. It’s...like I said, it’s kind of depressing if you listen to the words and—” “—What are the words?”

Emma has to swallow as soon as her brain processes that particular tone of voice. Because it’s not nervous. Or anxious. It’s vaguely hopeful and a little greedy as well, an overstep for a cowardly deckhand, but exactly what Killian Jones would do and Killian Jones would come back.

With his tuxedo.

Or leather jacket.

As the case may be.

“I’m not really a singer,” Emma mutters, ignoring whatever is fluttering in her stomach. Magic, maybe. Emotion, definitely.

Killian nods, a quiet sound of agreement or acquiesce and that might be what changes everything. The easy way he’s looking at her, like explaining the plot of Meet Me In St. Louis is entirely normal and she can barely herself when she starts to sing under her breath.

It’s decidedly off-pitch, Emma desperate to keep her voice low and her nerves in the pit of her stomach, but Killian doesn’t blink and she shakes slightly when she reaches— “Until then we’ll just have to muddle through somehow.” She blinks, sudden tears on her cheeks that are a misplaced sense of warmth and she hates that she’s crying. She hates that she’s feeling, wisps of hope and shards of her own want and Emma can’t imagine there’s even something like Christmas in the Enchanted Forest.

And she’s just about to apologize for it—for being anything except the Savior everyone always expects her to be, but then there’s a crack and a shift and her magic practically rumbles out of her chest and— Killian’s thumb brushes across her cheek.

“Can you—” he stutters, color rising again and tinging the tips of his ears. “The mask. It’s—can you get rid of it?” She’s going to eventually run out of air to dramatically exhale, Emma is sure.

In the moment, though, she’s got just enough, body surging forward as soon as the thought clicks into place and he wasn’t scared of the magic.

He wasn’t scared of her.

“I’d like to see you,” Killian adds, “If that’s—” Emma blinks, nose barley settling back to its appropriate place before she’s leaning forward and that same nose is pressed against Killian’s cheek. He doesn’t kiss exactly the same.

It's not as horrible as she thought it would be.

It’s softer now—still a little cautious optimism that’s almost as weird as the rules of basketball, and it takes a moment for him to tilt his head, a quick flicker of his tongue that leaves Emma reeling just a bit. That’s all it really takes, then. She lets her fingers fly into his hair, barely any space between them when she clamors closer, knees bumping his side and his hook finding the small of her back.

Like always.

She twists and he tilts his head and it’s not quite hungry, but there’s something about it that’s almost like a low simmer, steady and even and normal. It’s absolutely, totally normal.

She’s not sure how long they stay there, making out like teenagers on the floor, but it doesn’t matter because Emma is at least ninety-six percent positive she’s just become Killian Jones’ first kiss and the thought leaves her a little dizzy and even more breathless than normal, goosebumps exploding on her skin that don’t have anything to do with the temperature.

“What happens to them?” Killian asks, pressing the question to the corner of Emma’s mouth. “John and Judy?” “Her name is Esther in the movie.” “Another strange moniker.” She laughs— giggles —and it’s easy to feel Killian’s answering smile against her jaw. “Well, they’re engaged when it ends, and it never really says they get married, but I’d imagine they do after the fair.” “The fair?” “That’s a whole other plot point we don’t have time to go into. It’s—c’mon, we should probably get some sleep.” The smile is gone. “You should sleep, Swan. I can take the watch.” “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.” “Someone should be awake, this isn’t the safest place.” Emma waves her hand, lock clicking into place and it’s probably wrong to take some perverse pleasure in Killian’s stunned expression. Or the position of his tongue. “Impressive.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere.” “You should at least take the bed, love.”

If he realizes he’s switched endearments, he doesn’t show it, but Emma does — and so does her magic. It roars and soars and some other word that is slightly less positive because the thought of not falling asleep next to him is suddenly the single worst thing she could come up with and—

“There’s enough space,” she reasons.

Killian wavers for a moment, more than a few quick breaths through gritted teeth. Emma takes her boots off.

And climbs into the bed. “The sheets suck though,” she says, and it gets the desired laugh out of him. He probably doesn’t understand the idiom.

It doesn’t matter.

He follows her anyway — and that’s a multi-fold thing and maybe they’ll be able to find a copy of Meet Me In St. Louis at home. Maybe she can get another red gown.

Maybe they can— “Bloody hell how are your feet so cold?” Emma buries her face in the pillow to mask her laugh, body shaking despite her best efforts. Killian looks scandalized.

“Bad circulation, I guess,” Emma reasons.

“You’ll get frostbite like that, love. That can’t be healthy, I—what?” “Nothing, nothing, just...I’m sorry about my cold feet.”

He narrows his eyes, looking for the double meaning to those words and he’s always been very perceptive. So. It doesn’t take long for him to understand. “It’s alright,” he says. “Here, c’mere. You can...I’m warm, at least.”

“Yeah, I know.”

It takes some twisting to get comfortable, but that’s really more the sheets than anything and Emma’s head manages to find its way to Killian’s chest, an arm around her middle and lips grazing her hair and— “Swan. Swan, c’mon—Emma, love, we’ve got to get up.”

She grumbles, pressing her face further into the fabric under her cheek, but that fabric is also moving and the man wearing it is breathing and laughing in her ear and it takes Emma a moment to get her bearings.

There’s light streaming in through gauzy curtains, a soft roar coming from behind the closed door of her bedroom. No, that’s not right.

Their bedroom.

In their house.

With their family.

It’s—

“Merry Christmas, love,” Killian says.

Emma jerks her head up, reality rushing back to her and she’d been dreaming. Of a different reality and a past that had been fixed years before. It’s been years.

What sounds like several different crashes sound from, what she can only imagine, is the general vicinity of the kitchen.

“Merry Christmas,” she mumbles. Killian ducks his head, catches her lips with hers and he laughs again when she objects to his movement. “No, no, you’re comfortable.”

“And warm, I know. But—” He winces at another crash. “I believe the little sea monster is awake and likely determined to open the the rather alarming large mountain of presents she’s been presented with. Also, your parents will be here soon.” Emma nods, a schedule flitting through her brain that includes breakfast and lunch and dinner that will end with—

“I expect your dance card to be filled tonight, your highness,” Killian adds. He nips at her nose when Emma doesn’t answer immediately, a knowing flash in his gaze and it had been her mother’s idea.

A ball.

At Christmas.

Emma is almost unreasonably excited. If only because those few strands of hair that still fall across Killian’s forehead have started to take on a distinct silver edge and she can’t really think when she notices it.

She’s anticipating a good deal of making out. In dark corners.

And dancing.

“Aye, Captain.”

The flash gets noticeably darker, another kiss they don’t have time for, but that’s also kind of their thing and—

Crash. Several. In quick succession.

“She might have knocked the tree over,” Emma mutters. “I’ll go and assess damage. Make sure you put socks on, love. It’s probably cold downstairs.” Emma salutes—in tandem with her flipping stomach.

And the kitchen isn’t nearly as bad as she thought it would be, a living room eventually covered in wrapping paper and laughter hanging in the air and Emma lets her mother pin her hair up later.

The gold matches the red in her gown.

And the red on Killian’s cheeks as soon as he sees her, one side of mouth tugging up and that same flash—disarmingly familiar and consistent, no matter the realm or the years or the curses they’ve lived through because—

He takes a step forward, a quick bend of his head and lips brushing her knuckles.

Emma’s magic flutters.

He lifts his eyebrows.

“Your highness, ma’am.” “Captain.” “It’s a very good color.” “No problems with the tuxedo?” Killian shakes his head “I don’t know how to play basketball.”

She can’t help the size of her smile or the force of her magic, memories he probably shouldn’t remember, but they’ve watched the movie enough that he could probably sing the songs by heart now. And he does, humming soft melodies in Emma’s ear all night until she’s dangerously close to swooning.

In a slightly darkened corner.

With her husband’s mouth on hers and his hook pressed to the small of her back and happily ever after playing out around them.

#cs ff #captain swan #captain swan ff #captain swan fic #cs fic #festive prompt a thon #i'm thinking i'm going to be able to fill one more prompt before we go away #probably on wednesday #which is not the nice round ten i was hoping for #but--life #so if you sent a prompt #it will get filled #it just may not be....straight christmas #i got more prompts than i was expecting #which was very nice and very surprising

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bitsandbobsandstuff · 6 years ago

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A love that never leaves (10)

Summary: Sometimes when you go looking for the past, you find things you never expected. When an accident brings him face to face with something he never knew he lost, Bucky Barnes begins to understand an age old truth – it’s so easy, sometimes, to love the things that destroy us.

Characters: Bucky Barnes x Reader Warnings: Bad language. SMUT, 18+ please.

A/N: Bucky’s reaction surprises her, Sam Wilson might bitch slap Steve Rogers, Bucky makes my favorite sandwich in the entire world because he is a skilled chef, and they have a memorable night together (please stop by if you would like a smut free recap).

But of course, you guys know me, so…I am sorry...

Links don’t work, so if you want to access the full ALTNL Masterlist, just click the MASTERLIST header on my blog.

Previously...

She mourns for Henry and the tragedy of his fate. Loving a soldier was one thing she never expected and the experience nearly killed her. The war trudges on, and sometimes soldiers pass through the village; while she always puts her nursing skills to good use, she keeps her distance.

Sometimes she sits by the creek, washing clothes in the cold water and thinking. She wishes she had the power to scrub her own brain clean, but no.

This is her penance, the one she will pay from now until the end of time.

To remember.

*****

MISSION REPORT

BOTH TARGETS UNEXPECTEDLY INFILTRATED BASE. UNABLE TO SEPARATE AND ADDRESS INDIVIDUALLY. WILL CONTINUE HOLDING PATTERN UNTIL OPPORTUNITY ARISES.

What did they find? Sweat beads along his scalp, freezing drips wetting pale hair. He needs to know, he searched that base from top to bottom, but he knows they found something. The Soldier was skittish, and her - well.

Something happened.

They will tell him. That he can promise.

All in due time.

*****

No one knows this, but sometimes when Bucky can’t sleep, he likes to draw.

Between the two of them, Steve is the real artist, no contest there. For Bucky, it’s not about drawing well, it’s about drawing something that helps him connect with his past.

So occasionally, when the nightmares are really riding his ass, he wanders to the roof of the tower with three things: his pink notebook of “Bucky Facts”, a blank pad of paper, and Steve’s Prismacolor colored pencils. He flips through his notebook and finds something he’s struggling with - and he draws it. For some reason, when he can transpose the memories from a bundle of echoes into a colorful sketch, it cements the idea in his head.

A paint by number puzzle. Words and colors swirled together to reimagine the past he's so desperate to remember.

Now, he sits on the coffee table in front of a woman who has no need to ever remind herself of the past. No need for clumsy outlines and careful colors; the endless infinity of memories locked behind her haunted eyes speaks of every color in the universe and Bucky wonders if he had to paint her memories, what colors could ever convey the horrors of her past.

He thinks she and the Soldier would have a remarkably similar color palette.

God, he hates that fact.

Her voice is hoarse from talking and she keeps swallowing, stubbornly pushing down the lump of tears threatening to melt in her throat. He understands why she was reluctant to tell him, why she said those ridiculous words.

I don’t think you’ll like me very much, when you know.

Everything about her seems so much clearer now. The hesitancy to reveal her past; the strange collection of items he found stashed around her home; her fear he would be angry when he knew her ability. Bucky gets it, he really truly does, but here’s the thing.

It makes no god damn difference.

He loves her. Nothing will change that.

“I’m sorry, Bucky,” he hears her whisper and that’s it.

Scooting forward, he drops from the coffee table to kneel before her. Wiggling himself between her legs, he wraps his arms around her waist and gazes into her miserable expression.

“Listen to me. Do you remember when you told me not to apologize for what happened to me? That is wasn’t my fault? It took me years to even start believing that, but the moment I heard it from you, it finally made sense. You did that for me. So right now, I need you to remember those words and repeat them back to me, alright?”

“I can’t -”

“You can,” he says firmly. “What happened there, what you did - it was not your fault. Do you understand that? It was not your fault. Say it back to me.”

The words are lead in her mouth. It takes several stumbling attempts, but Bucky is patient.

“It wasn’t - it wasn’t my fault,” she finally says, her cold fingers clutching his forearms. Bucky rewards her with a huge smile and buries his face against her belly. He hugs her tighter.

“It wasn’t your fault,” he repeats, his voice muffled in her sweater.

"It wasn't my fault," she says one more time. Threading her fingers through his hair, she drags her nails lightly over his scalp and Bucky leans contentedly into the touch. They sit in silence and let the minutes drift along until he finally feels her tension subside.

A peculiar thought occurs to him, then.

“The base in Poland, where you were held. I think I know it,” he says cautiously. “Awhile back, we got a distress signal from there. I saw that chair, the one you mean. I, um, sort of broke it. Went kinda nuts and tore it apart. They stuck me in rehab after that, but - totally fuckin’ worth it.”

“Good,” she says fervently, wiping her eyes with the heel of her palm. Bucky reaches up and catches her hand, pressing a kiss to her knuckles and trying to lighten the mood.

“Well hey, so - you met Carter then,” he says with a grin. Her lip trembles slightly, but she tries to smile.

“I did,” she confirms.

“Wish you could’ve met under better circumstances, you would’ve had a lot in common. Steve loves telling people how often she’d bust my balls.”

Bucky tickles her and she huffs out a breathless laugh and squirms away. He feels a thousand times lighter when he hears a playful note return to her voice.

“Something tells me you probably deserved it Sergeant.”

“Won’t argue there,” Bucky agrees and stretches up to plant a firm kiss on her lips.

*****

The sun is setting when she asks if she can have some time alone. Bucky can see the struggle in her face - reliving nightmares is exhausting.

“I’ll just be outside,” she says quietly, shrugging into her coat. “Need a few minutes to - think, I guess.”

“Hang on,” he says. Going into the kitchen, he flips on her electric kettle, pulls her favorite purple mug from the cupboard, and plops a teabag inside. Grabbing her biggest quilt, he fluffs it open and wraps it tight around her shoulders; once the kettle sings, he hands her the steaming mug of Earl Grey and drops a kiss on her nose. “There, now you’ll be warm.”

For a long moment, she stares at him. Bucky watches her bite her lip, steeling her nerves to speak. He waits expectantly, his hands running lightly up and down her arms to warm her, but nothing happens. Whatever she wanted to say disappears and she looks down.

“Thank you, Bucky.”

“Anytime,” he says softly and opens the door for her. She steps onto the cold porch and sinks onto the top step, tipping her face toward the setting sun. Bucky shuts the door with a click.

Everything changes.

Stalking to the kitchen counter, white-hot rage fills his chest. Snarling at the offending photos, he snatches his phone and dials Steve, and before the phone finishes the first ring, a blond head appears.

“Whaddaya got?” Steve asks, as he rummages through the fridge.

“Are you ever not eating,” Bucky scowls and Steve grunts.

“I’m a growing boy. So?”

Rubbing his forehead, Bucky tries to organize his thoughts and figure out where to begin. The clink and clatter of silverware keeps coming through the phone and then Steve’s piling leftover containers in his arms and dumping them on the counter and out of nowhere, Bucky loses his shit.

“Steve, can you - can you just - I need you to - god fucking dammit Rogers, sit the fuck down!”

Steve jerks to a stop when Bucky’s voice scales up. Considering him for all of three seconds, Steve dumps the mess of leftovers - which all have THESE ARE SAM’S DON’T TOUCH written on them in black marker - without a word and walks away, sinking into an armchair.

“Sorry. I’m listening.”

The whole thing is insane and Bucky has no clue how to begin.

So he just starts talking.

About the woman who saved his life when he was bleeding out in a blizzard; how she called him Soldier and brought him to her home and sewed him up. How he shoved a butcher knife to her throat in thanks, before she told him the story of how she met him years ago. How her words helped him remember that bloody night in Paris.

He tells Steve about deciding to stay, about her potato soup, about how he remembered Steve telling him about the letters he got from his girl during the war, and how it felt when Bucky realized he was the Jimmy she wanted that night. He relays the story of how they met during the war and Steve sucks in a shocked breath. Bucky tells him she kept all his letters and how she let him read them again and how he asked her to marry him the last time they were in the village and if he sees tears fill Steve’s eyes, he forces himself to ignore it.

He keeps talking.

About discovering the information at the base, photos and information about the original soldier trials and how there must be someone who fired up the signal, because Bucky found recent blood and a clean black glove. He tells Steve about her ability and what Hydra did to her all those years ago and he can hear Steve’s teeth clack together, can see the furious tick in his jaw.

It smooths away for a moment, when Bucky recounts the story with Peggy. Steve always was a sap.

Bucky tells him almost everything, but saves some things for himself; he figures he deserves to have a few memories that are all his own.

Well, not just his. Theirs.

When he finishes, Steve is silent. Bucky can see the thoughts swing dancing through his brain as he works it out. Finally, Steve clears his throat.

“Okay, that’s a lot to unravel. I’m gonna have some questions, but for now I’m just gonna go with it. Sounds great.” Bucky snorts and Steve just shrugs. “What can I say? It’s fuckin’ weird, but we’ve seen weirder. I trust your judgement. Tell me what you need.”

Yes, Steve Rogers can be a massive pain in the ass, but Bucky sure fucking loves him.

“Alright. The first distress signal we got was that base near Krakow, where she was kept,” Bucky says. “They were testing soldiers there and I found more evidence here - it can’t be a coincidence. I think there’s something or someone connected, I just haven’t found the link.”

“Let’s assume you’re right,” Steve says. “What next?”

“I’m going back into town tomorrow to see if I can dig up anything else. Can you look into that Hydra fuck who was chasing her? See if there’s something we’re not seeing?”

“Got it,” Steve answers. “Say the name again?”

“First name Wilhelm, last name Richter, Romeo-India-Charlie-Hotel-Tango-Echo-Romeo,” he rattles off. “I vaguely recognize his face, but I was still new when he disappeared, and those early memories are shit. I think the story was that he deserted, but that’s all I got.”

“Going to the lab now,” Steve heaves himself to his feet and walks swiftly toward the elevators. Smashing the button, he waits impatiently and then looks down at the phone, his expression softening. “Hey Buck?”

“Yeah?” Bucky says distractedly, craning his neck to see out the window. He can still see her sitting on the steps, gazing pensively into the coming night.

“You got your girl back. I’m - hey. I’m really fuckin’ happy for you.” Surprised, Bucky looks down at the phone and sees Steve giving him a crooked grin. “You deserve this. Don’t forget that.”

Bucky nods, feels his face grow warm. “Yeah. Thanks man.”

“I’m coming out to see you both, soon as we get this sorted,” Steve warns. The elevator in front of him dings and Bucky barks out a happy laugh. The idea of his best friend staying at their house like they’re an ordinary couple, with a boring life and annoying friends who crash on their couch - it sends cozy domestic tingles skittering up his spine and he can’t fight the idiotic grin.

“You got it.”

Steve gives him a goodbye salute and the elevator ends the call.

*****

“I was thinking,” Bucky says an hour later.

Dressed in his old sweatpants and ratty Captain America t-shirt, he’s slouched against the arm of the couch. Curled tight against him, her head is tucked into his shoulder. She musters a tiny smile when she looks up. “Should I be nervous?”

“Hey,” he pouts. “It’s like you assume I’d have crazy ideas or something.”

“When the shoe fits,” she murmurs, poking him.

“Very true.” Placing a finger under her chin, he tips her face up and gives her an exaggerated kiss. “But it’s not that crazy. How about I make you supper?”

She perks up at the suggestion, her strained smile morphing into something real. “I’d love that.”

Scrambling from the couch, Bucky grabs her hands and lifts her up. “Come keep me company,” he urges, guiding her to the kitchen counter. Tugging a blanket tight around her shoulders, she shuffles with him and hops up on a barstool. Even through the layers of sadness, he sees a glimmer of happiness spark in her eyes, and honestly?

That’s all he wanted.

Digging through her drawer of kitchen towels, he finds a green polka-dot apron and ties it around his waist with a flourish. Pulling a hair tie off his wrist, he coaxes the strands into a messy bun, and then cracks his knuckles for good measure.

“You definitely look the part,” she compliments and Bucky winks.

“Alright, so this is a Bucky specialty,” he says confidentially. Rifling through the cabinets, he sets a skillet on the stovetop and starts assembling the ingredients: bread, butter, honey, peanut butter, and three bananas. “I make excellent cereal, exceptional frozen pizza, and this - fried peanut butter, honey, and banana sandwiches.”

She wrinkles her nose skeptically. “That doesn’t sound like a real thing.”

“Darlin’,” he says, reaching over and tapping her on the nose with a spatula, “where’s the trust?”

Finally. Finally, he gets the sound he wanted.

A small laugh escapes.

“You’re right. Sorry Buck,” she says, and when he sees the adoration in her eyes, he thinks his heart might explode.

Ten minutes later, he slides the gooey sandwich onto her plate and if she still looks skeptical, she gives him the benefit of the doubt. Taking a small bite, she chews for a moment and looks up in surprise.

“This is fantastic!” she exclaims. Bucky grins and takes a huge, messy bite; peanut butter drips onto the plate, a bit of honey gets stuck in his beard, and a few bananas tumble out.

“Got lots of hidden talents, just you wait and see.”

*****

One bottle of wine, and four sandwiches later, Bucky sees her stifling a yawn and proclaims himself exhausted and ready for bed.

“You go on up,” he tells her, “I’ll be there in a sec.”

While she makes her way upstairs, Bucky does a methodical loop around the small cabin. He checks, double checks, and then triple checks every single lock; every window and every door, even the fireplace flue, gets a thorough review. Once he’s satisfied, he flips the lights off and stands at the living room window, letting his eyes adjust. Feathery snowflakes are swirling again and as he glares into the moonlit night, he finds threats lurking everywhere.

The wind whistling through the trees beyond the front door. The shadows beside the weatherworn walls of the woodshed. The meandering flow of the icy creek down the slope. Before it felt peaceful and idyllic - now it seems harsh and sinister.

It infuriates him.

What does he have to do to have a normal god damn life with her? Why is there always something standing in their way?

“Whoever you are,” he mutters, “and whatever you want, you stay the fuck away from her.”

But the night keeps it’s dark secrets. With a vicious sneer, Bucky heads upstairs.

*****

Flickers of blue and orange dance merrily in the fireplace, casting a warm glow around the dark bedroom. Padding silently to the doorway, he stops.

And he drinks up the image hungrily, slotting it into his newly built box of favorite memories.

Huddled on the bed, her knees are drawn up to her chest and she gazes thoughtfully into the flames, her chin cupped in her palm. When he clears his throat, she looks over with the ghost of a smile.

“Hey, you,” Bucky says quietly. Walking to the foot of the bed, he waits nervously. For what, he doesn’t know, but it feels like the right thing to do.

Sitting up on her knees, she leans forward and skims her hands lightly up his chest, circling his broad shoulders and trailing down his arms. When her fingers brush over his hands, one a little sweaty, one always cold, she picks both of them up together and drops a kiss on his knuckles.

It nearly makes him cry.

