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deltas-writing-corner · 3 years

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Courtship: Respect

Fandom: Twisted Wonderland (Malleus x GN!reader)

Warnings: Mentions and depictions of smoking/tobacco usage

Next chapter | AO3 version

Slight revisions and full version posted on: 5/4/2021

The alarm clock on your phone is loud and annoying, but it’s the only sound that will wake you up without fail so you can get a head start on your more demanding days, like today.

Groggy and neck a bit strained, a sign that you’ve slept on it wrong, you carefully push yourself up and off your bed. You come across your first hurdle of the day. A few wolf cubs had settled on your chest and your sides during the night. You try carefully to move them off of you and to the side of their mother, who has settled near your feet and isn’t afraid to growl or snap her jaw should you even think of shifting or moving away from her. Unfortunately, the pups seem determined to stick by your side despite your efforts. Luckily the pack’s alpha, Gunter, is settled right behind your head and acted as your pillow for the night. He must be why your neck feels stiff as hell.

You reach back and start petting behind his ear, rubbing into the bunch of dotted scars beneath his coarse hair. You feel his body stretch and shake as he wakes up as well. A small whine comes out of him as he gives out an enormous yawn. It makes you yawn as well.

“Ready to start the day?” you whisper to him.

He huffs with a bit of attitude as if to say, “Not really, but what choice do I have?”

You redirect his attention to his pups, preventing you from sitting up without disturbing everyone else. With silent understanding, he removes himself from underneath your head and carefully steps over one of his brothers, who has graciously allowed you to use him as an armrest somewhere during the night. After another good morning stretch, Gunter begins the slow and steady process of picking the pups up from the scruffs off their necks and setting them elsewhere on your bed.

While he does this, you grab your phone and do a quick sweep of all your notifications. You have a few emails, one a weekly newsletter about current and future school events, most of it spam. You have a couple of dozen messages from Ace and Deuce detailing an argument over whether the former ate the latter’s piece of strawberry shortcake they were saving for after dinner. Apparently, they thought to ask you to be their mediator since it was clear they weren’t going anywhere arguing and pointing fingers back and forth at each other.

Unfortunately for them, they messaged you right after you conked out. You were exhausted yesterday, having to deal with an especially rambunctious and mischievous Grim. You were also scrambling to gather the reading materials needed for one of your classes before the other students can snag them. The most recent and urgent incident is figuring out what to do now that the only generator that powers up all of Ramshackle is going out or outright failing to even start up at all. You also have a decently sized garden to tend to, and the next large harvest is today. Once everything has been properly collected, washed, and either stored away in your pantry or given to Sam so he can sell and make a profit on your behalf and his own (it’s a 60/40 split and you had to fight tooth and nail for that 60), you have to replant everything once again after you’ve tilled the soil…

To say that there’s a lot on your plate is an understatement.

Free from your furry prison, you’re finally able to sit up and move your limbs freely. Something slightly damp presses against your bare shoulder, calling for your attention. Gunter, still clearly tired (expected of anyone, human or wolf, having to wake up at six o’clock in the morning), is now awaiting proper payment for his services.

“I got some dried venison in the kitchen,” you offer. The way his one good eye pops wide open and his tail begins to rapidly wag, the deer jerky will suffice.

You give the top of his head one last rub before standing up and heading straight for your bathroom to take a quick shower. Since the availability of electricity has been scarce lately, so is the availability of heating throughout the dorm. Unlike the ghosts, who can’t differentiate between hot and cold (unless it’s magically sourced), you can. Unlike the ghosts who are already dead, you will die in this late winter cold. Grim has better control of his blue flames compared to when you first met him, so he can now essentially be his own heater. He seemed a bit too comfortable keeping himself warm and letting you freeze to death, considering you’re the only reason he’s enrolled in this school.