Instead, he curls a wide hand behind her neck and finds her lips. The kiss is deep, his tongue rubbing gently against hers and it feels like heaven, sizzling hot and full of fire. God, her kiss could bring him to his knees.

But rather unexpectedly, she breaks away.

And Bucky feels his entire world tilt when she sheds her t-shirt, before eagerly meeting his lips again. Frozen in surprise, he feels her guiding his hands over her body, until his fingers are splayed across her bare skin and this time he breaks the kiss with a strangled groan.

“Are you sure?” he says hoarsely, staring intently while he struggles to keep his hands from roaming. “We don’t have to do anything, I don’t expect - “

“Please, Bucky” she interrupts softly, her cool hands skimming down his chest and he tightens his abs reflexively. “Please?”

There’s no way on earth, he’s telling her no.

Cupping her breasts, thumbs brushing lightly over her nipples, Bucky moves in for another kiss. Metal and human, his fingers circle her breasts, pinching and rolling the sensitive skin until she’s panting into his mouth and he drinks down the sweet sounds. He feels her bunching up the fabric of his shirt, wordlessly asking him to remove it, and he wants to feel her skin on his more than anything, but then his stupid head gets in the way again.

“My - my scars and everything, they’re not - it ain’t pretty,” he warns. “I know you saw them when you fixed me up, but this is different. I know that, you don’t have to - I mean, I can leave the shirt on, if you - you know, if you want.”

“No,” she says fiercely. “I want you, Bucky. All of you.”

The words are magic and Bucky sags with relief. Taking a deep breath, he crosses his arms and and he shakes only a little when he pulls the shirt off. It drops from numb fingers, and the web of thick scars looks surreal in the firelight, smooth and dark pink. He watches her eyes find the pattern carved into his skin, five ropes of raised tissue clearly outlining his attempt to claw the damn thing off in some past life.

Fucking Christ, he hates this part of himself, he really fucking does.

But of course, it doesn’t faze her.

Bringing her mouth to the joint of his shoulder, she presses her lips to his scars, and each line Bucky unwittingly scratched into his body, she memorizes with her tongue. On and on, her mouth moves against him and when she finally stops, the puckered skin feels warm for the first time in his entire life.

In disbelief, he stares at the unfiltered love in her face and he feels the faint burn of tears pricking his eyes.

How the hell did he ever got so god damn lucky?

With a rush, he slants his mouth back over hers, and pushes her back into the fluffy blankets. Crawling hurriedly over her, he settles between her legs, never breaking the kiss, while he reacquaints himself with everything. The tiny noises she makes, the feel of her body beneath him, the insistent way she rolls her hips against him. Every bit feels perfect and Bucky loses himself in her, time immaterial as he does his best to take her apart.

Because if she really does have to remember everything, well - Bucky's damn well going to give her something incredible to remember.

When her fingers trail down and hook in the waistband of his sweats, desire zings straight to his dick and he’s so close to just going with it, he really is, but god dammit, he’s a moron who’s unable to let himself be happy, so once again, he breaks the kiss with a reluctant hiss.

“Fucking hell. Wait, wait, before we do anything, I’m sorry, but I need - I have to tell you, I gotta be honest,” he rasps urgently, cursing himself in every language he knows. “There are - there were - there have been others. Through the years, I’ve been with other people. During - when I was with them. And then a couple others since I came back.”

Okay, maybe Steve Rogers isn’t a cockblock after all.

Maybe Bucky Barnes is his own god damn idiot cockblock.

Shame wells up and he tries to look away, but she immediately turns him back.

“Bucky, no. Don’t. I assumed. It was seventy years. Of course, there were other people,” she gives him a crooked little smile. “There were others for me too, sometimes. When I needed to - to cope. With the loneliness.”

There’s a wild flash of anger at her words, not directed at her, not even directed at the nameless lovers in her bed, but directed at the circumstances that put them on this path; they deserved better than this. But regardless, he needs her to understand something.

Something that shapes everything they are together.

“It was only ever you though,” he promises heatedly. “Deep down inside, it was only you. It’s only ever been you. I need you to know that.”

“I know,” she says, and she tugs him down for another toe-curling kiss.

This time, finally - he goes with it.

“I want to memorize every single inch of your body,” he murmurs. “Don’t want to ever forget again.”

So he starts at the top.

He kisses the curve of her shoulders, the delicate skin over her collarbone; he licks and sucks at her nipples until her skin feels chaffed from his rough beard. He pulls down her sleep shorts as he moves lower, fumbling awkwardly with his own sweats and tossing them both over his shoulder. At first he skips what he really wants, and instead searches out the fragile bones at her ankles, traces the smooth muscle in her calves, nips the skin behind her knee.

He holds himself back until he can’t take it any more.

And then he buries his face between her legs with a groan.

She tastes like heaven. Fuck, how did he live this long without having her on his tongue every single day? He feels her knees tip inward self-consciously and he gently pushes them open, keeping them pinned to the bed because he’s planning to stay here forever if she'll let him.

Looking down, she finds him watching intently. His dark hair tickles her thighs, his bright blue eyes burn her from the inside out, and her entire body begins to tingle. Fingers flex, toes curl, her breath comes fast and rough, and then Bucky sucks her clit hard and pushes two thick fingers into her.

Strung out and floating, she grab fistfuls of his hair and moans.

Bucky grips her leg tight and breaks away for a split second to speak.

“Come on honey, let go for me,” his voice is a low growl and she glances down to see him grinding his hips into the bed, searching for his own relief, and it’s that flex and roll, the way his muscles bunch so beautifully, that tips her over the edge. With a cry, she comes hard, clutching his face to her as the orgasm shivers through every cell of her body.

“Oh god,” she rasps, “oh god, Bucky.”

It thrills him beyond anything, the sound of his name like a prayer on her lips.

“So good,” he murmurs, still continuing the light strokes of his tongue. “You taste so fucking good.”

“That was - that was - god, Bucky” she mumbles, tripping over the words. Mouthing at the curve of her hip, he hums delightedly.

“Just getting started. Can you turn over for me?” he asks gently, and she blinks slowly, before her smile follows. Rolling to her stomach, she stretches languidly, wrapping her arms around a pillow. “I hope you have another one in you,” Bucky says lowly, giving her bottom a playful squeeze.

“I think I can manage,” she says, her voice muffled, and Bucky huffs a laugh. Planting a kiss at the base of her spine, he works his way north, his tongue tracing every bump along the way. Up, up, up, his lips cover the knobs up her back and his fingers follow, warm flesh and cool metal walking up her ribcage, until he reaches the back of her neck. Licking a slow line up, he mouths at the smooth skin behind her ear and her body twitches at the feel.

Nudging her legs open further, he shifts his hips and reaches a hand down to grip himself tight. Willing himself to stop shaking, he rubs himself between her legs, and finds her so wet and so slick from the orgasm he gave her just moments before. With his lips at her ear, he whispers his favorite words in a low rush.

“I love you,” he tells her, before he pushes himself inside.

At the feel, he goes utterly still.

It rattles him down to his god damn bones, this love he has for her - she can feel him trembling above her and she glances over her shoulder to meet his wide-eyed stare.

“I love you too,” she breathes, and her voice is the anchor he needs. Blinking rapidly, he dips down to kiss her cheek.

And he starts to move.

All Bucky knows in this moment, is her. The tight feel of her on his cock. The way her skin holds a hint of salt. The way she shudders every time he bottoms out. Every nuance of her body that he must have memorized in his past life.

Sliding his hand beneath her, his fingers find their way between her legs and he strokes her clit with every slow rock of his hips. Against the backdrop of dim light from the crackling fire, the room fills with the delicious sounds of pleasure, quiet grunts and the sharp catch of breath and the rustle of fabric as a body slides over silky sheets.

Dropping his mouth to the pulse at her neck, he sucks gently, insatiable for the thrumming feel of her heartbeat laid bare on his tongue. When he hears her breathing harder, sees her hands gripping the bedsheets tighter, feels her body beginning that faint tremble again, he abruptly changes his mind.

“Wait, please wait,” he begs, pulling himself carefully from her body and rolling her onto her back. Wide eyes meet his and time stops.

Spread out beneath him, she is sheer perfection.

Before she can speak, Bucky captures her lips again and shoves himself back into her.

And maybe it’s the strangest thing, but even without the memories to guide him, that muscle memory branded into his heart knows what to do. Just like their first time together, Bucky pulls her leg up and hitches it around his waist, thrusting into her harder. Unable to speak, unable to even look away, they watch each other, both devouring the small bits they find, in case god forbid, they ever lose each other again.

When her fingers curl around his neck, drawing him closer, he rests his forehead against hers.

“Bucky,” she whispers, his name catching in her throat, “Bucky.”

“I’m here,” he pants above her. Every thrust comes faster and his control begins to slip. “I’m here, I lo-love you, god I love you so fu-fucking much, never leaving you again, not ev-ever,” he grits out.

Anchoring his knees to the mattress, he slams himself into her again and again, hitting every nerve ending just right and suddenly she finds a universe of stars. Clutching his shoulders, she clings tight to him as her body tenses and she comes one more time.

Bucky stutters out a wrecked groan when he feels her body gripping him, and that familiar tingle hits his belly. Burying his face in her neck, he gives one last, hard thrust and then grinds himself against her, a strangled growl ripping from his throat when he follows her into that blissful oblivion.

Breathing hard, he keeps his eyes shut tight against her, willing his heart to slow. Against her neck, he sucks a wet line up her throat, back to her lips. Warm, lazy kisses ease them both back to reality and their racing hearts find a new rhythm.

One that beats together.

Muscle memory, in the purest sense.

When you cut to the heart of their story, there’s a simple truth: they’re so different from who they were together in 1944. Both have lived multiple lifetimes, filled with all the tragedy and heartbreak the world could dish out; it shaped each of them in ways the other has yet to discover.

But even though time has reshaped them into something new, there are some things that will never change.

Each touch buzzes with forgotten familiarity, the way she trails her fingers up his sweat-slick bicep, like something he remembers from a hazy dream; the way his breath catches with every slow thrust of his hips is a sound she could follow in her sleep; the way their bodies fall easily into a rhythm together, an unconscious muscle memory.

Bucky wants to run into the snowy night, wants to shout his happiness to the heavens. This right here, this is what the poets sing about. Every line, every song, every beat of a lovestruck heart. Here in her arms, he finds everything he ever hoped to have and in the fading firelight, he holds fast to the one truth he knows above all else.

Love like this, is worth any cost.

“You’re the love of my life,” he whispers, and she lays her cheek against his chest and kisses the sweaty skin above his heart.

Right there, Bucky knows he’s the luckiest man on Earth.

*****

The sun is just beginning to creep into the eastern horizon, but he’s been awake for hours.

Laying between her legs, his head is pillowed on her stomach. The sleep shirt she wears is tissue thin and satiny smooth; it smells just like her and keeps taking deep, cleansing breaths, trying to embed that scent into his memory. Bit creepy maybe, but oh well.

Dim rays of light begin to slip into the room, filtering through the tall pine trees flanking the window, and as the world begins to wake, she follows. Like a touch-starved kitten, Bucky nuzzles into her, wordlessly asking for affection and when she scratches her nails along his scalp, it feels so damn good, he gives a blissful little groan.

“I love you,” he murmurs, and she hums.

“I love you,” she mumbles sleepily and there’s a pleased rumble in his chest at her reply.

“Won’t ever get tired of hearing that,” he sighs happily.

“I’ll never get tired of saying it,” she answers with a yawn.

Still half asleep, he feels her relaxing, the comforting strokes of her fingers getting slower, heavier, and he knows she’s drifting back to sleep. Maybe he should let her, but there are these words he’s been practicing under his breath all night long and he’s getting anxious and he just wants to say them, before he loses the nerve.

“Darlin’?” he asks quietly, folding his hands across her chest and resting his chin on them.

“Hmmm?” she says, her voice a bit slurry as she opens her eyes. Bucky fleetingly thinks every bit of light in the world must be concentrated on her, because she’s the only thing he can see.

Heart racing, he tamps down the nervousness and wets his lips. He wants to do this right, wants to make sure it’s perfect.

“Would you do something for me?” he says carefully, choosing those words, borrowing that phrase he gave her back in 1944 and god, he hopes he’s returning them in the way she remembers.

At first, she doesn’t catch it, simply running her fingers down his arm, but her words are so naturally reminiscent of the past.

“I’d do anything for you.” Bucky says nothing, simply waiting. She’s confused by his silence, until he tilts his head and a slow smile curves his lips. Her eyes widen and she blinks slowly. “Bucky -“

The staccato thrum of her heartbeat is suddenly flying against his hands and his blue eyes are so bright, overflowing with emotion when he completes the question.

“Would you marry me?”

Time, normally an unending commodity, freezes. They stare at each other, Bucky holding his breath as he waits, desperate for the same answer she gave him in 1945, knowing it’s a risk, he’s taking a huge leap here, but unable to do anything except go for it.

“I want to marry you Bucky, I do, I want - I want it so - god, I want it so much. You’re all I ever - this is the only thing I’ve ever wanted - “

Blowing out a huge breath, Bucky starts to laugh. Bouncing up, he cuts her off, peppering her face with happy kisses, sloppy wet trails down her forehead, over her cheeks, on her nose, up her neck. Every inch of skin he can find he marks with excited lips.

“Shit, thank god, ugh thank god! I mean it this time, I’m getting you that ring. Soon as I get back to New York I’ll get it, you come with me, we’ll pick it out together, anything you want. Hell, I got decades of back-pay from the army, and I mean, I hate to brag, but I’m sorta rich now.”

“Bucky -“

“Whatever you want for a wedding, I’m game. If you want something big, that’s great. Something small, even better. Only thing I need is to have the team there, and Steve’ll flat out murder me if he doesn’t get to stand up with us, he’s a real bitch for attention sometimes.”

“Bucky -“

“And we can live wherever you want, doesn’t matter to me. I’d love to just stay here if that’s okay, if you don’t mind, I mean it really feels like home and I ain’t had one of those for so damn long, but if you wanna live in New York or hell, anywhere, I can make it work, I’ll do whatever you want.”

“Bucky, I’m - “

“And I’m done with work, that’s it,” he laughs exuberantly “Stark’ll be pissed, he just made me this new arm, but I don’t fuckin’ care, I got you now, I’m staying put unless they get really desperate and -“

“Bucky, stop!”

The panic in her voice is like a wave of ice water. It shuts him down instantly. Silence hangs heavy in the room before he blows out a long breath.

“Shit,” he says softly, embarrassment pinking his cheeks. “Dammit, that was - was that too much? M’sorry, I got carried away, I just - shit, I’m sorry.”

Sitting up on her knees to face him, she reaches up and tucks his messy hair behind his ears and cups his flushed face in her palms. “No, it wasn’t too much, it was - it was perfect, that’s not it.”

“Okay. Okay, so - was it something else I said?”

She says nothing, but instead she searches his face, her eyes slowly roaming over every feature and Bucky thinks for a moment that she’s memorizing him. Licking her lips, she rubs her thumbs lightly over his sharp cheekbones and she swallows hard.

“Shit,” she says under her breath. “Shit, shit, shit. Fuck.”

“Hey now, thought I was the one with the potty mouth here,” he jokes weakly. She doesn’t crack a smile and Bucky feels his stomach swoop uncertainly. “Darlin’, what - what’s the matter?”

Still, she says nothing. Longing is so heartbreakingly clear in her face and Bucky can’t reconcile it. Suddenly, she surges forward, pressing her lips to his and he catches her, folding her up in his arms. She kisses him desperately, twining her arms around his neck and Bucky still has no idea what’s going on, but it doesn’t matter. All he wants, is to soothe whatever terrible thought is upsetting her, because this is his job, this is what he does.

He loves her, no matter what.

When she finally breaks the kiss, he tries to smile. “What was that for?”

Breathing hard, she closes her eyes.

“Just in case.”

With those words, she extricates herself from his arms and climbs from the bed. Walking to the fireplace, she slots her fingers into a tiny groove on the bottom of the third stone above the mantle. It takes no more than a gentle tug, and the stone comes away easily. Setting it carefully on the floor, she reaches into the black space it reveals.

Another hiding spot.

Whatever she collects, she stares at it for a full minute, before clasping it to her chest. Turning slowly, fearful eyes lock on his face and for a fleeting moment, Bucky conjures the morbid image of someone walking to their own execution. Climbing back onto the bed, she sits back on her heels and he sees her clutching a small silver box.

“I want to marry you Bucky Barnes. I want to spend every day of the rest of my life with you, because I’ve loved you every single day since the moment we met, and I hope - I need you to know that.”

“I know, honey,” he says in absolute confusion.

“You’re the love of my life. Please remember that,” she whispers, and she sets the silver box on the bed. The lock has five numbers, and she spins each dial until it pops open. Fingers shaking, she picks up the small piece of fabric inside and holds it out for him to see.

It’s the strangest thing.

In her hand, is a ripped piece of faded blue cloth, with a familiar gray patch sewn into it; smudgy rust-red splotches color the edges like fingerprints.

Wings. Gray wings. Nostalgically familiar, because back in the war, each of the Howling Commandos wore one on their left sleeve, a mirror image tribute to the one painted on Steve’s helmet.

Including Bucky. Who wore one on the left sleeve of his coat.

The left sleeve of his blue coat.

Now, he stares uncomprehendingly at the piece of cloth. “What - “ he starts, but his voice fades. Small shivers are running through her body as she watches him, her face filled with dread. Taking a shaky breath, she whispers.

“There was one other time we met.”

*****

Next Chapter

*****

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes #bucky #bucky fic #bucky barnes fic #altnl

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descendantofthesparrow · 6 years ago

Text

Daughter of the Honorable thief - Harry Hook x reader - part 3 - threat and games

Harry Hook x Daughter of Robin Hood!Reader

key

h/c- hair color

e/c- eye color

h/l- hair length

s/c- skin color

y/n- your name

clothing reference:

---

Harry gave a tired sigh as he entered History of pirates and wood, he and Gil had gorged themselves on ice cream and candy all night and now he was suffering from not enough sleep, a sugar crash, and a stomach ache.

Glancing up he paused, there was (y/n), sitting in the seat next to his, her sketchbook open and her pencil flittering around on the page.

Harry smirked, plopping down next to her, and rose his brow flirtatiously, leaning in close to her.

“Hello, lassie~ I thought yeh sat in the back of the class? didn't know ye were meh seatmate now, were yeh just that into meh that yeh had ta switch seats to be next to meh?”

(y/n) snorted and shoved his face away gently, grinning back at him.

“nah, you and I were the only ones without a seatmate, and the teach asked me if I would be willing to move next to you, nothing like what you’re suggesting hooky~, by the way, I like the jacket”

Harry snickered, quickly grasping her hand and bringing it to his lips, making (y/n) giggle at the sensation.

“sorry, I couldn’t resist teasing such a pretty face~ and thanks, evie made it for meh, since I can't wear my long red one all the time, so she made me this one”

“Mr. Hook, Ms. Loxley, if I could begin my lesson please?”

Henry Turner, the class teacher, called out to both of you, making harry drop your hand and grin sheepishly at him.

You snickered and rolled your eyes, nodding at the teacher. He rose his brow and turned to the whiteboard.

“Alright today, we are talking about the brethren court.

Now, who can tell me the last king of the brethren court's name?”

Harry furrowed his brow, he felt like he should know this, being a pirate and all, but his brain drew a black, but in the corner of his eye, he saw (y/n)s hand shoot up.

“yes, Ms. Loxley?”

“Elizabeth Swan sir”

“good, now how is the king chosen?”

Once more (y/n)s hand shoot up, Mr. Turner pointed at her with a smile.

“they are chosen through a vote, though it usually ends in an impasse, as pirates only ever vote for themselves.”

“correct! And very educated Ms. Loxly, now how did Elizabeth become the king?...go ahead Ms. Loxley”

“Elizabeth voted for herself and jack sparrow also ended up voting for her.”

“correct! Now extra credit to who comes up here to name all the pirate lords from Elizabeth swans reign”

Mr. Turner had written on the board numbers, from 1-9.

(y/n) stood up and made her way to the whiteboard, Harry had been staring at her in awe the entire time, jaw dropped.

(y/n) quickly wrote down the names on the board, along with the areas of the sea and oceans they command over.

1. Ammand - Pirate Lord of the Black Sea

2. Hector Barbossa - Pirate Lord of the Caspian Sea

3. Chevalle - Pirate Lord of the Mediterranean Sea

4. Ching - Pirate Lord of the Pacific Ocean

5. Jocard - Pirate Lord of the Atlantic Ocean

6. Jack Sparrow - Pirate Lord of the Caribbean Sea

7. Sumbhajee Angria - Pirate Lord of the Indian Ocean

8. Elizabeth Swann - Pirate Lord of the South China Sea

9. Eduardo Villanueva - Pirate Lord of the Adriatic Sea

(y/n) grinned and tossed the marker to Mr.Turner, strutting back to her seat.

“all correct Ms.Loxley! impressive!”

As (y/n) sat down, Harry turned to her with wide eyes.

“Lassie where did yeh learn all that?!” (y/n) grinned and tapped her finger on Harry's nose, giggling.

“hehe I had a pirate phase when I was younger and I researched everything about them, and I simply retained the information after that~”

Harry snickered back, softly smiling at her in awe, this girl was just surprising him left and right.

The two chatted as class continued on, easily answering the teacher when he questioned them.

As Harry made his locker, he noticed (y/n) trailing behind him, smirking he turned around, now walking backward, licking his lips.

“now-now lassie~ do yeh like meh that much that yeh havta follow meh everywhere I go~”

(y/n) rolled her eyes and snorted, shaking her head. “no you doofus, my locker is right next to yours, that’s how I saw you being cornered by the lost boys”

Harry hummed and spun around, stopping at his locker. (y/n) stopped as well and locked hers, putting her books away as Harry grabbed his English books.

As they chatted, Happy’s son, Henry, walked up with a shy smile on his face.

“Hello, (y/n), um I was wondering if you would like to hang out today? Have some pleasant company?”

Harry caught the meaning behind the boy's words and rolled his eyes, of course, yes get the filthy pirate away from the maiden!

But once more, (y/n) surprised him.

“you’re about as subtle as a shit stain on white carpet, get lost”

Henry squeaked and bolted, figurative tail between his legs.

Harry and (y/n) glanced at each other before they burst out laughing

“HAHA oh my god lassie!!” Harry spoke through his laughter, tears spilling out of his eyes, “ yeh just continue to surprise meh! Haha!”

(y/n) chortled and winked, giving him finger guns, before turning back to her locker and digging into it for a couple of seconds before pulling back and tossing him a long blue plastic package.

Oreos. Harry smiled and nodded his thanks, (y/n) nodded back and shut her locker, backing away slightly. “I gotta go, it's my free period and the archery range is always empty at this point. See ya hook!”

“see ya, lassie!”

Harry turned and started to make his way to English class, while also opening his oreos, sticking his tongue slightly in concentration.

Looking down at the plastic packaging, he wasn’t watching where he was going and therefore didn’t see as someone walked down the hall and harshly slammed into his shoulder, Harry winced, thankfully not dropping his snack, but continued on, determined to open this dammed bag of oreos.

“filth like you should be sent back to the isle”

Harry stopped and slowly turned, his face dark.

“wha did yeh say yeh arsehole?”

Aaron, son of Esmerelda and Phoebus, stood several feet away from him glaring at Harry. “you heard me filth’

Harry growled, but restrained himself, the vks cant fight rule was only lifted yesterday, and it only counted when they were provoked, so he turned his cheek and continued on. Ignoring the other boy's taunts.

“Hook”

Harry groaned but turned and rose his brow, “wha’?”

The tanned skinned boy sneered and glared at him, an odd glint in his eyes, “stay away from (y/n), she’s mine.”

Harry snorted and gave a sly grin, his knuckles cracking at the possessive claim. “oh really? She never mentioned yeh been the time been chilling with each other, yeh sure yer that important to her, or even on her friend?”

Aaron snarled and spit at Harrys feet. “just stay away from her pirate, you'll regret it if you don’t.”

Aaron turned and stalked away, Harry rolled his eyes, please, this boy was less intimidating than lefou’s son.

But...Harry frowned, what was concerning, was the boy's obvious obsession with (y/n).

Hearing the bell for English class ring out, he sped up into a sprint and resolved to tell Uma after school ended.

---

Later after school ended, Harry sat with Uma and Gil, doing his math homework, gritting his teeth over a particularly hard question.

Oh wait he wanted to talk to Uma about Aaron and (y/n), lifting himself off of Gil's lap slightly, he turned to Uma.

“Uma” the teal haired black girl hummed and glanced at Harry, but the stern look on his face made her sit up from leaning on Gil's arm and realize this was going to be a serious talk between the two of them.

“Harry? What's up?”

Harry sighed and ran his hand through his fluffy brown-black hair, thinking of ways to convey his concern for (y/n).

“so I was making my way to English class and someone bumped me and said; “filth like yeh should be sent back teh the isle”.”

Gil and Uma glared at the words, Uma grit her teeth, but stopped herself from going on a rant, she could tell that wasn’t what was bothering Harry.

“well,” Gil mumbled, scratching the side of his face, “that’s a really rude thing for an Auradon kid to say isn’t it?”

Uma shrugged, at least it was just words, it wasn’t as bad as the dudes here who felt that just when a girl looked at them, the girl owed them a relationship or sex.

“nah, but that’s not all, he threatened me, over (y/n)”

That made Uma pause, “(y/n)?? as in (y/n) Loxley?”

Harry nodded and continued “aye, he claimed (y/n) was ‘his’ and told me to stay away from her and id regret it if I didn’t”

Uma took a breath, thinking over the implications of what the boy said.

“so, there is a boy who is obviously obsessed with (y/n) and probably dangerously so”

Harry and gil stared at Uma as she muttered to herself.

“alright” the two boys sat up, Uma used her captain voice, when she uses that voice, you pay attention. “im going to ask (y/n) about this, she needs to know, so maybe she can put out a report on him or something like that.”

Harry nodded and reached over from Gil's lap, sneaking some of Umas coveted soda flavored jelly beans, snickering when he narrowly avoided a slap of his hand from Uma.

Drawing back he stuffed the beans into his mouth. Giggling at Uma slapping his shoulders.

“well~ you sure look comfortable~”

Looking up, Harry saw (y/n), staring down at him, grinning down and giggling.

Harry smirked and sat up slightly, grasping (y/n)s hand “im even more relaxed now that yer here darling~”

(y/n) rolled her eyes, withdrawing her hand from Harrys and plopping down next to Uma, who offered her coveted jelly beans.

“flirt, anyway I just came by to ask if yall wanted to play some video games with me?”

“sure,” Uma nodded, before remembering that she wanted to ask (y/n) about Aaron. “one question tho,” (y/n) hummed around her jelly beans and gestured for Uma to continue “do you know of a dude named Aaron?”

(y/n) groaned and flopped on her back, “yeah I know of him, he's a fucking creep, did he threaten one of you?”

“yeah, harry”

“uggg! Im guessing he claimed me as ‘his’, next time he does that shit, smack him for me.”

(y/n) had obviously dealt with Aaron before, and was tired of his shit.

Gil, sensing the tension in the air decided to cut it with bringing up the offer (y/n) made moments before, “so video game?”

(y/n) perked up, oh yeah! She sat up and grinned at the three teen pirates, “its called super smash bros, it’s a brawling game, its super fun! Do ya guys wanna play?”

The three glanced around at each other, before (y/n)s exited grin turned to a sneaky smirk

“winner gets to smack the loser with a plate full of whipped cream~”

The three teens jumped up from their spots and quickly packed up their stuff, eagerly following (y/n) back to her room to play.

An hour and a half later, (y/n) was filling a plate Uma was holding while Gil held Harry down as he screeched.

“Uma cheated!!! She cheated!! Im not letting her smash cream on meh face let meh go Gil!!”

Gil was just laughing as you topped off the plate and Uma grabbed the can and sprayed some into her mouth, before grinning down at Harry.

“nonononon AH!”

The three of you burst out laughing as Harry's face and hair was covered in the white substance, he made as ‘eeugh’ sound as he wiped his eyes and flicked his hands to remove the cream.

“yeh all suck”

“nah” (y/n) giggled, squirting some cream onto her finger, “you agreed to the consequences of losing and you lost! Fair and square!”

“whatever” Harry mumbled as he rolled his eyes, grunting he stood up from the ground and walked into the bathroom to clean up.

“so (y/n)” Uma asked, (y/n) smiled and hummed, looking over at Uma. “how long has Aaron been acting like that?”

(y/n) rolled her eyes and huffed, “since middle school, he had this idea in his head that we were made for each other. “

Uma nodded before something came to her mind.

“one more question,” (y/n) nodded, tilting her head “why are you being so nice to us, no one else is?”

(y/n) looked down at the floor of her dorm, before staring right into Umas eyes, speaking loud enough for gil and harry to hear her.

“I guess its because I know you’ve all had a shit life, and you deserve some kindness.”

Uma stared at the (h/c) girl for a moment, before she broke her gaze and looked down at the floor.

“Um, thanks…I guess”

(y/n) smiled and bumped Umas shoulder with hers. “no problem”

A few moments of silence, other than harry using the sink int the bathroom, then (y/n) spoke up once more.

“umm, I know we've been hanging out, but I was wondering if you guys would be willing to be friends?”

Harry poked his head out of the bathroom, the whipped cream now clean from his head. The three pirates looked at each other before a smirk overcame on Umas face.

“sure, but you can only join our group if you do one thing.”

(y/n) tilted her head, raising her brow “and that is?”

Uma cackled, the boys smirking, knowing what was going to happen.

“prank mal.”

…

They thought (y/n) would deny the deal, but once again she surprised them.

A devious smirk spread on (y/n)s face, already having a million pranks going through her brain.

“deal, when do you want me to do it?”

Uma cackled, ah they found they best Auradon kid ever.

“as long as it's within the week”

“I got one already, it'll be done by tomorrow morning”

“can't wait to see what yeh do lassie~!”

--end of part 3--

Comment or message me for part 4

#descendants #Descendents #disney descendants #harry hook #harryhook #descendants harry hook #harry hook descendants #harry hook x reader #harry hook imagine #thomas doherty #daughter of the honorable thief

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searchingwardrobes · 7 years ago

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Twister: Ch 5/?

I know it’s been a long wait, but here (finally) is the next chapter of my Twister AU. I think everyone’s going to understand Emma a whole lot better after this (at least I hope so). But ya’ll, I really can’t wait for chapter six . . .

Rating: T for storm violence, injury, and loss of life

Trigger warning: major character deaths in the prologue

You can find this story and the rest of my Captain Swan is My Favorite Rom Com:2018 Edition on Ao3 as well as my original Captain Swan is My Favorite Rom Com collection from 2017

@shipsxahoy @shady-swan-jones @tiganasummertree @bethacaciakay @artistic-writer @teamhook @kmomof4 @cat-sophia @hollyethecurious @coliferoncer @thejacketandthehook @dassala @branlovesouat @allofdafandoms-blog @flslp87 @pocket-anon @whimsicallyenchantedrose @snowbellewells @kday426 @snidgetsafan @delirious-latenight-laughs @jennjenn615

Chapter Five

Emma folded the last of her shirts in half, then rolled it expertly, lining it up with the others in her suitcase. All those years of living on the road had made her an expert packer. She shut the case, zipped it up, and hoisted it off the motel bed. Four days in this rundown place was four days too many, but Emma knew it could have been worse. This far off the beaten path, the glass for the windshield could have taken weeks to arrive.

Emma could have gotten Ruby to drive her to the airport, maybe even scrounged up an Uber, but every time she thought about it, Smee got excited about something on the radar. As long as she had been away, storm chasing was still in her blood. It was a habit, almost an addiction, and she had literally run away to be free of it. Now that she was back among her old crew, it was sucking her in again. And even if she hadn’t been fascinated with the data rolling in, she couldn’t tear any of her friends away from their passion.

Even now, a tiny part of her wanted to stay to see if the newest projections developed into another storm cell. There had been nothing else to chase since that last small twister five days ago. But there was one thing in this world that pulled her more than a storm, and it was motherhood. She physically ached from being away from Henry for this long.

There was a knock at her door, and Emma opened it to see Killian standing there with a sad smile on his face. The week hadn’t been at all unpleasant or awkward between them, to her surprise. As a matter of fact, they had fallen into their same old comfortable pattern, minus the physical or romantic aspects. He had eagerly absorbed every story she could tell about Henry, and had even Skyped with him. Henry didn’t know who he was yet, of course, but Emma could tell Killian was ready and eager for fatherhood. He had forgiven her, but the hurt was still there. Emma knew now that she had made an enormous mistake, and she wasn’t sure anything could ever make it right.

Killian shuffled and shoved his hands in his pockets. “Ready?”

Emma nodded, rolling her suitcase out the door. The Oklahoma air was sticky with humidity, but she still shivered as she locked the door behind her.

“You know a motel needs to renovate when they still use keys,” she quipped, simply for lack of anything better to say.

“I’m sorry you were stuck in this dump,” Killian apologized as he rolled her bag over the curb towards his truck.

“It’s fine.”

“You sure you’ll be able to get a flight?” he asked as he slid her bag behind the driver’s seat.

“I told you. Kristoff works for Delta. He got me a buddy pass.”

“You sure do have connections in Atlanta. Elsa working at CNN, Delta . . . do you get free Chick-fil-A too? Lifetime supply of Coca Cola?”

When he got a laugh out of her, he kept on. “Season passes to the Braves? The Falcons? The Hawks?”

Emma wrinkled her nose. “The Hawks? Ew, who would want that?”

They both laughed, strained, heavy, and awkward. Killian’s brow furrowed. “No wonder you don’t want to come home.”

“Killian –“ Emma sighed.

“You know Granny’s not going to be happy that you left without seeing her.” He reached out and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Emma wondered if it was an automatic thing.

The moment was heavy with so many unspoken things, that she wasn’t sure what to say. In the end, she never had to. Ruby came running up at that exact moment, breathless with excitement.

“It’s happening, Killian,” she said, a bright smile on her face, “we could get DOT in the air this time, I can feel it.”

An almost manic smile filled his face, and he shook Ruby by both shoulders. “Get the camper ready, I’m right behind you!” It wasn’t until he had yanked the driver’s side door open that he remembered Emma. “I . . . Emma, it’s . . .”

Suddenly, she no longer cared about storm cells, or Dorothy II, or any of it. Henry’s face swam in her mind’s eye, and the man in front of her was the father of her child.

“There will be other storms,” she told him, crossing her arms resolutely over her chest.

“Are you serious? After fours day of obsessing over the data coming in on the radar? You’re going to pass this up?”

“I want to get home to my son!” she snapped.

He glanced from her, to the horizon, and then at DOT II ready to go in the back of his truck. Then he gave her an apologetic frown. “We’ll get DOT in the air, then I’ll take you straight to the airport, I promise.”

“Are you serious? You make it sound like you’re swinging by for coffee or something. This is a freakin’ TORNADO, Killian!”

“I KNOW!” he yelled back.

Emma ran her hand wearily across her face. “Fine, then. But I’m staying here.”

He frowned at her, a bit of conflict still evident in his eyes, but then he climbed behind the wheel and pulled quickly out of the space. Suddenly fear welled up in her that this could be the last time she ever saw him, and her feet seemed to race across the asphalt without conscious thought. He seemed to almost anticipate her actions, screeching to a stop and then reaching over to open the passenger side door.

“Get in.”

“You better keep us alive, Jones,” she told him as she slammed the door shut.

“It’s what I’m good at, love,” he replied with a wink.

Emma shook her head as he peeled out of the parking lot. He was in his element, drunk with adrenaline, but her own heart was in her throat. The coordinates Smee was feeding them sent them off the paved roads and bumping down a rutted drive that cut through high weeds. Emma pressed her hand against the roof of the truck as they bounced along.

“It’s turning east!” Smee shouted over the cell, and Killian jerked the wheel suddenly, almost sending the truck up on two wheels. They careened out onto a paved road. DOT rattled in the truck bed, and Killian swore as he glanced at the machine over his shoulder.

“KILLIAN!” Emma screamed, and Killian turned the wheel hard as he slammed on the breaks, sending the truck skidding sideways to a stop. The wind whipped Emma’s hair as she climbed through the back window of the cab to help Killian unhook DOT and get her into position. Once it was on the ground, Emma hopped out of the bed with Killian’s help, and the two of them ran across the asphalt with DOT. The funnel skated across the ground, looking as if it was approaching their position slowly. But Emma knew far too well that looks could be deceiving, and she yanked on Killian’s arm to get out of the way.

They raced for the truck, and Killian sped away, following Smee’s instructions to get them – hopefully – a safe distance from the tornado. Killian turned the truck sharply to face the oncoming storm, almost giving Emma whiplash. No wonder the thing was always breaking down.

They sat there, leaning forward to focus on DOT II sitting there in the middle of the road. It shook and rattled as the storm got closer and closer.

“Come on, come on,” Killian muttered, “take her!”

The storm sucked at the machine, and it went sliding sideways before tipping over, skattering its sensors all over the road.

“Bloody hell!” Killian shouted, and before Emma knew what he was doing, he was leaping out of the truck and running straight for the twister.

“KILLIAN!” she screamed for the second time in fifteen minutes as she dashed out into the lashing rain and wind. Hail pelted her, but she didn’t care as she ran as fast as she possibly could. She knew she wasn’t strong enough to physically hold him back, but she sure as hell wasn’t going to stand by while he ran into a tornado like a complete idiot. So she did the only thing she could think to do; she tackled him.

Thankfully, she hit him sideways, sending him colliding with the dirt on the side of the road rather than the slamming him into the surface of the highway. Emma grunted, pushing her hair out of her face to look down at Killian. He had his eyes closed, his face twisted into a grimace. She looked up and let out a long, relieved breath when she saw the funnel dissipate, seeming to fold itself back up into the thick clouds overhead.

“Have you lost your bloody mind!” Killian yelled as he shoved her off.

Emma rolled onto her rear, her hands colliding with the ground as she caught herself. Killian was already sprinting for the equipment, frantically righting DOT and checking the machinery. Emma felt rage rise up white and hot inside until she could practically see stars. She scrambled to her feet and took off after him. She scooped up sensors as she ran, and when she got near enough, she starting throwing them at Killian as hard as she could.

“You have gone insane!” he screamed at her as he ducked from the onslaught. “You know how expensive these things are!”

“They’re not worth as much as your life!” She was hysterical now, her voice sore from screaming and tears streaming down her face. “You think I’m gonna sit there and watch you get sucked into a storm?”

He tossed a handful of sensors she had thrown at him into the machine and stalked towards her, his entire posture radiating aggression. “You know how important this is to me! To us!”

“No,” Emma shook her head, then pushed as hard as she could at his chest, “not to me. What’s important to me is you, Killian!”

“Oh really? I’m so important that you left me with no explanation, without even telling me I was about to be a father!”

“Because I didn’t want our kid to become an orphan like we did!”

She screamed the confession so loudly, it seemed to reverberate across the flat plains of Oklahoma. The ensuing silence between both of them was as heavy as the humidity, both of their chests heaving, their eyes wide in shock at her words. Emma deflated, glancing away from him and hugging herself. Where was that damn chill coming from, anyway?

“The second I knew I was pregnant, everything changed,” she continued softly. “I was scared to death; not of becoming a mother, but of our way of life. It wasn’t just us anymore.”

“Why didn’t you tell me that?”

Emma rolled her eyes. “Like that would have mattered. I knew you could never stop. I understand the addiction, the adrenaline rush. But with you, it’s more than that. This . . . “ she gestured around them, “you’re obsessed, Killian.”

He tilted his head up to the sky, both hands clenched at his sides. Emma reached out to him, taking his hands and slowly uncurling his fingers.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Emma whispered.

He opened his eyes to pin her with a tortured gaze. “Wasn’t it though? If I hadn’t hesitated, if I hadn’t wanted the dog-“

“Was my brother at fault then for my parents’ deaths?” she interrupted.

“He was just a kid.”

Emma laced their fingers together and took a step closer. “So were you.”

Killian crumbled then, dropping his head to her shoulder. She slid her hands up his back and buried her fingers in his hair as sobs wracked his body. “Liam . . .” he choked.

“I know,” she soothed, “I know.”

#cs ff #cs au #Cs modern au #movie au #twister au #captain swan is my favorite rom com

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fuck-bowers · 7 years ago

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Opposites Attract (Henry Bowers x Reader)

request: the reader is really shy (like me) and she has a huge crush on Henry. Henry finds out one day that she has a crush on him, and he teases and flirts with her and does sexual things to her until he gets her to crack and admit her feelings for him. then Henry asks her to be his girlfriend.

a/n: thank you for the request @kaitlinp0rrini, and I hope you enjoy it! this is the cheesiest thing I’ve ever written

It all started when Clark Freeman, number 52 on the Derry High football team, got tripped by Henry Bowers in the first floor hallway in between class periods five and six. You’d been standing by your locker, organizing your papers for science class, when you saw it go down.

Clark was a complete asshole, not only to you, but to everybody around him, one of those popular jocks who thrived on thinking the world revolved around him. No one had ever challenged that idea before. Henry seemed to take it into his own hands to fulfill such a task single-handedly, while walking towards the cocky quarterback one fateful Monday afternoon.

You’d heard a rumor that the whole football team had a secret fear of the Bowers gang, a club of four delinquents that made games out of terrorizing their peers. You’d never thought much of them, until you turned around and saw a flash of a letterman jacket fly to the floor before you.

Clark gasped as he turned around to see the perpetrator of the crime - Henry Bowers in the flesh, turning around to look at his victim with a sneer.

You froze, anticipating to be in the VIP section of the fight of the century, but saw nothing of the sort transpire.

Clark scrambled to his feet, keeping his eyes on Henry, giving a death glare that was undermined by his body language.

“You wanna fuckin’ go, Bowers?” He asked, though it seemed he didn’t want to know the answer, as he scurried away without another look behind him.

You couldn’t help but start to laugh. It wasn’t something you did often - you were extremely shy, and hated drawing too much attention to yourself. However, it was just too funny. You fucking hated a majority of the football team, it was chock-full of assholes like Clark. Finally, you saw one of them get a taste of their own medicine.

The other witnesses around you looked just as shocked, just as amused, but you were the only one to outright laugh, granting you the momentarily undivided attention of Henry himself.

His eyes locked with yours, and before you could nervously look away, he spoke.

“Somethin’ funny, sweetheart?” Henry questioned with the ghost of a smile. Your eyes widened as his scanned over you, making eye contact once again before stalking off.

That’s all it took for you to develop a crush on the most dangerous boy in school.

Patrick Hockstetter loved people watching.

People watching at Derry High was like studying an ant farm. Students and teachers scattered mindlessly wherever they needed to go, and interacted with each other for arbitrary reasons, and all looked so normal until you picked just one to study and tried to figure out its motives.

Of course, it was never very hard to do, but it was a way to pass the time far better than paying attention to the teacher.

One day in science class, Patrick picked you as a specimen.

Quiet people were usually the most interesting to watch, and were always the best fucks - you were even one of the more attractive girls in that class - but the potential of developing even remote interest in you hinged on whether or not you were entertaining to observe.

You were very entertaining, much more than he anticipated, but not because of your unconscious mannerisms - you’d kept your eyes on Henry for a majority of the class period.

Henry attracted many girls, but Patrick noticed that they were a particular type of girl. The loud, raucous ones, or the dangerous, wild ones made up his fan club. Very rarely would the quiet librarian type develop feelings for him, or at least make it as obvious as you made it, without using words.

Only at the end of class did you turn and notice Patrick staring at you one row over. Face reddening, you looked down as the bell rang, folding your textbook into your arms and walking out of the classroom in a rush.

Henry approached Patrick, hands in his pockets.

“We goin’ downtown today?” He asked, apparently completely oblivious of how you’d stared at him all period. Patrick smiled slyly.

“Sure thing, Henry.”

Patrick intended on telling about you later that night, but that evening he’d completely forgot by the time the Bowers gang was huddled around a table at Barry’s Burgers, and it had completely slipped his mind.

“You guys should’ve fucking seen it.” Henry laughed, taking a bite of his burger. “He fell like a ton of fucking bricks, and ran the fuck away like the pussy he is. It was hilarious.”

The guys laughed with him.

“I would’ve fucking paid to see that. Did any teachers catch you? They basically worship the football team.” Vic sarcastically questioned.

Henry shook his head. “Not this time. Thank fuck. I’ve had enough bad shit with teachers.”

“You had an audience though, right?”

A nod. “Yeah, everyone looked fucking thankful I did it. This girl from my chem class burst out laughing when I did it, like, loud, and she’s one of those quiet girls. He must’ve fucked her over or something.”

Patrick immediately perked up.

“What?”

Henry blinked, taking another bite before his reply and talking as he chewed. “Everyone was happy I tripped that little bitch. You guys should’ve been there. It was like, two months ago.”

“You said a girl was there?”

Henry smiled when he thought of you. He swallowed.

“Yeah, I think her name is Y/N? She’s in our science class. She was there when I tripped him, and she laughed out loud about it. He must’ve fucked her over or something. Or she just hates him like everyone else. Surprised more people didn’t laugh. He’s such a dick.”

Patrick smiled.

“That’s interesting.”

Henry scoffed. “What, have you met Clark? Cuz-”

“Do you like that girl?”

Henry had thought you were hot since the beginning of the year, but had a feeling you were one of those out-of-reach girls, either with a boyfriend, or with standards too high for the head of the Bowers gang, much less any of the other members. Henry rarely attracted shy girls, and he was positive that he’d never heard a single peep out of you before the day he tripped Clark.

“She’s a babe.” Henry said, furrowing his brow at Patrick. “Why?”

Patrick had gained the attention of Vic and Belch, and the whole table stared at him.

“That girl’s totally in love with you. She spent the whole fucking period today staring at you.”

Henry blinked, perplexed, trying to imagine you doing such a thing without him noticing.