You make do with what you have and your situation. Even when you gathered all the untorn and clean blankets and piled them on top of you last night, the cold still found its way underneath your cocoon. Gunter, the leader of a small bunch of wolves you had been taking care of during your first few weeks in Twisted Wonderland, must have seen you struggling to stave off the cold and settled himself next to you during the night followed by his brother, his sister, and finally Gunter’s mate and their pups.

Of course, with three full-grown wolves and four chubby wolf babies as your immediate heat sources, you overheated in no time and had to throw off all your covers and strip down to your underclothes in the middle of the night since your pajamas had quickly gotten soaked in sweat (and most definitely covered in their thick fur). A cold shower is just what you need to clean up after a long night drenched in sweat.

You also need to clean your sheets, but without electricity, your washer and dryer are out of order for the time being…

Dammit.

Cold showers suck, but once the ice-cold water hits your back, it woke you the hell up. You probably spent only five minutes in there before you quickly rinsed off and got out because of how unbearable the ice water was.

Once you’re properly toweled dried, you head to your closet and change. You put on clothes you don’t mind getting covered in dirt and sweat; a simple wool sweatshirt and some overalls lined with thick fleece. You also put on a pair of knitted crew socks and secure them to your leg with a pair of garters.

Right as you snap the final metal clasp on the knotted fabric, you feel a familiar bump on your shoulder. Gunter is giving you his best pleading face he can manage. Most people likely wouldn’t fall for it, what with the many scars littering across his body and face, making him look scary rather than cute. You feel a little tug in your heart. Luckily, you’re all dressed up and ready to start your day, so you quickly straighten up and usher him downstairs to give him his well-deserved treat. You grab your phone before you exit your room so you can peruse it on your way.

As you read over old texts and useless emails, a new notification comes in. It’s another message. As surprised as you are to receive a message so early in the morning (Ace and Deuce are likely still snoring and drooling into their pillows at this hour), it is the sender of the text that makes your slowed strides halt completely.

Good morning. I hope you had a pleasant and well-deserved night of rest. I’m currently getting ready to head over to the Ramshackle dorm to help you with your harvesting, as I promised. The coat you’ve made and gifted me during the holidays also fits perfectly and is by far the most comfortable piece of clothing I now own.

Thank you again for your most generous gift. I will inform you when I have arrived.

Yours truly,

Malleus Draconia

You can’t help but smack your palm on your forehead. You’re not annoyed or exasperated, it’s quite the opposite, actually. You’re happy that Malleus’s charm can somehow manifest even within a text message. In fact, this isn’t the first time he’s sent you a message formatted and written like a formal letter. If someone were to look at the small messaging history between you two, they’d see that a great majority of it is just Malleus sending you these long strings of text. They would also find your messages, or rather, your poor and embarrassing attempts at mimicking his language and style (he says he gets a laugh out of them, so maybe they’re as bad as you think). There’s also always a follow-up message, gently reminding and encouraging him to relax and not worry about offending you for speaking casually for you.

His response is always the same, and it makes your stomach feel strangely fuzzy.

You have earned my respect, now I must strive to earn yours.

It’s only been a little over a month since he dropped the bombshell that was his desire for your friendship to evolve into a proper, romantic relationship. To say it surprised you is another understatement. You were thoroughly flabbergasted once your mind finally registered his words as genuine. To hear him say “I love you” and direct such a powerful statement towards you was truly the last thing you expected since arriving in this strange world.

But through all the outer uncertainties there was one thing you were certain of, your inner uncertainties. Malleus is a dear friend of yours. Even amongst Ace or Deuce, two individuals who have been with you since the beginning and nearly every overblot incident that has come your way, Malleus holds a special place in your heart as your dearest friend.