“How the fuck would you know?” He asked, nearly insulted.

“I had nothing to fuckin’ do, and I looked around the room and I saw she was fucking staring at you, like, the whole period. Like a freak.”

“Don’t fucking insult her man, you’re a freak.”

“Fuck you.“

Henry had already known about Patrick’s tendency to people-watch. Maybe he was telling the truth. There was no reason for him to lie anyway, and Henry had caught you looking at him a few times.

As Vic and Belch picked up a conversation, the gears in Henry’s head began to turn, and he smiled, turning to his best friend.

“Well, thanks, Pat. I think I’ll put it to the test.”

Patrick rolled his eyes. “You really don’t fuckin’ trust me?”

“I do. I just wanna see how right you are.”

It was perfect, it really was - on most days, you’d sit with desks about two feet apart. On testing days, they’d be even farther apart, sometimes positioned in random opposing directions - but due to an upcoming project, Mrs. Baxter was sure to separate people into partners for the week ahead. Fifteen minutes before the end of class that Friday, Mrs. Baxter began her weekly process.

The two of you had never been paired before. Henry knew full well it was time to strike.

“I think I’ll pair you with Roger this week, Calvin… and Y/N…” the teacher glanced around the room, until she spotted Henry with raised eyebrows, as well as a raised hand.

“Yes, Henry?”

“I’ll be her partner.” He volunteered.

Your heart nearly did a backflip. What was he doing?

Though it caught you off guard, you weren’t about to turn down such an offer.

You swallowed and nodded at a crossed-brow Mrs. Baxter.

“Yeah. We’ve never been partnered up before.” You added. Henry shot a smug glance at you from the back of the room.

“Alright.” She said, moving onto the next student.

It was the protocol to go to your partner and talk about the study guide, start going over the first page if you had the time. As you turned to look at the boy you’d been partnered with, it seemed that he wasn’t going anywhere. You’d have to go to him.

You stood up, your textbook and your notebook wrapped in your arms, nervously walking towards his seat in the last row. You passed Patrick Hockstetter, who wore quite an ominous smirk, staring at you intently. Shifting your gaze to the floor, you continued, looking up only once more to see Henry.

His stare sent waves of butterflies through your stomach, blue eyes bearing the same sly grin that his lips did. He probably loved how nervous you were.

The end of class was near. You could do this.

For a minute, neither of you spoke. Mrs. Baxter reminded everyone of the test date, the material being tested on, and asked everyone to become familiar with their partner and inquire about study sessions outside of class, if possible. No one ever met up for science studies.

Finally, it was silent, and she momentarily left the room, everyone breaking into conversation.

Another moment passed, your mind racing for something to say, wondering if you should say anything at all. That’s when he spoke.

“My friend Patrick said you stare at me a lot in class.”

It felt like your ribs caught fire. You stared down at your paper, embarrassment washing over you. Thanks for that, Patrick.

You swallowed before speaking, organizing your messy thoughts, flipping open your notebook to distract yourself.

You could feel him staring at you merely inches away.

“W-Well, I don’t. He must’ve gotten me mixed up with someone else.”

Henry leaned back in his seat. “You can admit it, babe, a lot of girls are obsessed with me.”

Immediately, you scoffed, underlining sentences of your notes randomly. You refused to look at him.

“I’m not obsessed with you.” You quietly remarked.

“Then why do you stare at me in class?”

You shrugged. “Patrick lied to you.”

“Why would he lie about that?”

You finally turned to him, and your anger was offset by his jovial, entertained expression.

“Patrick is crazy.” You said, as-a-matter-of-factly.

Henry cocked an eyebrow, looking at his nails.

“I dunno, Y/N. Crazy people stare at other people in class. I’ve never caught Patrick staring at me.”

You let out a sarcastic laugh. “He was staring at me the other day!”

Henry smirked. “Sounds like a match made in heaven. Two crazy people.”

The boy looked at your lips, making you nervous all over again. You turned back to your notes and flipped open the study guide.

“You don’t talk too much, do you?” He teased in a low voice. His voice turned you on.

You hesitated a moment before replying. “You never talk in this class, either.”

“Well, I fucking hate science. Is that your excuse, too?”

The fact that the guy you’d developed a crush on months ago was finally flirting with you now was a high you’d ride out until it died.

“Yeah, science sucks. But… I mean, my friends all say I’m shy. So I guess I really am just shy.”

After a moment of hesitation, you suddenly felt his hand on your knee.

Goosebumps spread over your skin, from your legs up to your back. Henry smiled at you, tracing his nails over your kneecap.

“You’re not being too shy with me, today.” He said.

Your cheeks must’ve been bright red, your heart beating a million miles per hour.

“Neither are you.” You nervously joked.

Mrs. Baxter had left the room. None of the kids facing forward remotely seemed to notice Henry’s advances. At least you didn’t have an audience.

His fingertips gently trailed up your thigh, going further up and further inside. He tightly grasped your leg, making you gasp.

You put your elbow on the table and rested your face against your hand, covering your face from his view.

“I can’t help myself. You’re so fucking hot.”

The compliment made your heart flutter, but also put a bad taste in your mouth. He was probably one of the boys you’d been warned about by your parents and the TV shows - saying anything to butter you up and get in your pants.

Please let the bell ring, you mentally pleaded with the clock on the wall, edging closer to the end of class, his fingers edging the hem of your skirt.

Though part of you absolutely loved the attention, the pursuit from the guy you’d wanted it from most, you were so nervous, so unsure of what to do. Mrs. Baxter reentered the room, and seemed completely oblivious, sitting down at her desk. She was probably used to ignoring Henry.

“Why are you doing this?” You asked, in a nervous yet enthused, moving your arm back down to rest on the table. You didn’t have to look at him to know that he was smiling.

“Cuz I know you like me.”

You rolled your eyes, still turned away from him. “I told you Patrick was lying.”

“Even if he was, I know you still like me.”

You finally turned to look at him.

“How?” You sarcastically questioned. He answered you very simply.

“Because opposites attract, sweetheart.”

Your nerves were at an all time high as he gently moved his hand in between your thighs, ever so slowly, the eye contact single-handedly killing you - right as the bell rang.

“The study guide is due Monday!” Mrs. Baxter said, almost pleading, as the room broke into loud conversation and laughter. In the midst of it all, you quickly stood up, grabbing your books and walking away with them in a rush. Your only goal was to get out of the school as fast as possible, leaving Henry in the dust.

You felt scared, so exhilarated, and you knew there was no real reason for it - but he was too bold, too terrifying, to have anything to do with you.

You threw your books into your backpack and speed-walked out the door, melting into the throng of students moving through the hallway. Within minutes of urgently flowing through the crowd, you made it out the front doors, and finally you felt the first waves of calm. That was, until someone gripped your shoulder.

“Y/N!” Henry Bowers groaned, in an exasperated tone. You nearly jumped, turning around with wide eyes to see him. He was breathing heavily.

“I’m sorry.” He said.

You didn’t expect him to follow you. For a moment, you just stared at him.

“For what?” You asked.

“I think I scared you off.”

You took in a slow breath, unsure of how to phrase your concern.

“I like you, Henry. I just think we’re too different.”

Other students passed by, but the two of you barely noticed, completely focused on the other.

“Sure, we’re pretty different, but it’d be boring if we were the same.”

You looked up at him, blinking in the sunlight. He stepped closer.

“I like you. A lot. And if Patrick wasn’t lying about you starin’ at me, I wanna take a chance on that.”

He smiled, putting his hands into his pockets. You were surprised how he seemed so… Nervous.

“Do you…” He picked up his gaze from the ground and looked at you. “Do you wanna go out?”

You narrowed your eyes at him, hiding all signs of mental explosion that you experienced.

“You mean, hang out after school to study for our test?” You coyly questioned, cocking an eyebrow, unable to hide your growing grin.

“Do you wanna be my girlfriend?” He finally asked, smiling back at you.

He was bold, he was terrifying, but you couldn’t say you didn’t like those things about him. It was true - you had no idea how well you'd do on the test - but you knew for sure in that moment, he’d proven to you that opposites attract.

Holding eye contact, the two of you beamed at each other.

“Of course.” You quietly replied.

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arianakristine · 7 years ago

Photo

Title: Like My Mirror Years Ago AKA The Prompt That Won’t Be Written

CHAPTER 11

The next day felt strange.

She wasn’t used to this kind of town. The small kind, the one where things don’t change and everything stays the same. She sticks out in a town like this. It’s why she prefers the big cities she can disappear into.

And of course, she now had the added spotlight of being the birth mother to the mayor’s kid. After the strained yet honest conversation with the sheriff yesterday, she knew that the town must have a keen eye on the boy.

She glanced out the window, noting the morning bustle. A brown and tan vehicle affixed with telltale lights atop drove to the parking lot just beside the diner, and her spine straightened. She had a plan, after all. If she was going to feel comfortable in this town, she was going to have to spend more time with the man.

And learn to ignore the sharp mix of familiarity and desire that pricked her each time their eyes met.

A knock sounded on her door, and she jolted in surprise. She crossed to the door and opened it, expecting blue eyes but meeting dark ones and a fangy smile.

“Did you know the Honeycrisp tree is the most vigorous and hearty of all apple trees?” she says abruptly. Her voice is unnatural in its attempt at pleasantry, stilted and coarse. Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes, calculating and sharp. “It can survive temperatures as low as forty below and keep growing. It can weather any storm. I have one that I’ve tended to since I was a little girl. And to this day, I have yet to taste anything more delicious than the fruit it offers.”

The mayor holds out a bright, shiny red apple and she stares at it suspiciously. The monologue wasn’t exactly what she was expecting. “Thanks,” she said warily as she took it in hand.

“I’m sure you’ll enjoy them on your drive home.”

Emma barely kept the knowing smirk from her face. Ah, that’s what this was about. “Actually,” she said with a sneer. “I’m going to stay for a while.”

Regina’s chin raised, eyes narrowed. “I’m not sure that’s such a good idea. Henry has enough issues. He doesn’t need you confusing him.”

Her brow raised and her shoulders squared, though she put on an unassuming smile. “All due respect, Madam Mayor, the fact that you have now threatened me twice in the last twelve hours makes me want to stay more.”

“Since when were apples a threat?” she asked, brow arching.

She barely kept from rolling her eyes. “I can read between the lines,” she muttered. She planted her feet and tried not to glare at the woman. “Sorry. I just want to make sure Henry’s okay.”

Regina pursed her lips. “He’s fine, dear. Any problems he has are being taken care of.”

Emma looked at her suspiciously, dread prickling her spine. “What does that mean?”

Regina leaned forward. “It means I have him in therapy. It’s all under control. Take my advice, Miss Swan. Only one of us knows what’s best for Henry.”

She thought about the sheriff’s resigned gaze, the ‘I don’t think she can.’ Sure, she knows what’s best. “Yeah, I’m starting to think you’re right about that,” Emma replied coolly.

Regina glanced off as if to verify the empty hallway before she glared back at her. “It’s time for you to go.”

Emma huffed. “Or what?”

She glowered at her. “Don’t underestimate me, Miss Swan. You have no idea what I’m capable of.” She flicked her hair back and strode down the hallway after the blatant threat, taking the rest of the fruit with her.

“What the hell does the woman have about apples?” Emma muttered and set it down by the nightstand. She grabbed her jeans off the chair by the dresser and yanked them on. She needed to get out of this room if she was going to make any progress.

By the time she got down to the counter at the little diner the bed and breakfast was attached to, it was fairly busy. She had seen from the corner of her eye the man in the window booth, but was ignoring his presence for now. She needed to wait to have coffee in her system before she could begin. She needed that armor before speaking to him.

A local paper was on the counter, so she grabbed it to glance through as the waitress made her way to her. She sighed at the mugshot on the front. “Seriously?” she muttered.

“I’m sure you’re usually photogenic.”

She didn’t even have to glance up. She didn’t even have to hear his voice. She could feel his presence appear at her side. “Yeah, usually,” she replied with a sigh.

“Mugshots are always a little stark,” he said somewhat apologetically, and moved to sit next to her.

She peeked up at him and swallowed. So much for being caffeinated. “Is that speaking from experience?” she challenged.

A slow smile crossed his face, dimples apparent behind the scruff of his beard. “Well, I do tend to take them, Miss Swan.”

She couldn’t help smiling, her head ducking as she tried to cover it. He was so damn disarming. He caught her off-guard in a way that was both off-putting and alluring, and god help her she wanted more of it. She folded the paper a couple times over and flung it to the side. “Did you come here for the coffee, or was there another reason for your visit?” she asked bluntly.

He raised a brow, but took a long sip from his mug. “This is an everyday occurrence, being here,” he said, his accent light and plucky. “But yes, I suppose I could check in on you while I’m here. See what your plans are.”

She opened her mouth to answer something about not needing to clear any plans with him, when a mug was slid across the booth by the smiling waitress.

“I think you have an admirer,” the brunette said with an air of teasing, and then rested her chin on her palm as she looked between the two conspiratorially.

Emma glanced down to avoid her gaze and the idea that the instant connection and familiarity with this man might be noticed by others. She noted the swirl of whipped cream dusted with cinnamon, the smell of chocolate and spice tempting. She smirked. “Thank you, but I did not order that,” she said, and then flicked her hair back to look at him accusingly. “Though I’m impressed you guessed that I liked cinnamon on my chocolate.”

He looked amused, his dark blue eyes twinkling. “I didn’t send it.”

“I did,” a voice chirped from a booth a couple feet down. A dark head popped up, grinning merrily. The kid. “I like cinnamon, too.”

She felt herself soften as she saw him. He sounded so cautious, but his eyes were bright and his shoulders straight as he craned his neck up to better look at her, a wide, mischievous smile on his face. She could bet that she could set her younger self down next to him and find that exact expression.

Graham turned, facing the boy with a challenging look. “Henry. Aren’t you supposed to be at school?”

The flare of something both envious and wistful jumped in her chest. He sounded so fatherly, stern but still soft. She needed to facilitate this, needed to have them close enough to insulate the kid from whatever indifference his mother stalked over him.

“Duh,” Henry said indelicately. He jumped out of the booth and adjusted the backpack on his shoulders, a smug grin crossing his face. That one wasn’t her, wasn’t Neal … why was it familiar? He locked eyes with her, the green bright in the fluorescence of the diner. “Walk me,” he demanded.

Graham turned to her, his face wholly amused. “You should do that,” he said simply, a grin half hidden by his cup.

She bit her lip, a memory almost on the back of her mind. “Maybe you should join,” she said. If she was to implement this, best to start now.

He hesitated, obviously not used to being invited to be with the kid. “Wouldn’t impose. You two should go,” he said.

Henry approached them, swiping a strand of messy hair back. He looked cautious, and gripped the straps a little before he nodded. “No, it’s okay. Come with us, Sheriff.”

He still seemed cautious, even as he rose to his feet. He buried his hands in his pockets and gave an uncomfortable smile before shrugging one shoulder. “I guess you could use a police escort.”

She rolled her eyes at him and placed a hand on Henry’s shoulder, guiding him to the door. The kid beamed up at her, light in his steps. She stuck her hand in her pocket and retrieved the lone apple, tossing it back and forth nervously.

Once on the street, headed for the school, she sighed. “So, what’s the deal with you and your mom?” she asked bluntly. Maybe she could catch the kid off guard, get him to reveal something.

She noticed the sheriff’s side-long glance, but ignored it for now.

Henry turned suspiciously back to them but shook his head. “It’s about not us. I told you, it’s the other thing,” he said.

“What other thing, Henry?” Graham asked softly. His hands were making tight fists at his side, the only reaction to what they were saying.

Henry stopped abruptly and turned to them both. His eyes narrowed on them and his head tilted. “Can I trust you, Sheriff?”

The man smiled, crossing his arms over his chest. “I would hope so, Henry,” he replied.

Henry hesitated, glancing up to Emma once before refocusing on him. “You won’t say anything to my mom?”

Graham hesitated, but finally took one finger to make an “x” over his heart.

Henry slumped in relief and turned once more, walking towards the school again. “It’s the curse,” he said, then slowed his pace enough to fit right between the both of them. He linked their arms conspiratorially and craned his neck up. “She cast a terrible curse on all of you, making you forget who you are. Emma’s the only one that can break it.”

Emma felt a little bit strange linked so close with the boy, but it was worse with the Sheriff attached to the other side. Her heart stuttered for a second when she realized how they must look, all together. She shook the notion off and forced a smile. “Everyone in the town is a fairytale character, you see, they just don’t know it,” she explained.

“Yep! And time’s been frozen -- until Emma came back.”

“Oh?” Graham said, and an eyebrow cocked. “Who am I then, Henry?”

He hummed as he thought, but shook his head. “I haven’t figured you out yet. But my mom’s the Evil Queen. And Archie? He’s Jiminy Cricket. Ruby is Red, a werewolf. And then there’s Mary Marg--“

“Where do you get these things, kid?” she mumbled under her breath.

He sighed in exasperation. “I told you, the book. You’d know if you just read it.”

“Should I read it?” Graham asked.

He looked thoughtfully. “Maybe. But Emma’s the one to break it, so she needs to first.”

“Sounds complicated,” Graham said, just the barest hint of amusement in his tone.

“Luckily, I have a plan. Step one – identification. I call it Operation Cobra.”

“Cobra?” Emma asked. “That has nothing to do with fairy tales.”

Henry nodded enthusiastically. “Exactly. It’s a code name to throw the Queen off the trail.”

Emma felt herself getting uncomfortable and dug around her pockets for something to do. She found the apple and brought it to her mouth.

“Hey!”

Emma paused, looking down at the kid.

“Where did you get that?”

Emma traded a glance with Graham and then shrugged a shoulder. “Your mom.”

He snatched it from her. “Don’t eat that!” He tossed it over his shoulder, where it landed on the street with a soft thud.

“Oh, uh – all right.”

“Evil Queen, huh?” Graham murmured. “Like in Snow White?”

“Exactly! See, Emma, he gets it!” Henry exclaimed.

“Okay,” Emma said. She looked up to find the sheriff’s blue eyes again, and decided to try a little reason. “What about their past, then?”

“They don’t know,” Henry said somberly. He looked up to the sheriff sympathetically. “It’s a haze to them. Ask anyone anything, you’ll see.”

She’s about to laugh it off above the kid’s head with the man, but froze once she saw his expression. His gaze was distant, fogged, and he cleared his throat before turning his head away. She felt a nervous dip in her stomach. “So, for decades, people have been walking around in a haze, not aging, with screwed up memories, stuck in a cursed town that kept them oblivious,” she said, trying to piece through his beliefs.

�� Henry grinned. “I knew you’d get it. That’s why we need you. You’re the only one who can stop her curse.”

Emma grimaced and stopped, turning to the kid. “Because I’m the daughter of Snow White and Prince Charming?” she said dubiously.

Graham glanced up at her from behind Henry, and he smirked. “Is she, then?” he asked, and some of the playfulness is back. “A fairytale princess?”

Henry nods. “Exactly. She’s the one destined to break the curse, the only one who didn’t go through it back in the other world.”

Graham nodded seriously, then looked up at her. “Explains her shy, delicate sensibilities.”

She scoffed.

Henry shook his head, but kept his smile. “Right now, we have the advantage. My mom doesn’t know all this.”

Graham placed a hand on Henry’s shoulder, tilting his head to look down at him. “If she’s the Evil Queen, wouldn’t she know?” he asked.

Henry shook his head vigorously. “I took out the end. The part with Emma in it.” He reached into his bag and pivoted to her, thrusting the pages out triumphantly. “See? Your mom is Snow White.”

She glanced at the page Henry provided. A blond man crouched in front of a tree or something, blood staining the middle of his white shirt. He held out an infant tucked into a blanket, “Emma” across the side of it. She thought of her own blanket, the purple stitching that scrawled her name, but the cartoonish drawing was a long way from it. Pretty interesting coincidence, though. “Okay ….”

“That’s Prince Charming holding you,” Henry explained.

“Kid …,” she said, haltingly, hesitantly. She didn’t know how to redirect him, and she glanced a little helplessly at the other adult.

“It’s okay,” Henry said quietly. “I know the hero never believes at first. If they did, it wouldn’t be a very good story.”

She realized in that second how lonely the kid must be, if he believed everyone was in a fog. She needed to muster up something, some semblance of reassurance for the kid.

But it was Graham who rested a hand on the boy’s head, getting his attention. Henry turned to face him. “How long did it take for you to believe?” he asked gently.

Henry made a face, then his brow furrowed. “Something always felt wrong. With the town, with her. But when I got the book, it all made sense.”

Graham kneeled in front of him, brushing his hair back. In a split second, she could read the loneliness on his face as well. It was all too familiar. “You need to believe something, don’t you, Henry?” he said tenderly, his soft eyes sad.

She blinked, staring at the kid and the man together. Her heart seized at the image. Internally, she shook herself out of it. The two spent time together, it was only natural they’d pick up some mannerisms, making them look alike.

Henry blew out a breath, and finally faced Emma again. “If you need proof, take them. Read them. But whatever you do, don’t let her see these pages. They’re dangerous. If she finds out who you are, then it would be bad.”

She took the pages, making sure her hand didn’t shake. She gave a grimace more than a smile, but Henry lightened to see it.

He turned to check across the street, seeing the milling of kids behind the gates. “I got to go. But I’ll find you later and we can get started. Sheriff … do you wanna help?”

“Of course, little prince,” Graham said.

Henry grinned widely.

Emma’s shoulders squared, realizing that she was already making progress with the two. She could push this, nudge it more like. Now that Henry allowed Graham into this little group, this Operation Cobra, it would be easy. She could facilitate it, make sure that the two bonded and made a connection that could last. The kid could have someone he trusted, could learn to better deal with his mother when there was someone on his side. It would make it easier when she left in two weeks. Her hand curled around the pages, her smile growing.

Henry walked across the street, and then flipped back to catch her eye. “I knew you’d believe me!”

Emma opened her mouth, then hesitated. Affection bloomed in her heart, and she tried desperately to stamp it down. Finally she shook her head. “I never said that!”

His smile grew smug, and he walked around a woman with cropped hair. “Why else would you stay?”

Emma turned to Graham, finding him hiding a smile of his own. He reached back and scratched the back of his neck. He looked younger, carefree. Certainly not the glimpse of what she saw behind the façade a moment ago. “You look happy with yourself,” she accused.

“The lad doesn’t understand that there is another reason. Other than Operation Cobra, and certainly other than the cocoa in this town,” he answered, smiling at her.

She pressed her lips together. “Maybe not the reason you think,” she countered, but glanced toward the school and felt her heart wrench. You can’t get close, she reminded herself.

His hand hovered close but didn’t quite touch hers. “I told you – it’s a good thing, I think.”

She could feel the part of her that could get lost in him slip, and carefully pulled back.

“It’s good to see his smile back.”

She turned to the new voice, Henry’s teacher, the one with the credit card. She was a welcome distraction. She shrugged at her implication, though. “I didn’t do anything.”

Mary Margaret’s head tilted, and she shared a knowing glance with Graham before smiling warmly at her. “You stayed.”

She wanted to roll her eyes when she caught the grin the Sheriff was sporting now, but only crossed her arms. She felt uncomfortable enough was all this attention, and these two insisting that Henry might benefit from her presence was disconcerting.

“So, does the Mayor know you’re still here?” Mary Margaret asked politely.

Emma did roll her eyes at that. “Yeah, she knows. What is her deal? She’s not a great people person. How did she get elected?” she asked, directing it to them both.

Mary Margaret gave a sympathetic nod at that. “She’s been mayor for as long as I can remember. No one’s ever been brave enough to run against her. She inspires quite a bit of, well, fear.”

She turned to Graham to see his opinion on that, but he was staring at the ground, hands shoved in his pockets as he frowned. Maybe there was something she was missing.

Mary Margaret shrugged. “I’m afraid I only made that worse by giving Henry that book. Now he thinks she’s the Evil Queen.”

“Did he say who he thinks you are?” Emma asked curiously.

She looked embarrassed, giving the answer away immediately. “It’s silly,” she said.

Graham shifted. “Ah, then you did get assigned. He didn’t have one for me quite yet,” he said.

Mary Margaret laughed under her breath. “Oh, you just give it time.”

Emma shook her head. “I just got five minutes of silly, believe me, lady. Lay it on me.”

She tucked into herself, blush rising in her cheeks at the same time as her shoulders shrugged up awkwardly. “Snow White.”

Emma’s mouth parted as realization struck over her. Henry thought his teacher was her mom? His grandmother? She looked the teacher over, still unable to find a coherent sentence. This was too much.

And dammit, Graham knew, too. She looked to him, finding him just as startled.

“Who does he think you are?” Mary Margaret asked.

Emma looked her over, and cursed over the fact that there was enough similar in this woman to support a poor kid’s fantasy. Well, this just got complicated. She shook her head. “I’m not in the book,” she said.

She could feel Graham’s stare at that, and she gripped the pages in her hand a little more. She wasn’t. At least, not according to Henry, once he ripped those pages out.

“I should let you go,” Emma said, still a little shaken.

Mary Margaret smiled, and nodded to Graham before following her students into the building.

“Maybe I need to talk to his therapist,” Emma said, rubbing her hands together to warm them. She felt so cold all of a sudden.

Graham nodded. “Could be an idea. His name is Archibald Hopper. He’s just off the road a ways.”

She nodded and blinked hard. At least he wasn’t teasing about the schoolteacher being her mother. “Okay. Some answers, good.”

“Perhaps I should come?” he asked.

She looked up, those stunningly soft blue eyes set on her. Slowly, she shook her head. “No. Thanks,” she said, and furrowed her brow. She needed some time to catch her breath anyway. “This one I need to do myself.”

If she needed to fight to get this kid happy, she was going to do it.

Eleven Years Ago

“I know how to fight.”

He looked up at her, amusement clear in his soft blue eyes. “Of that, I’m sure,” he said, but tossed her the stick anyway.

Indelicately, she fumbled with it, dropping it almost immediately. She huffed and looked back up with a feigned glare. “Maybe not with swords, but those aren’t so common where I’m from.”

He shrugged. “Perhaps it’s your perspective that’s off. It was meant to look like a blade, but not a sword,” he teased.

Her lips pursed. They were at the inlet, spending the clear day just hanging around their camp. She had gotten used to him teaching her things here and there, an old request taking shape easily. This, however, was new. She wiped her hands over her jeans and then grabbed it up again. “So, you want me to pretend it’s a Swiss army knife or something?”

This time, he didn’t even manage to look baffled at what she generally knew to be an anachronism. “Or something,” he echoed, and flipped his own in hand.

She lunged forward before he could, a giggle escaping as he twisted away, missing him by inches. He darted away as she slashed out carelessly, grinning widely as he did. There was a lightness to his movements, something she’d noticed long before but took the chance to admire now.

She made a few more quick jabs, ones he easily deflected. She could hold her own at the homes she’d been in, but she had made it a preference to run before fighting, and this all was more in jest than serious instruction. Initiating the attacks felt a little unnatural nonetheless, but she soon came to anticipate his movements.

Finally she flipped the branch around and caught his forearm. His eyes snapped to hers in surprise, and his smile turned playfully feral.

He yanked an arm around her waist, dragging her close with the broken branch pressed against her back. His eyes were practically twinkling. “You should be quicker than that.”

She tried to sweep her leg to pull his out from under him, but he pitched forward instead of back. It sent them both to the ground. She let out a small squeak at the unintended fall, but he caught her before her head could topple against the dirt. They both got covered in it as the dust settled around them, wide eyes on each other.

She took a second before peals of laughter escaped her, and soon she found the answering rumble from deep inside his chest. He looked his age with the mirth in his eyes, curls tousled and sun outlining his features and again she was struck by how handsome he was. Still smiling widely, she shifted up to her elbows, pushing herself into his space. She hovered there, beats passing as they sobered.

His eyes changed as he seemed to notice how close they were. She felt his hands tighten around her hips, and a rush of something encompassed her. She felt flush, warm, slightly dizzy with it. His eyes, they were not their usual grey-blue, deep and mysterious. Instead, the pupils had blown wide across his irises, making them darker than she’d ever seen. His breath was hot against her lips. Her breathing was suddenly shallow and heavy, and just a centimeter closer would mean everything.

They had been close before, when opening eyes in early morning to find the other’s far too close. When there was a certain heat involved when accidentally brushing fingers as they passed food to one another. But this time they did not part just as quickly as they got into that state, did not jump away.

“What are you doing?” she asked, even though she was the one to come closer. She almost didn’t recognize her own voice. She sounded winded, her tongue practically caressing the syllables into a seductive tone she was sure she didn’t actually mean.

His eyes flicked down her body before resting once more on hers. A fractional incline of his head almost went unnoticed, his nose barely touching hers. “I d’nno.” The callous of his fingers rode up along her skin, where it was exposed as the cloth of her straggly tee bunched up. The slight brush left a trail of stung nerves, hyperaware. But he stopped, lingering in her space and halting all movement save the bounce of his pupils to take her in.

His hesitance proved he really didn’t know. But Emma, she’d seen the movies, the tv shows, had peeked in on the older kids, had awkward moments with others. She knew what came next. Without further prompting, she bridged the distance, brushing her lips against his, feather-light, experimental.

He drew in a ragged breath, and his head lolled down. Teeth scraped her neck just barely, before he nudged his forehead along her hairline. “I—“ he began, but then his lips come back to meet hers, and the words were lost.

She sighed at the contact. The kiss was somewhere between tentative and demanding, a testament to both inexperience and sheer desire.

With the miniscule amount of experience she had, she guided him into deepening the kiss. She coaxed his mouth open, brushing her tongue against his. He responded easily, only a step behind in matching her movements and then taking the initiative to explore. They matched each other’s actions, mirroring, until she felt like they were drinking each other in. It was … heady.

She broke only briefly to suck in a deep breath, and he still sought her skin with his lips. Her nails dug into his shoulders, pressing him all the closer. One of his hands carded through her hair, the other smoothed against her bare spine to press her harder against his chest.

She thought back to the Gracey home, to Tyler, and didn’t understand how she could have possibly ever called that kissing.

This was kissing. This was intimate, warm, with an unchecked desire that thrummed with power. Somewhere teetering between balanced and uncontrolled, unfamiliar yet with a brush of rightness.

Excitement tingled down her, coupled with a heat that made her want something. She couldn’t stop touching him, and her own hands slipped under his shirt and over hard muscle, kissing and nipping at his lips as he did the same. She bent her knee, using the leverage to push herself into him and he pulled in tandem, their bodies lining up in a way that made her lightheaded.

Suddenly he stopped with his face inches from hers, blinking hard. Quickly, he extracted himself from her, shock touching his stature. Cold washed against her, eyes widening at the sudden loss of his warmth. She licked her lips, still panting as her heart raced. “Wh-what?”

His mouth was parted, breaths short and ragged. He shook his head, a brief flash of disappointment in his gaze as he licked his lips. “Footsteps,” he said simply.

She sucked in a sharp breath and pulled down the hem of her shirt; it had ridden up well past the edge of her rib cage. She listened, not yet able to hear the telltale crunching. “How far?”

He was still. “Two minutes,” he said surely. He grabbed her hand and helped her stand. His face was still flushed, eyes still dark as he looked at her. He reached out, running his thumb across her bottom lip before he shook his head, clearing it. “We have to go.”

She nodded, and bent to collect their things by the trees.

There was something heavier this time as his hand reached for hers, as the longing clicked inside her when theirs palms met. She tried desperately to ignore it again as he guided them away, carefully and gracefully dodging trees and brush as he led them to their secondary camp.

Her heart thundered in her chest, and she knew she couldn’t be sure that their routine would be the same once they reached it.

#gremma #graham humbert #emma swan #gremma ff #ouat ff #swan believer #hunted believer #hey guys I made it to 11 chapters #kinda a big deal for me #lol #the prompt that won't be written #like my mirror years ago

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princessofthedarkrealm · 8 years ago

Text

Stroke of Midnight- Chapter 4 (Pennywise x reader)

Stanley Uris’s kippah went sailing through the window of a passing school bus like a frisbee.

“Guys? Really?” You put your hands on your hips, shaking your head as Patrick and Vic cackled like a pair of hyenas.

Stanly got to his feet, dusting the dirt off his pants. Vic pushed him towards your group. Bill had just gotten over being sick, so your aunt had asked you to pick up him and Georgie after school for a couple of days instead of letting them ride their bikes so that Bill wouldn’t over exert himself. Luckily Mrs. Stout had let you leave work for a little while.

“You guys are sad, you know that?” you shot at the Bowers Gang.

Patrick mimicked crying and wiping away a tear. “So sad,” he said mockingly. Vic laughed and Belch gave the response that had earned him the only name you knew him by.

Henry Bowers, the leader of this gang of pathetic miscreants, pointed a finger at you menacingly. “Why don’t you shut your face, bookworm, before I have to add a matching mark to your other cheek?”

Your face grew hot from anger and embarrassment. Your cheek was still tender from when the man in the alley had hit you the night before. The dead man, you thought. You could still see Pennywise’s large form standing out in the dark like a pale ghost, holding your attacker up as if he weighed nothing.

You glanced to the right and saw Georgie come out of the school. You shot a nervous glance back at Henry. There was no way your little cousin was going to bypass this group of trolls. As Georgie got closer, you tried motioning at him to go around to the right. He noticed, but to your horror, so did Patrick. A sadistic grin lit up his face.

“Aww. It’s the little shrimp.” He dubbed his thumb towards Georgie and started side stepping towards him.

You stepped forward, but Bowers got in front of you. For the second time in two days, your path was blocked by some menacing goon. You bit your bottom lip. Henry was a head taller than you and even though he was pretty scrawny, you knew he could still hurt you. Patrick was moving back and forth in front of Georgie, taunting him. Every way Georgie would go, Patrick would go that way. Patrick laughed.

“Bill,” Georgie called out weakly.

“P-Patrick, leave h-him alone,” Bill hollered.

You were seething. You glared at Henry and then your eyes flickered to the two cops that were standing across the street behind him. You smirked when you recognized one of them.

“You really want to keep making a scene in front of Daddy?” you whispered. “By the look on his face, he doesn’t look too pleased.”

Henry’s eyes grew wide as his face took on a crazed, murderous look. Jeez, there is something seriously wrong with this kid, you thought. But you didn’t dare let him see the unease that was building within you. Instead you raised your eyebrows at him, daring him to continue his little charade.

“Patrick!”

Patrick twisted around to face you and Bowers and Georgie scampered past him to safety. Bowers got in your face and jabbed a finger at you. “This isn’t over,” he whispered heatedly.

Bowers stalked off and the rest of his goons followed. Bill and his friends crowded around you. You jumped when you felt a thump on your back.

“Ho-ly shit, that was great!” Richie clapped you on the back again. “I mean, you just stood there right in his face.” He held his hand up in the air, fingers bent forward to emphasize how close you had come to danger. “I would have died.”

“Yeah, like fucking literally,” Eddie Kaspbrak added.

“Hey! We’re still at school,” You scolded.

“Yeah, we’re still at school,” Richie whispered in Eddie’s face. Eddie pushed him.

The boys said their good-byes and while the others got on their bikes, you and your cousins headed to your car, which was parked in front of the other end of school.

“Are y-you going to be d-driving us tomorrow?” Bill asked.

“Nah.” You unlocked your door. “I think your mom just wanted me to do it for a couple of days. You should be ok. Your cough is almost go-” You glanced up and froze. Floating towards you, from across the road, was a single red balloon. You watched its slow approach, then glanced around nervously.

Georgie looked up at you. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, sweetheart.” You unlocked the back door and the boys climbed inside. A car passed, causing the balloon to swirl around in the air. You opened your own door and went to climb in, but decided to take one more peek.

And wished you hadn’t.

The balloon was gone. But there was something else. Someone else. Standing in a small copse of trees right across the street.

Pennywise.

You felt your body lock in place. He just stood there, his intense, predatory eyes slanted slightly downward, staring at you. Devouring you. His puffy, cherry red lips hung slightly open. You started trembling. You couldn’t look away. You wanted to, only you didn’t want to. You wanted to go to him. You wanted-

Another school bus passed. And then he was gone.

******

You went about your daily routine. People talked about the man who had been murdered and of course you would act shocked. No one could ever know the truth, and there was no way they would even believe you. The next day passed. Still no Pennywise. No sightings, no gifts, even your nights were beginning to feel empty and mundane.

Friday came. The last day of school. The day had been pretty quiet at work. By afternoon a boy came in asking for books about the history of Derry. He seemed like a quiet boy, with a round, friendly face. You found a few books for him, then got him settled at a table.

“It’s a pretty day today,” you told him. “The last day of school. Wouldn’t you rather be out with friends?”

The boy glanced out the window. “I like it in here.”

You smiled at him. “Me too. Well if you need any help, just ask.”

You went back to the circulation desk and grabbed the drawing that you had started working on after lunch. It was in pencil and was more of just an idle doodle. You traced his lips you’re your fingers. Those lips that you couldn’t get out of your mind. And those wild, intense, yellow eyes. You sighed and set it down.

You walked past the steps that led to the storage room and heard something that sounded like a holler coming from that direction. You went to investigate and were halfway down the stairs when the boy that had requested the Derry books came running up them as if something was chasing him. He slowed down when he got to you and the two of you just looked at each other, not saying anything as he walked past. What had caused him to run like that? Or even better… who? You descended the rest of the stairs. The light in the large room was dim. Long shelves full of archives, old equipment, and other things ran parallel to her. You started walking down the center aisle.

“I know you’re here,” you called. You turned slowly, all your senses on high alert. “No one else could have scared that boy like that.”

You heard a creaking sound off to your right and froze. Your heart started pounding. Did you really want to be down here alone with him? “Please, I know your there. I need to know you’re there. I know that I’m not losing my mind.” You started glancing around frantically. “I need to know that you are real. I need to see you, I need to feel…” You brought your hands up to your face and closed your eyes. A cacophony of feelings raged through you, each one fighting to take precedence: fear, anxiousness, and in the deepest part of you, something else that you were afraid to label. You heard movement behind you, close behind you. Every muscle in your body seemed to lock in place.

“Pretty little princess, don’t be afraid.”

Your eyes flew open. You’d know that voice anywhere—that soft, silky, squeaky voice.

“Pennywise has come to make your day.”

When you felt his hand on your neck, you squealed and jumped sideways so hard that your back hit one of the shelves. You heard something clatter to the floor on the other side.

You had never seen him this close before. He towered over you. Three furry orange balls went down the center of his chest. Your head reached the middle one. His buck teeth shown prominently through his cherry red lips that were lit up into a grin so big his face could have split along the single red lines that curved from his lips and up along his face.

He leaned in towards you. “Did the little princess jump?” He giggled.

“Y-you startled me,” you stammered.

He frowned. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

You highly doubted that.

He leaned in closer. “Are you afraid of me?”

Your mouth opened and closed a couple of times. You weren’t sure how to answer him. “I g-guess I am a little.” You were starting to sound like Bill. He reached out and barely grazed your cheek with a gloved finger causing you to flinch slightly.

“I’m not going to hurt you, little one. But I know you’ve been missing me. So I’ve come to give you what you want.”

“And how do you know what I want?” you said a little too loudly.

“Oh I know everything, my dear.” He rubbed his thumb along your chin. His face was so close and his breath smelled super sweet, like cotton candy. “I know you lie awake at night, haunted by your fears…” He tilted his head sideways at you and brought his thumb up to rub along your bottom lip. You whimpered as a shiver ran through your body, one that had nothing to do with fear. “And your desires.” He said that last word slowly. You yanked your head back to break the contact and the clown chuckled. “Look how easy you come undone by my touch.”

“I did not ask you to touch me!”

He chuckled again. “But isn’t that what you wanted to do to me?” He shook his head at you, causing his bells to jingle. “To see that I’m real. To…” He reached out like he was going to poke your nose, but then stopped just inches away. You stared at his hand. “…touch me.” He lowered his hand and leaned down to you again. “Go ahead, kit-ten. There’s no one here. Do it…Touch me.”

Your heart was beating erratically. You glanced at his chest. You slowly reached out and rested your hand on it. You had thought his costume would feel course, but it was kind of satiny, like a parachute. You ran your hand up a little farther. Pennywise leaned in closer to you, his brow furrowed. You tilted your chin up as he passed his nose inches from your hair. You heard him inhale, as though he was smelling you. You closed your eyes. You felt his nose graze your temple and felt a warmth spread through your belly as you felt his hand slowly snake around your back. Your breath was now coming out in short bursts. He started rubbing your back.

“Y/N!”

Your eyes snapped open. You glanced up at Pennywise. “Shit, I’ve been gone too long!” You pushed passed him and ran to the stairs. “I’m in here,” you called up to Mrs. Stout.

“Well I was wondering where you had gone,” the librarian replied. She appeared at the top of the stairs. “Everything alright? Your face looks flushed.”

“I’m alright. I just…got overheated.”

“Well go splash some water on your face. No need for you to be passing out, especially not down there.” Mrs. Stout left.

You turned around, but Pennywise was gone, leaving you more confused than ever. There was no denying it now—you were definitely attracted to him. You had to see him again, as frightened as you were by your feelings. Just being around him was intoxicatingly. But was he dangerous? Was he a danger to you? You needed to find out.

@destiel-lover321 @hello-helianthus

#Pennywise #pennywise x reader #pennywise fanfiction #it movie 2017 #stephen king it #pennywise imagine

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slow-smiles · 7 years ago

Photo

Dark Swan Rising by slow-smiles

III: Small Things

Under Hades’ guidance, Emma’s actions as the Dark Swan escalate, and Regina and Robin are shaken by their predicament with Zelena. Henry finds himself dragged into a drama far more complex than a black and white game of heroes and villains while Belle and Killian search for a breakthrough in light of new revelations. The Knights of the Round Table are keeping secrets as the tension in Storybrooke draws toward an inevitable explosion.

A (somewhat) rewrite of 5A in four parts.

Part I / II / III

Also on AO3.

“It’s like a sleeping curse, in a way. They’ll be locked into the vision you’re giving them, no way to escape or wake up. Well, True Love’s kiss, of course, but since they’ll both be under at the same time, there’s no risk of that happening.

“You’re lucky your parents share a heart,” Hades continues, “considering how tricky some of the ingredients will be to obtain. You’ll only need to make one spell to affect them both,” Hades says.

“What kind of ingredients?”

“For one thing, you’ll need the crushed dust of an untainted heart. I think you know where we can get one.”

Emma breathes out, a fierce smile cutting across her face. “Rumplestiltskin.”

“He’s unconscious in his shop,” Emma says. “No one will protect him. I don’t think even Belle has any sympathy left in her. He’s done too much for that.”

She turns to go, but halts when Hades suddenly appears directly in her path. “Not so fast, Savior. You can’t just kill him,” he says.

She feels her rage bubble up inside of her as she approaches him and hisses, “I will just kill him. Do you have any idea what he’s done to the people I love? He deserves every bit of the pathetic death that’s coming for him.”

Hades is unruffled. “I’m not discouraging you from ending his long and bloody life. I’d personally love to see the man blundering his way through the Underworld, given how many of its residents he personally put there. No, there’s simply a small hitch that comes along with the untainted heart.”

“And that is?”

“The exact words in the spell are ‘an untainted heart willingly given.’ Rumplestiltsken needs to give you his heart of his own free will, or else your spell goes nowhere. And unless there’s a baby somewhere in Storybrooke whose untainted heart you’d be willing to sacrifice, the old Dark One is your only choice.”

Emma’s rage is replaced by the feeling of deep illness and she steps back as though she’s been slapped. “A baby?” she chokes.

Hades answers blithely, “Children are born already willing to give their hearts. How their heart grows depends on who they happen to give it to.” He shrugs, nonchalant. “Quite a tragedy in some cases, but such is life. So unless you’d like to make a sweep through Storybrooke’s maternity ward, I’d start thinking of ways to get Rumplestiltsken to give you his heart.”

“Belle,” she says immediately. “He’ll give it up for Belle.”

Hades raises a brow. “And how do you plan on orchestrating this grand exchange?”

Emma feels her light magic stirring, the weaker version of you, Emma Swan, and feels like she should be regretting what she’s about to say. She should be feeling a sympathetic response, that frisson of moral disquiet running through her heart.

You are no longer nothing, Emma Swan, we made sure of that. The whisper of the darkness once felt so out of place, an intrusion in her mind. Now it’s--

It’s a part of herself she didn’t know was missing.

“I’ll find Belle. Take her quietly so no one comes looking for her. We find a way to wake Gold. He’ll exchange his life for hers.” It’s easy. It’s so easy, and Emma wants to laugh because she’d never even opened her eyes before this. There’s always been a clear path to what she wants, she just never had the strength to take it.

Hades looks pleased. “Concise, neat, with that lovely Dark One twist. I think you’re getting a hang of this, Emma.”

She can’t help but smile.

Belle veritably bursts into the library, startling Hook and Henry out of their attempts to continue researching.

Henry’s mom and his grandparents are orchestrating repair efforts to fix the damage done to the city by Zelena and her minions, while Robin is coordinating the Merry Men and the Camelot knights in search and rescue efforts.

The hunt for Emma is temporarily postponed while they recover.

Henry’s more than a bit sour on that. He knows Hook feels similarly, but it seems the pirate has focused his frustrated energies into researching as quickly and effectively as possible. Henry wishes that he could do the same, but all he feels is worry and angry impatience deep in his gut. Hopefully whatever Belle has will make him feel like they are being productive.

“I have something,” is all she says at first, stalking over to their table, dubbed ‘Command Central,’ with singular purpose.

“What is it?” Henry and Hook ask in unison, abandoning their current pursuits in favor of listening to Belle.

Command Central is organized chaos with sections of books and papers separated by realm of origin, and subsections dedicated to fiction, non-fiction, and unknown. Anyone who doesn’t know Hook’s and Belle’s system would just see a mess, Henry supposes.

Belle starts sorting through the pile dedicated to fiction from Camelot. “Do we…” she mutters something to herself. She looks at Killian. “The Epic Histories of Merlin. I know I saw it somewhere--”

Hook immediately reaches for the Misthaven pile and slides one of the older books from underneath. “The author was from Misthaven,” he reminds gently.

“Right,” Belle nods, and takes the book from him. She mutters something else as she begins to flip.

“Perhaps speaking so that we can hear you would help, love,” Killian quips.

“Oh,” she looks up. “Yeah, sorry. It’s just that this,” she lays her finger down on a page, “is the only story that we’ve found that mentions the Dark One in relation to Excalibur.”

Henry leans over to look at the page Belle is referencing. The War of Humans and Hades. “Hades?” Henry asks.

“Excalibur?” Hook asks.

Belle says, “I’m not sure about Hades, but Excalibur is the important part. Ruby inferred that there’s a connection between the Dark One and Excalibur.”

Henry’s brow furrows. “‘Inferred?’”

Belle sighs. “It seems like the Knights of the Round Table, or the Council of Merlin, aren’t very generous with what information they share.”

Hook scoffs. “Bad form to ask for trust but offer none in return.”

“I don’t disagree with you,” Belle says, “but if Ruby is with them, then I don’t think we should distrust them either.” Hook bristles a little. “Look, they helped us when Zelena attacked. You wouldn’t risk life and limb for a group of people you don’t know unless you had good in you.”

Henry interrupts before Hook can voice more dissent, “We can talk about whether to trust them or not later. What does it say in the story?”

Belle flips a couple of pages, “There’s a bit on the Underworld and Hades… the build up to this war… um… here it is:

“‘To save the realms and the cause of the human race, the great wizard Merlin wove the darkness wielded by the god of the Underworld into a curse. He planned to destroy it and restore the balance with the sword of power, Excalibur. Unfortunately, the Godkiller agent of Hades shattered the sword in two, changing its magic and destroying the great wizard’s plans.

“‘With the sword broken and it’s power fractured, a brave soul was forced to step forward and take the curse, acting as a vessel for the Darkness which the two pieces of Excalibur would contain.’”

“I think I heard about this,” Hook says suddenly. “Well, not this exactly, but in my quest to destroy the Dark One, I’d heard whispers of another dagger, one that could kill the Dark One and not pass on the curse. I’d always assumed it was just a story.”

Belle nods. “Listen: ‘If the sword, broken, it’s forger long dead, could be rejoined, it could end the Dark One for all of time.’”

Hook growls, “Sounds an awful lot like killing to me.”

Belle gives him a look. “It could mean that, but you know how magic has back doors.”

Henry says, “Okay, whatever it does, wouldn’t it be helpful to figure out where Excalibur was?”

“Oh!” Belle exclaims. “That’s the other thing. Emrys has it.”

“Emrys,” Henry says. “The wizard with Ruby?”

Nodding, she pushes the book over to Henry. “I’m thinking… the other ‘dagger’ that you heard about, Hook, is Excalibur.”

Killian drags a hand over his chin in contemplation. “If the sword Emrys carries is broken, we would never know. He didn’t take it out once during the fighting.”

“If they have a way to stop Emma and end the Dark One curse,” Belle wonders, “then why wouldn’t they just tell us?”

Hook scoffs again. “They likely know we’d object to killing her, I’d imagine.”

Belle looks at him sharply. “Ruby said they’re going to do everything they can to keep it from coming to that.”

“A fancy way of saying, ‘We’re leaving enough room for failure.’”

She gives him another look. He appears only slightly chastened. Henry feels a bit out of place as Belle softens and says, “Look, I understand what you’re feeling better than anyone, but your fatalism isn’t going to help Emma. But you know what will?” She turns, grabs the biggest book that she can find, and plops it down in front of him. “More research.”

They settle into their system, and Henry truly feels like a third wheel now, but at least they have a bit more direction after Ruby’s veiled revelations: find more information on how the Dark One and Excalibur are related. The War of Humans and Hades is unhelpfully vague, as it doesn’t include any new information about the Dark One, Hades’ place in all this, or how to reunite Excalibur. Belle takes the book to scour it for more clues in other stories while Killian starts filing through some of the other books they’ve gathered.

Henry, as usual, is relegated to fetching duty. He feels like he has a good enough grasp on the Dewey Decimal System at this point to be a librarian in the Library of Congress. At least at that job he wouldn’t feel as though Belle and Hook were awkwardly trying to include them in their operation.

Right, and his mom was still missing. With no one looking for her. He thought he’d at least have an ally in Killian for that particular crisis, but it looks like he’s decided to clench his jaw and wait.

“Hey Henry?” Belle’s soft voice breaks him out of his reverie, and when he looks up he has to bite down the urge to scream because she’s holding up a little piece of paper with a call number written on it. “Would you mind getting this book for us?”

He has to swallow down the snarky retort and an eyeroll. “Sure,” he replies flatly, and walks into the shelves.

The book is in a back corner, Hook’s and Belle’s voices dampened by the thick tomes of paper surrounding him. He pulls it off the shelf--the library sticker on the spine is new in contrast to the worn leather cover, and the title is in some language Henry doesn’t know. He tucks it under his arm and takes a step towards the front of the library when there’s a shimmer of magic, a red dome sealing over him, and then:

“Hello.”

Henry nearly jumps straight out of his skin and the book falls to the floor with a slap, and Henry whirls around to see Emrys standing behind him. He breathes in relief, but only just. Hook hadn’t been wrong about Storybrooke’s newcomers--sometimes people aren’t as trustworthy as they seem. His eyes go immediately to the sword at Emrys’ side, the red gem at the base glowing faintly. Excalibur.

“Sorry if I startled you,” Emrys says. Henry’s gaze then darts towards where Hook and Belle appear frozen in place, bent over the table. “No need to worry,” Emrys assures, “I’ve frozen us in a moment of time. We can converse without being heard or missed.”

He looks around them pointedly. “The privacy bubble doesn’t really inspire confidence in your trustworthiness, buddy.”

His shoulders rise and fall in a sigh. “I need you to hear me out, and I’m afraid your companions over there might not be so accommodating. You are important, Henry, more than you can possibly know.”

“Last time I believed someone when they said that, it almost got my whole family killed,” Henry says, remembering Neverland and the heady rush he got when Pan told him that he was the Savior. That he would be the one to save everyone.

“That was before you were the Author,” Emrys replies.

“Wait, how do you know about that?” Henry asks, backing up until he is at the very edge of the bubble.

“Well, my Apprentice was in charge of overseeing all of you. I always know exactly who has the pen.”

It takes an instant for the answer to fall into place for Henry. “You’re Merlin.”

He smiles. “Got it in one. Knew it was a good choice to make you the Author. Creating that quill was no easy task, so it’s good to see it in promising hands.”

Henry’s brow furrows. “Wait, creating... The way my mom explains it makes it sound like magic is energy transference. You know, Newton’s Third Law, can’t be created or destroyed and all that.”

“I’m unaware of this sorcerer you speak of, but he is correct. Magic cannot be created nor destroyed. Unless, of course,” Merlin says, halting Henry’s protest, “you’re you.” Merlin seems to find that amusing and smiles broadly, but Henry doesn’t share his mirth.

“What?”

“I did not create the magic in the pen, merely harnessed the power of creation.”

“I still don’t-- I can create magic?”

Merlin gives a small shrug. “If done carefully.”

“That’s-- but--”

“It’s a lot to take in,” Merlin concedes. “I’m the first human who was given magic and have been alive longer than you can comprehend, and even I still can’t always fully explain its ways.”

Henry’s mind is reeling, a dozen questions coming to mind, but feeling a bit dumb when the first thing that tumbles out of his mouth is, “Is that how you look so young?”

He smiles, if a bit sadly, and gestures to his face. “I have Zeus to thank for this.”

Henry almost laughs. “You’ve got to be kidding me. Next thing you’re going to tell me is that Prometheus and Athena and Jupiter are all real.”

“They were,” Merlin answers, “until all the gods of old were slain because of the savage ambition of one brother who felt he’d been looked down upon.”

He doesn’t need much more than a bare knowledge of Greek mythology and popular culture to know that one. “Hades?”

If Merlin is surprised by Henry’s knowledge, it doesn’t show. “Hades razed the entire realm and joined it with the Underworld.”

“So how did you get your powers if Hades destroyed all the gods?”

Merlin seemed to settle in, and Henry got the sense that he needed to pay close attention to what he was about to say. “Zeus escaped, and managed to find his way to one of the realms of the humans; you know it as the Enchanted Forest.

“Prometheus had risked his godhood many years before to give us fire. Artemis had been secretly blessing hunts for centuries. Many gods over the years had used their power to help us, even though it was forbidden.

“These gods sang many praises of the human capabilities of strength, resilience, and their surprising capacity for goodness. Zeus had once dismissed these praises, but once Olympus was gone…”

“He had to listen,” Henry deduces. Merlin nods. “So… he gives you magic. You… give it to other people? And why did you create the Author?”

Merlin grimaces ever so slightly. “I was not the only one to whom magic was given. And the way magic spread...”

“Let me guess,” Henry asks drily, “It’s a long story?”

Merlin has the decency to look a little sheepish. “I’m afraid there’s much you don’t know, and that I do not have the time to share with you.”

“Well, considering you told me we’re in a suspended time bubble, I’d say this is probably the most time we’re going to get in Storybrooke with Zelena and my mom still out there,” Henry says.

“I cannot hold this spell forever,” Merlin says. “It is similar to the magic that went into creating Pandora’s box,” he explains, “and that was truly an undertaking without compare.”

“Was that you too?” Henry asks.

The dark look crosses Merlin’s face again. “Pandora’s Box was not a creation of mine, no.” He waves a hand. “But we’re getting off track. Henry, as the Author, you hold the key to ending the Dark One curse forever.”

Merlin’s declaration is met with Henry’s sharp intake of breath. “But I--I broke the Author’s quill, I can’t--”

With a simple gesture, Merlin reproduces the quill in his fingers and holds it out to Henry. “Magic, as your sorcerer Newton said, isn’t created nor destroyed, but transferred. Generally back to the person who cast it. Now,” he wiggles the quill in his fingers, “care to take this back? It is rightfully yours, after all.”

Henry takes the quill back, and it feels like coming home, in a way. Like he never should have let it go in the first place. “So what do I need to do to save my mom?”

Merlin looks around at the bubble. “I seem to have wasted quite a good deal of time telling you about my history, so I will have to be brief--”

Henry feels a flash of annoyance. “No, you need to explain everything to me now. My mother is tied to the Dark One curse. She took it on to save all of us! And now we need to save her.”

Merlin gives him a tight smile, and Henry sees him wave a hand across the arc of the bubble. It shimmers once again. Merlin shudders, ever so slightly, but the momentary lapse is gone in a moment. “There is a way to save your mother and destroy the Dark One forever. You know that the curse is tied to the Dark One dagger, yes?” Henry nods. “That is the lost piece of Excalibur,” Merlin says, the intensity of his gaze pinning Henry like a moth to a board. The wizard reaches for his belt, and Henry hears the sharp sling of metal on scabbard.

The intricately crafted sword reeks of ancient power, the designs on the blade reaching from the base to the end, where the sword abruptly ends. Where it is shattered, Henry can see the beginnings of the wave-blade and black-burned etchings characteristic of the Dark One’s dagger.

“This is no ordinary sword. It was forged by Prometheus himself to be powerful enough to hold the darkness. I can’t simply take the dagger and put them together back, not even with my magic.” He resheathes the sword and places a hand on Henry’s shoulder. “The only person who can reforge them is the Author, using the pen to write them together.”

Henry’s brow furrows. “Wait, but that’s--” He looks down at the pen in his hand and back at Merlin. “You’re asking me to change things.”

“Not things, Henry. Just one.”

He steps away from Merlin, shaking the wizard’s hand from his shoulder. “That’s exactly what I’m not supposed to do! The Apprentice told me altering reality will have consequences.”

“It can, if done improperly. Look at the last Author. We’re not trying to create a different reality, but very slightly alter this one. And by doing so, you will save your mother.”

“There has to be another way,” Henry insists.

“Perhaps there is,” Merlin says, “but we don’t have the time to find it. Right now, this is the best solution.”

Henry bristles. “You keep using ‘not having time’ as an excuse, and I don’t get it. I don’t trust you, and I won’t trust you until you find the time to actually explain to me what’s really going on.”

“There’s no time, Henry,” Merlin says slowly, “because the longer I’m here, the more likely it is that the Dark One will discover that fact. We’re acquainted, and it won’t be happy to see me again. And if the Dark One finds out I’m here…” Merlin visibly shivers. “Something much worse won’t be far behind.”

“Something worse?” Henry asks.

“The being I helped lead a war against. The god who is responsible for the creation of the Dark One curse. He’s the reason Zeus granted me eternal youth--so that I could keep him and the Dark One in check.”

Hades, Henry realizes. Hades is responsible for all of this.

Merlin continues, “If Hades comes here…” He shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter now. We must prevent it from happening, and the only way we can do that is by saving your mother.

“Emma Swan is a part of something much larger than you realize. Being the Savior is no small thing,” Merlin says, tone flat and commanding, “This is the only opportunity we will have to destroy this curse without taking a life until another Savior voluntarily takes it on. That has not happened since its inception. We cannot afford to fail, and our success hinges on you.”

“You’re saying… that since she’s the Savior you can destroy the Dark One without killing her?”

Merlin nods. “If we can find a way to pull the curse from her, we can destroy it.”

“What about True Love’s Kiss?” Henry asks.

“Possible, but unlikely. The Dark One curse is a strange beast. Loving is still possible, but hard to keep pure.”

Henry feels a pang deep in his chest, and it’s not pride; not this time.

It’s fear. He doesn’t want to be the one to have to do this. In this moment, he would give anything to go back to before he was the Author.

“I know you and your family have been working non-stop to free Emma,” Merlin continues, reaching down to the floor to pick up the book Henry had dropped. Merlin holds it out to him. “but you are only hitting dead ends. And you’ll continue to hit dead ends until you decide to help me. You’re a brave young man, Henry. I have faith you’ll make the right decision.”

Henry takes the book back, but before he can say anything else, the magical dome deteriorates, and Merlin disappears right along with it. A cold brush of air sweeps past him as he rejoins the normal flow of time. An errant scrap of paper swoops past him, fluttering and settling a few feet in front of him.

“Henry? What was that?” Hook calls, but Henry barely hears him.

His eyes are still locked on the space Merlin had just been occupying. “It was nothing,” he answers, barely remembering why they sent him back here in the first place as he shuffles the book beneath his arm and turns back towards the front of the library.

But if what Merlin told him was true, then this book would hold no answers.

Several hours had passed since they’d reengaged their research efforts on finding Merlin, and Killian’s already thin patience had vacated him around hour two. If yet another suggestion given by his research partners fails to produce the mythical wizard himself in front of them, Killian can’t promise that he won’t snap.

Beneath his annoyance lies an undercurrent of worry. Henry had been strangely reticent for most of those hours. When he did speak, he was curt and a bit rude. Killian and Belle had shared a few looks over these moments, both assuming his attitude was simply the result of teenage maturity and the stress that they were all under, but Killian suspects it might be more than that.

Adding to his worry, Belle had received a call from the fairies watching over Rumplestiltsken just under an hour ago. Something about their services being needed with an individual infected by one of Zelena’s flying minions, and wondered if Belle wanted to come keep an eye on her comatose husband. “I shouldn’t be gone too long,” she had said, but as the clock ticks closer to the hour mark, Killian feels his worry begin to outweigh his annoyance.

The door of the library opens, and Killian looks up eagerly, hoping to see Belle back safe and sound. Instead, he sees Ruby, concern etched on her features.

“Hey, is Belle around here?”

Killian shakes his head. “She was called to her husband’s side so the fairies could visit a victim of Zelena’s spell. I imagine you’d find her there.”

“What? All the victims are out of the hospital. I was just with the fairies. They’re still with Rumplestiltsken and we haven’t seen Belle.”

“But she said--” He meets Henry’s gaze over the table and feels his stomach drop. “That’s not possible,” he says urgently, pulling his phone out of his pocket.

He swiftly dials Belle’s number, trying to keep his hand steady despite the tension creeping up his neck. Each passing second sees fear being etched onto Ruby’s face.

With each tinny ring, his flimsy hope that maybe this is all just an innocent misunderstanding disintigrates. Ruby steps closer. “Anything?”

He swears when he hears Hi, you’ve reached Belle French and slams his phone to the table.

“We’ve got to find her,” Ruby says, her eyes glowing faintly yellow.

Killian can feel his anger and frustration beginning to boil. “We don’t even know where she is. Why would Zelena lure Belle into a trap?”

“Zelena?” Ruby asks.

Henry replies, “Who else would want to take her?”

Ruby laughs harshly. “Emma’s the Dark One! Belle knows more about magic than just about anyone, and we have no idea what is up her sleeve.”

“But if Zelena wanted to hurt Rumple,” Henry says, “the best way to do that is through Belle.”

“She’s not just some bargaining chip!” Ruby shouts. Her eyes flash bright yellow before she closes them, taking a calming breath. “We do not have time to sit here arguing about who took her and why. All we know is that someone lured Belle out and now we can’t find her.” Ruby’s eyes open again, their natural brown once more. “I’m going to look for her. If I can pick up her scent, I can track her down.”

“I’m coming with you,” Henry and Killian say at the same time.

Belle moans as she comes to, her head feeling like it’s filled with cotton. She’s seated, her back pressed against something rough, solid, and cold with her hands lying limply at her sides. A shiver zips up her legs and she curses herself for wearing a skirt. Her eyes flicker open and she tips her head forward, the aftereffects of whatever magical knockout potion took her down quickly slinking away.

She’s in some sort of cave--if she had to guess, she’d say she was in the mines, but mysterious caves seem to pop up all over the place in Storybrooke. There’s some sort of magical barrier blocking the only entrance to the cavern, a spell that she doesn’t recognize. It ripples like water, glimmering iridescent in the near darkness. The only sources of light are two torches high on the walls--Belle wonders if she might be able to reach one.

“Wake him up,” Belle hears, and she whips her head around to see Emma Swan standing against the right side of the cavern.

Next to her, underneath a thick blanket and lying on a stone pedestal, is Belle’s husband.

Her first instinct is to shout. Stop. Don’t hurt him.

She doesn’t act on that instinct. She rises to her feet, unsteady as the effects of the magic wear off, and instead says earnestly, “Emma, whatever you’re doing, it’s not worth darkening your heart. We can help you fix this. We can find a way to save you.”

Emma fixes Belle with a coldly condescending look and for a startlingly selfish moment, Belle is glad it’s Emma holding the curse rather than her husband. She couldn’t handle it if he was the one imprisoning her. Again.

“Everyone seems to want to fix me these days. Tell me, Belle,” Emma says, pacing in front of her leisurely. “Why couldn’t Rumplestiltsken give up this curse? Hm?”

Belle’s breath catches. “A curse isn’t a curse if the afflicted wants it.”

Emma nods sagely. “What would you have done?” she asks. “What would you have done to snag yourself a completely uncursed Rumple? Quite a lot, I imagine, given how much you seemed to love him. Still love him, maybe.”

Belle doesn’t answer, pressing her lips together in a stubborn show.

Emma is not amused. “Regardless of how you now feel about him, I need him, and I need him awake.” She considers. “Would a True Love’s kiss work, do you think? I’m sure his love for you is plenty, but what about yours for him?” Emma shrugs. “I wouldn’t blame you for not loving him anymore. He’s treated you like an object for so long, someone that he can just bring along for his ride no matter how battered and bruised you get from being dragged behind him. But it was never enough,” Emma says, voice going soft, almost understanding. “You were never enough.”

“Stop,” Belle protests weakly.

“No,” Emma replies. “I need him awake, and I need to know if True Love’s kiss can do it. So, dearest Belle, if you still truly love him, call me a liar and wake him up.”

She remembers her marriage vows as though they were said yesterday. Yearns for the simplicity of their short honeymoon, for the blissful early days of their marriage when she was completely unaware of what kind of man her husband really was.

Which isn’t--

That’s not right. She’s always known, she’d just always managed to convince herself that she would be enough.

Something falls into place for Belle in that cave, with a new Dark One staring down at her with quiet menace and the man she thought she’d always wanted with his life in her hands.

A lone tear falls when she finally answers, “I can’t.”

Deep relief swells in her, so strong and potent she nearly gasps, the power of admitting that she doesn’t love him anymore, that she doesn’t forgive him for everything he’s done, everything he’s done to her, nearly knocks the wind out of her.

(She’ll never be lied to again, controlled or manipulated or invaded by him, will finally feel safe in her own skin.)

“I was afraid of that,” Emma says. Before Belle can blink, Emma is in front of her and plunging her hand into Belle’s chest and pulling out her heart. “If your love won’t awaken him,” she says, “perhaps your pain will.”

A pain unlike anything Belle has ever known radiates from her chest and through her body. She groans, strained and heavy, as her knees give out beneath her. She doesn’t even feel the rough stone cutting into her knees, focused as she is on the hot, bitter, deep pain radiating from her chest. Through it, her eyes remain open, fixated on where Rumple still lies dormant. Emma is standing over him, the red of her heart lighting his face with its proximity.

The seconds stretch for hours, as Emma carefully watches Rumple.

He does not move.

Emma growls, nearly crushing Belle’s heart in her frustration. “This should’ve worked,” she whispers. With a shout of rage and a sudden lunge, she jams Belle’s heart back into her chest.

Belle gasps in pain at the roughness, and clasps a hand over her chest protectively as Emma swoops away just as suddenly as she’d drawn close.

Emma is murmuring something under her breath, and Belle can’t quite make it out. All she knows is that the Dark One is angry, and she’s been on the receiving end of a Dark One’s ire enough to last several lifetimes. She scrambles backwards into the wall, the rough stone scratching at her palms as her heart flutters, settling back into her chest in a way that makes her feel short of breath.

She’s not eager to prod the beast any more than she has to, but Belle has had enough of letting the Dark One control her.

“They’ll find us, you know,” she says. “When they realize both Rumple and I are gone, they’ll figure out your plan.”

Emma laughs, sounding unhinged. “No, they’ll just think you’re missing. Him? I made a replica. Perfect projection magic. They won’t even know he’s gone until it’s too late.”

“There’s no such thing as too late,” Belle says. “Even for you.”

Emma laughs again. “Even for me? I don’t need your pity sympathy. I’ve already gotten enough of that to last a lifetime,” she finishes softly, contemplative.

Belle studies Emma in the silence that follows, trying to pick out differences between the Emma she knew and the one in front of her now. She’s still in her Storybrooke clothes, none of the extravagances of an Enchanted Forest Dark One. Her skin doesn’t bare the scaly glimmer that had been Rumplestiltsken’s signature, and her long blonde hair remained unchanged.

Although--

“I’ll be back,” Emma says suddenly. “Try not to get into too much trouble while I’m gone,” she adds, and it’s almost like old Emma when she says it, light, with a hint of a smile.

Before Emma teleports away, Belle could swear she sees a streak of pure white through the pristine blonde.

The Dark One coalesces in a swirl of black and white smoke next to Zelena. Emma’s visit isn’t surprising, but still a bit unexpected.

The Wicked Witch had been pleased to find her farmhouse in the same condition that she’d left it in. A bit of dust here and there, but nothing her magic hadn’t been able to fix. She’d been idly wondering about setting up a nursery when the crackle of powerful magic caused her to turn to the resident Dark One-slash-Savior.

“The Dark Swan,” Zelena says. “To what do I owe this honor? I was under the impression that our deal was fulfilled.”

Emma seems to be only half-listening as she walks slowly around the room. The only outward reflection of the curse she holds is a wide streak of silver running down the left side of her hair, disrupting the golden curls. The silver streak, plus the distractingly powerful and confusing magic signature she’s giving off. Otherwise, she looks much the same as she ever did, sensible boots and jeans paired with a black leather jacket.

The Dark One does not cease her slow perusal of the living room.

“I know this isn’t a social call,” Zelena observes dryly. “What do you want?”

Emma half smiles. “Direct. I’ve always liked that,” she says quietly, almost to herself. “Tell me something,” she says, turning to face Zelena and coming to a standstill by the window. “How are your cravings?”

“What?”

“When I was pregnant with Henry, the only thing I wanted were jelly beans. The prison commissary had a cheap kind that were half way satisfying, but I couldn’t afford them most of the time.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

Emma’s smile is thin. “If there’s anyone who can be sympathetic to being pregnant behind bars, it’s me.”

Zelena remembers Regina’s god awful eating restrictions and the way the mute janitor had secretly slipped her the children’s book against her sister’s orders and bristles. She doesn’t let it show, and she uses her magic to conjure a bag of onion rings and sits in an armchair. “Well, I’m not behind bars any longer, thanks you to.”

She takes a bite of one of the fried rings and sighs. Still hot, just the right amount of crispy. Sometimes her magical abilities truly still delight.

Emma cocks her head. “Can I have one?”

“Seriously?”

She shrugs, looking for all the world like she isn’t carrying evil incarnate inside of her. “I like onion rings.”

After a moment, Zelena holds the bag out. Emma steps forward, reaching carefully in and pulls one out. “Thank you,” she says, sounding genuine before she bites in.

Another moment of silence follows, the rustle of greasy paper filling the silence.

“I ask again, what is it that you want?”

“I’d like for us to be allies.”

“Allies?” Zelena says dubiously.

“At some point you’ll need one to protect your baby from Robin and Regina. They won’t just let the kid go without a fight.”

Zelena growls. “They won’t get to my child. I won’t let them.”

Emma scoffs. “Right, the same way you weren’t going to let Regina take your pendant when she beat you the first time?”

“The light magic caught me off guard,” Zelena acknowledges, “but it won’t happen again.” She eats another onion ring, her satisfaction sullied somewhat at the thought of Robin and Regina. Despite her confidence in her abilities, Emma isn’t exactly wrong. Regina has a team of heroes behind her. Zelena has no one. Or, perhaps one. “What exactly does me being allies with you look like?”

Emma just smiles, a secret, dark little smirk that does little to settle Zelena. “When I call, you answer.”

Zelena hates vagaries, unless she’s the one giving them. Dropping her onion rings to the coffee table and crossing her arms over her chest, she says, “I’m not your errand girl.”

Emma looks unconcerned. “You’re whatever I want you to be as long as you’re afraid of something.”

A fire roars up in Zelena. “I killed Neal,” she reminds. “I killed him and I loved every minute of it.”

Zelena expects anger, or forced stoicism concealing hidden menace. What she does not expect is a chuckle, a smile that looks almost genuine. “I should thank you for that.”

“I’m sorry?”

The smile drops off the Dark One’s face. “The kind of adult man who would get a seventeen year old girl pregnant and sent to prison for a crime she didn’t commit isn’t the type of man I ever want around my son. It took me a long time to realize that. Too long,” she finishes quietly.

Zelena pauses, thinking. “Your parents don’t know about this do they?” She laughs. “Oh this is rich; they even named their little whelp after him. Does your son know?”

Emma doesn’t answer but her grimace is visible. Zelena is pleased. The Dark One isn’t the only one with tricks, now.

Zelena raises her eyebrows tauntingly. “How awkward for you.”

The Dark One does not seem amused. “Consider my offer. You’ll want to take me up on it sooner rather than later.”

Zelena chuckles. “I think I see what this is now.”

“This?”

“The difference between you and me, Emma, is that I don’t mind being alone.”

Her expression remains as blank as ever, but Zelena can feel Emma’s darkness stirring and eclipsing the flagging light magic, inner anger and insecurity stoking an already chaotic fire.

Emma looks back at Zelena’s front door. “You’ll want to answer that,” is all she says before she teleports away in a swirl of black and white smoke.

A knock sounds through the house moments later.

BREAK

Regina supposes she could’ve just teleported to her sister’s house, but the drive allows her to clear her head and gather her wits about her. She doesn’t quite know what to expect from this encounter but is hopeful Zelena’s condition will make her less likely to start a physical fight.

As she locks her Mercedes, taking her time in placing the keys in her pocket, she layers on her emotional armor that she wore for years as the Evil Queen, steps up to the door, and knocks.

A few moments past an awkward length of time, the door opens to reveal the Wicked Witch herself, dressed down from when Regina last saw her at the head of an army of flying monkeys.

Despite lack of black dresses and green gloves, Zelena still looks prepared for a battle. She opens the door just enough to lean her head and shoulders out. “Why are you here?” Her tone matches her posture, brittle and untrusting.

Regina sighs, eyes tilted up for a moment. “A lot of reasons,” she answers before shaking her head. “Do you mind if I come in?”

“I do mind, actually,” Zelena answers. “Why should I let you into my home?”

Regina fights back her annoyance. Along with the armor comes the Evil Queen’s sharp tongue, and she knows that won’t help the situation if she falls back into that persona. “Because we need to have a talk where we aren’t actively trying to kill each other.”

Zelena seems to consider slamming the door in Regina’s face for a few moments, but doesn’t move.

Regina tries again, “Despite…. everything, we’re sisters. And even if we weren’t, we’re family now in a way that can’t be undone.” She looks meaningfully at Zelena’s hidden stomach.

Mentioning the child changes Zelena. Where she once looked ready for battle, now she seems prepared for a siege. “This child is mine,” she snaps. “You and your pathetic thief of a lover will never touch them.”

Regina can’t stop the anger that courses through her. “If this is how it’s going to be--” A flick of her fingers sends Zelena stumbling back, the door listing backwards on its hinges. Regina strides into the house and closes the door behind her before Zelena can recover. “Thanks for inviting me in,” she comments dryly before venturing towards the kitchen.

“You bloody fucking bitch,” Zelena snarls, and Regina can feel her sister gathering magic, preparing a strike. Before it can come to fruition, Regina passes into the kitchen and casts a protection spell over the room.

Regina can hear the offensive spell fizzle out on the barrier before she even turns around. “Best protection spell I know that doesn’t include blood magic,” she explains. “You’re not getting me out of this house until I choose to leave.” The spell is completely transparent, but the magical sisters can feel the film of it as though it was an actual barrier between them.

Zelena looks ready to just knock the house down on top of Regina, but slowly her posture straightens, her fingers uncurl. Then she snorts a harsh laugh. “You’re unbelievable.”

Regina summons one of the kitchen chairs and sits down facing the doorway. “Might want to pull up a chair,” she suggests.

Zelena’s mouth is slightly gaped, and Regina supposes it’s since she’s living up to her bloody fucking bitch reputation. Zelena doesn’t complain out loud, but every single bit of body language screams it as she copies Regina’s action, summoning one of her living room chairs and seating herself in it.

“So how is this going to work?” Zelena asks. “You want to hammer out a custody agreement. Will my refusal need to be in writing, or will a series of verbal insults work well enough for you?”

Regina’s temper flares. “I’m doing this for you. Believe me, it would be much, much easier to just cut you out of our lives once the baby is born. But you…” Regina takes a steeling breath. “You’re my sister, and you didn’t do half the things that I did. I’m no more deserving of a redemption than you are. All it took was Henry, and having that unconditional love in my life made me my best self.”

“You don’t want me,” Zelena sneers. “I’m just an inconvenience to you and your happiness with Robin. That’s all I will ever be to you.”

Regina’s lips righten. “Please don’t bring Robin into this right now. I’m trying very hard to forgive you, and the things you have done to him and his family aren’t making that easy for me.”

Zelena is silent--Regina hopes contemplative.

“I led a terribly lonely life as a child,” Regina begins, Zelena’s predictable scoff only spurring her onwards. “Our mother…” Regina struggles to conjure the proper words to describe Cora. She sighs. “Our mother was not a kind woman. She was manipulative and frightening and not afraid to use her magic to make sure I stayed in line. And I know that the family you ended up with wasn’t sunshine and roses either.”

“Is this supposed to make me like you?” Zelena asks. “Share our tragic childhoods and magically we’re the best of friends? Would you like for us to exchange stickers and braid each others’ hair? Please, Regina, you’re not that naive.”

“I’m not trying to fix everything between us. I’m trying to give you a reason to do better.”

“I don’t need my ‘better’ being measured by the heroes’ yardstick. I might have started this to hurt you, but this child is mine.”

Regina tenses. “No, they’re not. They also have a father.”

“Who clearly doesn’t want them.”

“Don’t you dare insinuate that Robin does not love his child,” Regina snaps. She softens, memory and sympathy rolling through her. “You know, we have a word for what you did to Robin in this land. Rape. In the Enchanted Forest, we didn’t have a term for it, it was just… done, and rarely with consequences.” Regina’s own tangled past with Graham makes it difficult for her to maintain her place on her high horse, but she also remembers being the barely-adult bride of a much older man. Doesn’t have to reach back that far to remember Robin’s difficulty sleeping since he came back to Storybrooke. (If there was nothing else that made her regret what she did to Graham, Robin’s suffering would’ve done it.)

Regina continues, “I don’t know if you can properly imagine what you are putting him through. He is so devoted to his children it takes my breath away. But here he is, torn between his love for his child and his hatred of you.” She wonders if she shouldn’t have revealed so much about Robin, but it’s already been said. She supposes that however they heal, it has to start with honesty.

“Robin wants sole custody,” Regina says, “and I’m not inclined to argue with him on that.”

Zelena shoots to her feet. “How could you? You’re a mother! How could you do that to me?”

“Right there is exactly why,” Regina responds, pointing an accusing finger at Zelena. “Because you’re only thinking about yourself. This will hurt you, but I’d rather it be you than your child.”

“Then it seems you’ve already decided. You’re going to take them away from me.”

“That’s why you’re going to do better,” Regina presses, “Not for me, not for yourself, but the child we won’t allow you to see until you drop this wicked charade and just be their mom.”

Zelena riles, tensing like a spring coiled. “This isn’t a charade. I just learned a long time ago that if you want any modicum of respect in this world, simpering and smiling won’t get it for you.”

“I understand that more than you know,” Regina says. “But there’s a difference between commanding respect and being cruel.”

“The way I see it, you can’t have one without the other.”

Regina squeezes her eyes shut, pinching at the bridge of her nose. “Look, what it comes down to is this: I’d rather take them away from you if it meant saving another child from an unfit mother.”

Zelena leans forward against the magical barrier between them. “Don’t you dare make this about you, Regina.”

“I can’t not make this about me, because you have entangled all of us in this goddamn web of yours, and you can’t ask me to divorce what Cora did to me from my decision making.”

“Mother left me,” Zelena hisses. “I would never leave my child.”

“At least you were spared from her.”

Zelena lets out an incredulous breath. “How much do you really know of my family? The family I ended up with after Cora left me to die?”

“Enough,” Regina says, but Zelena is already shaking her head.

“Clearly not if you think our mother leaving me spared me from anything.” She sits back down, as though all the wind has left her sails.

A heavy silence settles between them.

Regina feels a tug at her heart. “I’m sorry.” She may not have Emma’s superpower, but Zelena seems the most sincere she’s ever been. “Neither one of us…” Regina sighs. “Neither one of us had the upbringing we might have deserved. And it helped put us on a path to doing terrible things. But we don’t have to keep following that same path. Like I said, once I had Henry--”

“It made you your best self,” Zelena finishes.

Regina smiles, just a little bit. “Yeah. But Henry wasn’t the only reason I was able to change. I also found a remarkable group of people who were willing to forgive me, and I think there’s a part of you that wants the same.”

“Maybe.” Zelena looks thoughtful, quiet. Her faces pinches for a moment, and she rubs a hand across her belly.

“Are you okay?”

Zelena nods. “Yeah, I’ve just been feeling a bit odd after I ate those onion rings. It’s nothing.” She continues, “I’m willing to… to try.”

Regina lets out a relieved breath. “That’s all I’m asking for,” she says, a genuine grin blooming across her face.

Zelena grimaces again, a strangled sound coming from her. Her hand goes once again to her stomach.

Regina rises. “Zelena?”

“I don’t underst-” A scream rips out of her throat as she bends forward in her chair.

“Oh god,” Regina takes the magical barrier down between them and crosses the threshold to her ailing sister. “Zelena, talk to me.”

“I don’t know what’s happening,” Zelena cries, leaning back again, and Regina’s jaw drops.

Zelena is only a month into her pregnancy. Judging by the now-apparent curve to her belly, she’s got to be at least seven.

“What the hell,” Regina breathes.

Zelena grinds out another sound of pain. “Something is wrong. I’m--” She falls silent as another wave of pain goes through her.

Regina suddenly knows. A contraction. Zelena is having contractions.

“Hey,” Regina says firmly, “look at me.” She takes Zelena’s hand. “It’s going to be okay. You and the baby are going to be just fine.”

Zelena’s breathing is erratic and her eyes wildly panicked, but she nods at Regina’s sure words.

“I’m taking us to the hospital, all right?” She squeezes Zelena’s hand. “Don’t let go.”

The sisters are enveloped in a cloud of smoke, and within a moment, they are gone.

BREAK

Considering that they have no idea how this happened, Zelena’s labor progressed without issue. Regina only let go of Zelena’s hand long enough to call Robin.

(“But it’s--it’s too early. It’s not even--”

“It got accelerated somehow but now she’s full term and having the baby, so you need to get here right now.”)

The labor itself was even accelerated, only lasting about two hours. And looking back, Regina realizes what an awkward two hours those really were. Robin, standing in the corner watching the woman he loves coaching the woman who raped him through the birth of his child (and assisted by Dr. Frankenstein himself, but that was neither here nor there.)

In truth, Regina had almost forgotten Robin was there at all until the baby’s cries announced her arrival into the world and Dr. Whale told them it’s a girl.

Robin had laughed a little in the corner, a relieved, quiet thing, and said, “A girl.”

“Is she okay?” Zelena had asked, frantic in that way all new mothers are. She stayed awake long enough for them to place her daughter on her chest, assure her that everything is okay, that Zelena herself is okay too, even though she might pass out from exhaustion given the magical strain of growing a full-term child in less than an hour.

In a few minutes, Zelena does just that; her hand had been curled over her daughter’s head, awe and shock and love in her eyes, and it slides away as she falls unconscious.

A nurse takes the baby so that she can be washed and wrapped and Regina steps backwards until her back collides with Robin’s chest. His arms automatically go around her waist and she turns into his embrace.

Regina is at a complete loss for words. There’s a maelstrom brewing in her heart, emotion making her uneasy and on edge. There’s only one person in Storybrooke who would’ve done something like this, and Dark Ones aren’t known to do things without a plan.

Emma has a plan for this baby, and if Regina knows anything about Dark Ones, no part of that plan is good.

“Does Dad want to hold her?” comes the voice of the nurse who had taken the baby, disrupting Regina’s thoughts. She’s wrapped up in a pink blanket, her puffy, red face peeking out.

“Yes,” Robin breathes. “Yes.” Regina steps away to give Robin free rein to take his daughter in his arms.

He holds her with the confidence and ease of someone who’s done this before but with all the reverence of a new parent. “Hello, my sweet,” he murmurs, and Regina’s heart melts, worries disappearing for a brief moment. His expression is blindingly happy, awestruck and humbled and thrilled and Regina has never seen anything like it on his face.

She wishes she could be that happy, but a shot of jealousy creeps into her belly.

And then it hurts all over again because the experience of having a child is what I always imagined having with you.

He looks up at Regina, and she forces a smile onto her face. “I have a daughter,” he says--whispers, really, a stunned, reverent thing that matches his expression.

“She’s beautiful,” Regina replies softly. Regina reaches out hesitantly, not really sure what her end goal is. She ends up placing a hand on Robin’s arm and squeezing.

Regina feels the prickle of powerful magic creep up the back of her neck and raise the hair on her arms the split second before a swirling storm of black and white smoke coalesces in the middle of the hospital room.

Zelena, even unconscious, must have felt it, because she lets out a soft moan and shifts on the bed.

“Get behind me,” Regina orders Robin tersely. He follows her directive immediately and cradles his daughter closer to his chest, almost tucking her into his jacket.

Her own magic sizzles in her palms as the teleportation spell dissipates and the former Savior is revealed.

She looks--remarkably like Emma. If it weren’t for the new white streaks running through her hair, then she could pass as being the same old sheriff of Storybrooke. When she turns her gaze on Regina, any semblance of familiarity seems to dry up.

Emma smiles, almost; it’s more of a sneer, a gleeful little expression of twisted delight that Regina most certainly recognizes.

“Hello, Regina,” she says. And it’s-- it’s not Emma.

It hurts more than Regina could have ever anticipated.

“You’re not getting your hands on this baby,” Regina replies.

Emma smiles again, this time like a parent whose child refuses to understand. “Oh I don’t need her.” She laughs. “That is, unless her mother doesn’t cooperate. Then I might need her. Oh, Zelena,” she singsongs. “Time to wake up.” A snap of her fingers, and Regina feels a jolt of magic run through the room. Zelena bursts awake with a gasping breath.

“There she is,” Emma says. “Now, I need you to come with me. And no one else will have to get involved.”

Zelena’s eyes are panicked as they flick between Emma and where Regina stands between her and Robin and the baby. “But you said that I’d get to keep her,” Zelena says. “You said that if I helped you, I would get to keep my baby.”

Emma just keeps smiling. “Yes. If you help me.”

Zelena’s panic settles into determination, mingled with some white hot anger. “Fine.”

“Wonderful,” Emma says, and with a flick of her wrist and a swirl of black and white smoke, both she and Zelena are gone.

Belle sits across the cavern from the comatose Rumple.

Once upon a time, she might have thought that she did love him truly enough to break any curse. She supposes she should’ve always known--they’d married and in any of their kisses, she’d never managed to free him from the Dark One curse. She’d poured everything she had into their relationship, poured everything she had in her heart and soul into making him a better man and it--

It never worked.

“Maybe I should’ve just accepted that I was never going to fix you,” she says, and then laughs, harsh and self-deprecating. “Listen to me. Talking about fixing you. As though that’s…”

She sighs again. “We were never meant to be, were we? How many good relationships you know of start with a kidnapping? Or, well, technically more of a hostage situation. And then everything with the Queens of Darkness? It was bad enough that you lied to me about the dagger and then you tried to kill someone I consider a friend. I didn’t even recognize you anymore. You became more obsessed with your power than… than anything and I can’t…” She closes her eyes and tips her head back against the wall. “I was afraid of my own husband. I was afraid of what you would do to me, what you would do to Will, what you would do to any of our friends. What kind of life is that?

“And now you don’t have it. The curse is gone, and for years that’s all I ever wanted.” Even though there’s no chance he can answer, she can’t look at him as she says, “But even though I know that, I’m still afraid of you. I’m afraid of what you’ll do without it, of who you’ll become trying to get it back. All these years I could just… blame it on the curse. That there was a good man beneath it all. But there’s--” She breaks off when her voice shakes, tears threatening her eyes. “I don’t think I want to know what the man underneath the curse is like anymore.”

“Heartbreaking,” says Emma and Belle nearly leaps out of her skin. She hadn’t heard her captor return, and she scrambles to her feet so that she can retain some sense of her dignity and turns to face her.

She gasps when she sees that Emma has brought a visitor.

Zelena, dressed in a thin hospital gown and looking for all the world like she’s beyond exhausted but still willing to fight tooth and nail, is on her knees next to the Dark One.

The Wicked Witch growls, “I’m here. So what do you need me for?”

Emma takes a few contemplative paces around the space. Belle swears she feels the temperature drop as Emma walks past her, a study in serenity, and it makes Belle feel sick to her stomach for what must be coming.

Finally pausing over Rumplestiltsken’s prone form, Emma speaks. “As a student of magic, Zelena, what would you say is wrong with this man?” She turns to face Zelena, a teacher awaiting answer.

“Are you kidding me? You dragged me out of my hospital bed and away from my daughter for a little bit of magic consultation?”

Daughter? Belle thinks. Zelena was only one or two months pregnant, last Belle knew. What could’ve--

Belle bites down on her tongue when she realizes. Emma must’ve sped it up. An image of the Dark One’s plan begins to shape in Belle’s mind against her will. She doesn’t want to imagine how this will end, doesn’t want to imagine how Emma is going to get Zelena to cooperate, can’t--

“I’ll drag you out of wherever whenever I please,” Emma replies harshly. “Now tell me. Why isn’t Rumplestiltsken waking up?”

Zelena still looks annoyed, but she gingerly lifts herself off the floor and limps over to where Rumple lies on the stone.

The way Zelena looks over him looks almost medical, checking his eyes and pulse, save for a faint glow in the palms of her hands. Her mouth purses in frustration--she clearly didn’t find what she’d expected to. Then she places a hand over his forehead, tilting her face downwards and closing her eyes. The light in her palm changes to purple, glowing bright for a half a second before it fades.

“It’s like he’s not even there,” Zelena says quietly, almost in wonder. When she realizes she’s spoken aloud, she turns to Emma, who waits expectantly.

“I tried to find his consciousness,” Zelena explains. “The essence of being, the spark of life. Name your metaphor. But it’s like there’s nothing knocking around in there anymore. Just empty brain activity.”

Belle’s heart wrenches.

Emma doesn’t seem surprised, and asks, “That’s because he’s here,” she says, tapping her temple. “All the past Dark Ones are.”

Zelena’s brows furrow. “Then why did you bring me here if you already know what’s wrong with him?”

“I need him awake,” Emma answers, matter-of-fact.

“Well I can’t do that,” Zelena answers in frustration. “I can’t just magic his consciousness back into his body--”

Emma cuts her off with a laugh. “That’s not what I need you for.”

“Bloody hell, then stop speaking in goddamn riddles and just tell me so I can go back to my daughter.”

Emma tilts her head to the side, studying Zelena. “If you think about it for a moment, I’m sure you’ll get it.”

But Belle understands what she wants first. “She wants to swap your life for his,” she says, the realization of what Emma has planned starting to dawn on her. “That’s why she accelerated your pregnancy. A life for a life, isn’t that right, Emma? Just like the spell Snow used to kill Cora.”

Emma smiles. “I knew Rumple kept you around for more than just a plaything.”

Belle recognizes it for what it is--a carefully placed barb meant to shut her up--but her angry reply is only cut off by Zelena’s outraged, “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Oh, I would,” Emma assures. “Being the Dark One wasn’t exactly in my life plans, but now that I have it, I’m seeing a much clearer path to what I want. And what I want is for you to die.”

“But you said I’d get to keep my daughter!”

Emma shrugs. “Unlike the last Dark One, I’m not much for contracts.”

“You can’t make me do this,” Zelena says, and suddenly hurls a ball of green energy at Emma.

The Dark One looks unconcerned, redirecting the blast at the wall of the cavern. The impact shakes the walls, and Belle looks up at the ceiling, praying it doesn’t come down on them.

Zelena growls, and releases a barrage of green offensive spells that Emma deflects much like before. Belle has only had a passing familiarity with Emma’s magical abilities before, but this still looks beyond any of the skills she’d possessed as the Savior. Either being the Dark One has fully granted her several lifetimes-worth of new knowledge, or someone’s been teaching her (but Belle can’t possibly imagine who that could be.)

“That’s enough!” Emma eventually shouts, and lets loose a blast of black and white magic that makes the hair on the back of Belle’s neck stand on end. It forces Zelena back against the wall and holds her there.

Even immobilized, the fight doesn’t go out of Zelena. The tendons in her neck press hard against her skin, her jaw clenches as she leans against the invisible force pinning her down.

“You can’t make me do this,” she growls.

Emma still looks unconcerned. “I won’t be forcing you to do anything.”

That makes Zelena pause, confusion flickering across her face.

The Dark One examines her nails and says, “I need an untainted heart willingly given,” she says. “So I have two options. One, revive Rumplestiltsken and take his. All scrubbed clean. My second option,” she strides towards Zelena slowly, purposefully, “is your daughter’s heart.”

Zelena’s face goes white. Belle feels as though a knife has pierced her chest.

“What?” Zelena chokes out.

Emma simply stares.

“You--you…. You wouldn’t do that,” Zelena stammers. “She’s just a baby.”

“Exactly. Her heart would serve just as well as Rumplestiltsken’s. You simply get to decide which one I use.”

“They--Regina will protect her,” Zelena says. “They won’t let you get her.”

Emma snorts a soft laugh. “Just like you just tried to?”

A tear slides down Zelena’s cheek. “I didn’t even--” she breaks off in a breathy sob. “I didn’t even get to hold her.”

Belle looks at Emma, denial running through her. Emma wouldn’t do this. Emma would never. Emma is the Savior, even being the Dark One couldn’t possibly erase all that, it’s not--

“And if you don’t do this, no one ever will.”

Tears fall freely from Zelena’s eyes now. All the fight and bluster she’d had goes out of her all at once, her body sagging against the magical bonds. Softly, shakily, she says, “You’re a monster.”

The Dark One smiles. “Only on the inside.”

The small placard on the open crib reads “Baby Girl Hood” and that alone is enough to make Regina smile, at least a little.

She is smaller than Henry was. Face puffier, skin still red and little eyes nearly swollen shut. She’s managed to free her hands from her swaddling, small fingers grasping around nothing and Regina reaches down on impulse. Her breath catches when little fingers wrap around one of hers, and she can’t stop staring at those tiny little fingernails. The little one opens her mouth, a yawn (maybe her first) and Regina can’t help but melt at the little squeak that comes from her mouth. It’s when she lets go and her face pinches up that Regina knows what’s coming. She’s been a mother for far too long to not know what the little pants mean, that they’re slowly going to build into whimpers, then cries, so she moves on instinct, picking her up and cradling her in close.

When she got Henry, he was old enough that he could support his own head, but she’d done enough reading going through the adoption process that she knows exactly what to do. Robin’s daughter squirms just the slightest bit before Regina tucks her in closer, whispering, “It’s okay, little one. No need for that, now.” She frees up one of her hands, letting the baby grasp her pinky with her newborn strength. Regina gives into the temptation to gently stroke the little girl’s cheek, and her baby soft skin is warm against her fingertips.

“That’s a good look on you,” she hears quietly from the doorway, and she startles slightly, but not for long because she knows Robin’s voice anywhere. “Sorry,” he apologizes.

“It’s fine. Usually people can’t sneak up on me.”

“I am very skilled at sneaking.”

She smiles. “I know, Mr. Thief.”

“And,” he adds gently, warmly, “you seemed a bit distracted.”

She looks back down at the baby in her arms, then back at Robin. “She’s beautiful.”

She can hear the pride in his voice when he answers, “I know.”

“Have you thought of any names yet?” she asks. She can hardly keep calling her ‘little one.’

He scratches the back of his neck, mussing his hair as he says sheepishly, “Not in the slightest. I’m afraid that one of the few advantages of pregnancies being nine months is that you’ve nine months to decide on a name. I was hoping you might have some suggestions.”

“Me?”

“Of course, you.”

“I--I just… I didn’t expect…” She looks down at the infant in her arms, suddenly feeling all sorts of things for this child that isn’t hers. (But she’s been down that road before, and she knows where it got her.)

“You’re going to be a part of her life, Regina,” he says, and adds, far less certain, “That is, if… if you want to be.”

“I do,” she answers. The little one yawns again, but she seems very content to stay where she is in Regina’s arms. She laughs a little then, looking back at Robin, “I thought we would have more time to talk about this. Now she’s here, and we’ve barely had time to sit down and talk to each other.”

“We have been a bit busy,” he says with that understanding smile, “What with the new Dark One and all.”

“Speaking of, are there any leads on where Emma may have taken Zelena? And has there been any sign of Belle?”

His lips tighten, so slight and unnoticeable that she would’ve missed it if she didn’t know him so well. “There are groups in the woods and in the mines, but so far there’s been no luck. Ruby and Hook returned to ask Emrys about a locator spell, but wherever they are being held, they’re hidden from that magic.”

Regina exhales, coming to a decision and setting Robin’s daughter back in the open crib. They need to do this sooner or later, and she’d rather not have a baby in her arms for it. “We need to talk about her. Zelena.”

His jaw clenches, his eyes going angry, and she hates what this is doing to him, but there’s no more putting it off. “Then perhaps we should take this somewhere more private.”

They don’t go far. Despite Emma’s claim that she didn’t need her, Regina isn’t comfortable leaving the child with no protection. (She casts a protection spell over the nursery doorway to keep anyone with bad intentions out just in case.) The deserted hospital corridor affords them a sightline on the viewing window, but is far enough that they wouldn’t disturb anyone.

Robin clearly doesn’t intend to start this conversation which bristles her just a little bit. This is his daughter’s future they are considering. “I know you don’t like talking about what Zelena did to you--”

“Damn right I don’t.”

Regina breathes in. Out. Tries to not think of the consequences of what she’s about to suggest. “But I’d like to give her visitation rights.”

Robin snaps immediately to attention, going completely still. “I’m sorry? I don’t think I quite got that. You’d like to what?”

“I’d like to give her visitation rights,” she says again. “Heavily monitored by one or both of us. We’ll set up wards so that she can’t teleport away. I’ll layer as many protection spells as I can to make sure you feel safe--”

“I’m sorry,” he interrupts, not sounding sorry in the least, “I’m sure you have a very detailed plan, but I’m still trying to wrap my head around the idea that you would give Zelena visitation to my daughter. That you would make me hand her over to that bloody witch at all.” His voice is rising, and Regina can feel her own temper starting to flare. “I don’t care how many protection spells are between me and her. I don’t care if there’s a hundred foot thick stone wall between us, or if she’s in a damned different realm. I can’t forgive what she did to my family. I can’t forgive that for a while, Roland thought he had his mother back. I can’t forgive that I had to give my own son a forgetting potion because not remembering would be less painful than the reality. And I know I can’t…” His voice drops out, posture withdrawing. “I can’t face her every week for the rest of my life. I can’t do that, Regina.”

“Then I won’t make you face her. I’ll handle everything.”

That makes him snap again, “See, you don’t get it. No matter what happens, she’s always going to be in my life if we do this. I’m always going to have to hand my daughter over to you to go and give to her. She’s always going to be on the periphery of my life, reminding me of what happened, and I’m not--” Robin’s breath catches, just the slightest bit, and she wants so badly to reach out to him. “I’m not strong enough to face that. No distance you could put between us would make what she did any easier for me to deal with.”

“Robin, she deserves a chance to be good.”

“She’s had a chance to be good. You’ve given her more second chances than anyone deserves. I don’t know how anyone can call you the Evil Queen anymore because this is damn well near sainthood.”

“You don’t understand--”

“What I understand is that Zelena murdered my wife, masqueraded as her for months in order to--” he cuts himself off painfully. His voice picks up again a few moments later, cold. “I had to live with her for months. I had to share my bed with a woman who deceived me to get there. I understand that you want to give her another chance. It’s because I understand that I am so bloody angry. I don’t want her near my daughter, I don’t want her near my family, I don’t want her near me.”

“Everything you’ve accused her of, I’ve done doubly worse. She murdered your wife? So did I in some alternate world before Emma and the pirate messed it up. She manipulated and used you? I couldn’t even give you the names of all the people I’ve done that to. I have murdered, I have tortured, I have cast curses that would make the darkest of souls quiver in their boots. She might be wicked, but wicked’s got nothing on evil.”

“She is not you, Regina. She does not have a good heart.”

“You’ve seen my heart. It’s not good.”

“No amount of blackness I’ve seen can change what I see in you, what Roland sees in you, what your son sees in you. But her?” he spits, “She’s said it herself, time and time again. She’s wicked and she’s no intention of changing. Even if she had, I’d want no part in it. And I certainly don’t want my daughter to be a part of it, either.”

“Robin, can you--”

He holds up a hand, and she can see his eyes close, his breathing coming slow and heavy. “Regina, I can’t right now. I’d rather not say something I’d regret.” Then he turns and paces back towards the room. Back towards his daughter.

Regina swallows heavily and lets him go.

“Emma always told me you have rum,” Regina says on approach.

“Lovely to see you too, Madame Mayor.”

“Shut up. Do you have any or not?”

Hook stares hard at her for a moment, a quirk in his brow before he removes a flask from his jacket. “And here I thought you ‘didn’t do rum.’ Any particular reason you’re seeking out my liquor?”

“It’s 2 in the afternoon on a Sunday. I might have created this town, but our liquor stores are still closed, and I’m not going to show my face at the Rabbit Hole.” She snatches the flask out of his hand, unscrews the cap, and takes a long pull.

She knows how to handle her liquor, but she struggles to not make a face. Hook must notice anyway. “Bit stronger than your usual?”

“I prefer whiskey,” she says, and the sour mood that particular statement brings prompts her to tilt the flask back for another long drink.

“This about your quandary with your sister and Robin?”

She shouldn’t answer. She owes him nothing, yet she nods anyway.

“I heard the little lass was born. I feel like I should extend some sort of congratulations to you.”

“Why?”

“Well, you and Robin are going to raise the child, are you not?”

“We--we talked about it. Sort of.”

“Sort of?”

“The due date being moved up eight months didn’t leave much time for that. Besides, there’s not much down time when the resident Savior has become the Dark One. But we… talked today. I want to give Zelena at least some sort of visitation.”

“And how does your beloved feel about that?”

“Not as enthusiastic.”

“Well, you’re far more charitable than I, love. Had someone done to Emma what Zelena did to Robin I would have no qualms disemboweling them with my hook.”

Regina could laugh, but drinks instead. “She’s got nothing on me.”

“I’d heard the queen entertained unwilling bedfellows.”

Regina’s blood goes icy, her jaw clenching. “Just one. I’m not proud of it. You’re a pirate, I can’t imagine you haven’t done the same.”

“Much as it may surprise you to hear, no. Even at my worst, I believed in good form. Didn’t always uphold that in my quest for revenge, but in that way I did. And quite frankly, with a face like this it was hardly a fight to find company.”

Regina rolls her eyes. “And you wonder why I don’t want you giving my son advice on girls.”

“No, I don’t wonder at all,” he answers, surprisingly quick. “I admit, that you allow him near me at all is somewhat of a surprise.”

“He likes you. And it would be hypocritical of me to call him my son if I wouldn’t let him be around you. I’m sure my body count is higher than yours.”

“Wouldn’t want to wager money on it. I have been around for several centuries longer than you, love, but I see your point.”

She takes another drink before she says, “That’s why I feel like I can’t keep Robin’s daughter away from Zelena. Since when did I become righteous enough to decide who gets a shot at redemption?”

“Regina,” Hook says in a teasing tone. “Are you asking for my advice?”

“I don’t ask for advice,” she shoots back. The alcohol is making her warm, and she can feel it swimming in her brain and eyes, but she’s far from drunk. It’s exactly what she came here for. “Why am I even talking to you?” she mutters and moves to turn away.

“Because in our little band of heroes, I’m the only other villain,” he says simply.

That stops her. Her fingers tighten around his flask.

“Unless you count the Crocodile, which I sincerely doubt.” She doesn’t turn back, but he keeps speaking. “No matter how much good you do, no matter how hard you try, you still wonder if they have as much faith in you as you do in them.”

She turns back to him then. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” A pause, and it’s probably the alcohol that prompts her to say, “All of them love you. They keep you around even when they don’t need you.”

Hook responds, “Emma’s family has offered me far more charity than I deserve, something I’ll forever be grateful for, but don’t count yourself out. They all care very much about you.”

She holds back a scoff. “Maybe.”

He looks like he wants to say something else on the subject, but instead says, “Look, regardless of your apparent desire to wheedle away your afternoon drinking my alcohol, you came here for my advice and I’m going to give it to you.” She notices him turning his gaudy rings with his thumb. “It was only when I met Emma that I felt I was worthy of redemption. Because she saw someone worthwhile in me, I realized that I might be able to one day see what she saw. It feels like all your sins can be forgiven when someone loves you, and feeling like that… It’s like feeling the sun on your skin for the first time in centuries.”

Regina nods in understanding. “I know.”

“I never dared to expect that she would love me back.”

“Didn’t you?”

“I certainly hoped, and after Neverland it seemed…” He shakes himself out of some sort of reverie. “It was the first time I’d hoped for something good in centuries. That’s a powerful thing.”

“I don’t think Robin will ever see it that way.”

“I don’t expect he will. I should clarify, I’m on his side of this.”

“After what you just told me, how can you say that?”

“Our situations vary vastly from your sister’s. Zelena doesn’t want to change. She wants someone that will have no choice but to love her despite whatever villainous path she takes, and I’ve no sympathy for parents like that.”

“Because of what your father did to you?”

He ignores her prod and says, “Parents are supposed to protect their children, to hell and back. The only thing I can see Zelena protecting is herself.”

Regina holds the flask out to Hook, and he shakes his head. “I’m not imbibing today, thank you.”

She silently watches as he carefully keeps his eyes forward, notices the way his fingernails scrape across the top of the dock barrier and the muscle tic in his jaw. She can feel the significance of his answer, and screws the cap back into place. “Want it back?”

He nods wordlessly, still not looking at the flask as he stuffs it back into his jacket.

They simply stand in quiet companionship, listening to the churning waves. It feels like it’s been so long since Regina has felt like she hasn’t needed to be anywhere, or protect someone, or prove herself, or confront the painful reality that is her life. She never thought she’d find this sort of solace with the pirate, but life has never gone completely as expected for Regina Mills.

“Thank you, Killian,” Regina says simply. She’s fairly certain none of this would be happening without his rum loosening her tongue, but she doesn’t regret the catharsis.

He laughs, not at all what she was expecting. She turns, seeing that he’s wearing a pleasantly surprised grin, a complete reversal from earlier. “What, no ‘Captain Guyliner?’ No ‘One Hand Wonder?’ Where are the bon mots tonight?”

She rolls her eyes. “Don’t be an ass. Let me thank you and we’ll just be done with it.”

“Fine, then. You’re more than welcome, Regina.”

She feels like she could laugh at the sheer force of sass he manages to put behind the words, and his sincerity makes it break free.

It’s been too long since she’s laughed like this. No matter how short lived it will be, Regina relishes every moment.

And short lived it is; a minute later, both Regina and Killian turn towards the sound of running feet pounding against the pier. It’s Ruby, slightly breathless and with her eyes fixed on Regina. “Zelena was spotted in the woods. It looked like she was heading for the wishing well.”

Regina turns back to Killian, panic in her eyes and urgency opening up a chasm in her stomach.

“Go,” he says. “I’ll hold down the fort.”

“I’m coming with you,” Ruby says to Regina. “She might know where Emma is holding Belle.”

Regina has no desire to waste time talking the wolf out of it, so without fanfare, she grabs Ruby’s arm and envelops them in magic.

When they coalesce near the well, and Regina can feel the weight of dark magic over the small clearing. Zelena stands next to the stone structure, her hands held over the mouth as though she were conjuring something. It looks like she already has--a blue light emanates up from the well, lighting Zelena’s features. She looks distraught, her eyes swollen and face drawn and pale, and she looks up in surprise when the two figures materialize in front of her.

“Regina?”

“Zelena, what are you doing?” Regina asks as she steps towards her sister, motioning for Ruby to hang back.

“Stop!” she shouts, and Regina freezes. “This magic is hard to control. I don’t want you to--” Zelena seems to cut herself off when she realizes what she was about to say.

Regina takes a moment to try to decipher what sort of spell Zelena has performed. It looks unfamiliar to her, and while she can feel some sort of transference magic in it, it’s beyond anything she’s ever seen. It feels old. It feels ancient and powerful and almost malicious, and Regina wants her sister away from it now.

Ruby asks, “How did you get away from Emma?”

Zelena laughs. “She let me go.”

“Why on Earth would she--” Regina starts but Zelena doesn’t let her finish.

“Because she needs me to die,” she says flatly. “She gave me this enchantment because she needs Rumplestiltsken awake for her own goddamn spell, and she’s keeping Belle as leverage--”

“Where?” Ruby demands, stepping even with Regina. “Where is she keeping Belle?”

“Ruby--” Regina says, but is cut off again.

“No, she’s been through enough because of goddamned Dark Ones. Where the hell is she?”

“I didn’t exactly get the grand tour,” Zelena says sharply. She winces when a tendril of the spell leaps out, licking at her hand. “If I had to guess, somewhere in the mines. An offshooting cavern of some kind. There was a protection spell over it, so you probably won’t find it until Emma wants you to.”

“I don’t care,” Ruby replies, and she morphs from woman to wolf in a blink. The massive werewolf doesn’t spare a second glance at the sisters and bolts to the west, towards the nearest entrance to the mines she can find, Regina imagines.

A heavy silence settles over them for a few moments.

It’s broken by a thin chuckle from Zelena. “This isn’t exactly how I imagined I’d earn my Best Heroics Girl Scout badge.”

“Why are you doing this Zelena? What could Emma have possibly done to make you decide to give yourself up for that man’s life?”

Zelena’s answer is prompt and straightforward. “She threatened my daughter.”

“She what?”

Zelena looks down at the spell at the well’s mouth, the incandescence of it shining off her face. “She said that she needed an untainted heart willingly given.”

Regina knows enough magic theory to understand the context of the threat. She feels like she could vomit.

“Emma would never--”

“Yeah, well, she’s not exactly just Emma anymore, is she? And you and I have plenty of experience with the last Dark One to know exactly what they’re capable of when they want something.”

Regina’s mind reels. “So we--we protect her. We’ll take her out of town, or we can ask the fairies and the Knights of the Round Table to help us. Emrys has strong light magic, maybe even as strong as Emma’s, and I trained her. How much does she know that I can’t counter--”

“And that’s all well and good, but have you considered that she’s more powerful than any protective measure you can conjure? Who knows if the town line is even open to cross anymore, and the remaining fairies are so weak any sorceress with half a month of training could cut them down. We know nothing about this Emrys bloke, and you? Regina, you’re talented, but I threw everything I had at her and she didn’t even--” Zelena breaks off in a self-deprecating scoff. “She didn’t even flinch.” A heavy beat. “This is the only way.”

“Zelena, it doesn’t have to end like this. We can find another way, it’ll just take some time--”

“Time that we don’t have,” she snaps. “With my daughter on the line, I’m not willing to risk it.” Zelena looks down at the well again, the spell crackling away under her palms. She closes her eyes and says, “What you said about redemption--” she looks up to meet Regina’s gaze. “Did you mean it?”

“Of course I did,” Regina replies, voice thin and eyes burning. More words of hope are on Regina’s lips, possible solutions whirling through her head faster than she could truly comprehend, but Zelena sees this and interrupts her.

“I need to do this. If the choice is that she lives and I don’t…” The rest remains unspoken. It’s a quiet understanding between mothers, and it’s not in Regina’s nature anymore to give up, to submit, to accept defeat, but this isn’t something that she can fight against. She knows that if Henry were the one in danger, Regina would be doing the exact same thing.

“Just make sure she remembers me?” Zelena says, a tear trailing down her cheek. “When she gets old enough, tell her I’m sorry I wasn’t there. Tell her I love her no matter what.”

Regina can only nod as her own tears start to fall.

“And…. And I want you to tell Robin that I’m sorry. He didn’t deserve….” She swallows heavily. “Just tell him?”

“I will.”

A long, heavy pause precedes Zelena’s final request. “I want her to have a mum.”

That startles Regina.

Zelena just nods. “I want her to have a real, proper mum who will love her and--and make her sweets and give her advice and show her how to use her magic if she has it and--and….” She meets Regina’s eyes again, more urgency in this appeal than any of her others. “Give her what we never had.”

Regina will never remember what her response was. Years later, when she thinks back on this moment, she will remember saying something, remember Zelena’s resolute nod.

They never said I love you, that Regina knows. It wasn’t the right time for it, too soon, their last conversations not doing enough to stitch together all the raw and gaping wounds they’d caused each other in the years of their acquaintance. And while it hadn’t been enough it was still--

It was still something. It was the promise of more. It was a small spark that could painstakingly grow out of the darkness if they just tried.

Later, when Regina makes her peace with that day at the well, after she makes her peace with Emma for being responsible for Zelena’s death, she’ll be able to appreciate that.

But at that moment as Regina watches her sister, the last living member of her family, plunge her hands into the shimmering blue web of the spell, she does not feel peace or relief. It’s effect is nearly instantaneous, the spell running up her arms and over her body like an electric shock before withdrawing back into the opening and down into the depths of the earth.

A shockwave pulses from the well, a clear, magical tremor that Regina hardly notices as she runs to her sister’s side, catching her before she hits the ground.

At that moment, Regina watches that spark fade before her eyes.

At that moment, the profound feeling of loss carving a canyon in her chest is filled with the familiar river of rage.

Emma feels the moment Zelena dies--Rumplestiltsken’s consciousness is plucked out of the thousands of lives within the Dark One and within one breath and the next, his body reanimates in front of her.

She hears Belle’s quiet gasp of shock behind her but ignores her entirely.

His eyes flicker open, confusion written across his face.

Emma smiles down at him.

“I’ve been waiting for this.”

#ouat ff #oq ff #cs ff #red beauty #honestly like this is more gen than anything #lol fic tags on tumblr not meant for gen shit #my fic #dark swan rising

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