But a friend is all he’s ever been in your mind. There was truly never an instance where you pondered or even held some amount of desire or expectation that your friendship could evolve into something more. You felt like a total prick during the end of his confession, asking him if you could sit on his words for a while and come back to him when you have a more certain and final answer to give. Watching the hope and nervousness in his eyes turn into one of pure and utter sadness and even embarrassment, yet he willed himself to conceal his heartbroken emotions back for your sake. It hurt like hell. What was supposed to be an exciting and relaxing end-of-winter-break party in Scarabia’s dorm (and an apology party for Jamil’s actions against you), turned awkward. Neither of you stayed any longer once you went your separate ways.

Despite what had happened, when you received a proper smartphone (and a proper phone plan to boot) as a gift for Christmas, one of the first things you did was transfer all your old contacts into the new device. The first person you messaged was Malleus, wanting to check in on him after your last encounter and to wish him a happy holiday. He answered back in a matter of minutes, much to your surprise. While he’s not the most tech-savvy, your major concern was whether he was holding up well after what happened and if you guys were going to remain as friends. You went on a whole tangent, trying your best to not sound so desperate and ensure that your response is in no way his fault because it most certainly is not. If there’s anyone to blame, it’s you.

Gunter suddenly tenses up. His fur instinctually puffs out, trying to appear bigger in anticipation of whatever threat he’s detected in the kitchen. Metallic clanking and clashing come from underneath the kitchen island where you store all the pots, pans, and heavy-duty appliances. A loud and harsh crash riles up Gunter enough that he feels the need to growl at whatever is underneath the cupboard.

You quietly move past him and wave your arm, signaling him to move back a bit. He listens to your orders and takes a few slow steps back. You position yourself on the side of the cabinet, fingertips pressing onto the top of the door to prepare to open.

“On my mark,” you whisper to Gunter. “One... Two…Three!”

You yank the door open, and Gunter quickly launches himself towards the potential threat. Though, not a second passes before he’s suddenly skidding across the floor, trying to immediately halt himself. He barely avoids hitting his head against the wood and giving himself a nasty bruise. When you ask him what’s wrong, he sticks his head into the cabinet and pulls out the apparent intruder.

It’s Blossom, a young fawn you rescued from the rose gardens of the Heartslaybul dorm. It was during the preparation of the unbirthday party near the start of the school year that subsequently led to dorm leader Riddle’s overblot. Cater assigned Grimm, Ace, Deuce, and yourself to paint the roses red with him. On top of rose painting duty, Cater was also on the lookout for a supposed ‘rose thief’ who had been snagging some roses from their garden right from under their noses. The scoundrel they were looking for was the fawn before you. From the way he still wobbled on his feet, he wasn’t even a month old when you initially rescued him. He’s lucky you found him when you did. His front leg was caught in a rusted and dull, but full-sized bear trap they set up in case the thief was a wild animal.

“What are you doing in there?” you ask the little troublemaker. “Probably trying to find a snack to chew on, huh?”

Blossom thrashes, trying to break free from Gunter’s hold on his scruff. He of course fails, but not without giving out a distressed scream and trying to plead for forgiveness by giving you his best innocent look. You shake your head before looking up at the small clock hung up on the wall above the refrigerator. It runs on battery so you have to worry about the time no longer being correct when the house lacks power.

It’s 6:15, still way too early. You tell Gunter to let go of Blossom and he does it without argument. Blossom quickly runs up to you, using your own body as a foothold to jump up into your arms. Once you have a hold of him, he bombards your face with little licks and nuzzles of his snout. While this action is normal and you would gladly accept it, you know better than to think it’s not the fawn’s attempts at trying to distract you from his misdeed.

“If you’re looking for the sugared flower petals, you won’t have any luck down there,” you tell him. He immediately stops his loving ministrations and gives out a disappointingly snort before relaxing in your arms.

You chuckle and give him a few apologetic pets on the head as you walk over to one of the upper cupboards and rummage around the various jars, trying to locate the dried venison for Gunter. You also grab a jar placed far in the back with the aforementioned candied rose petals Blossom was most definitely looking for. The moment you open the jar and the heavy scent of sweetness and floral whiffs in the air, Blossom begins to excitedly thrash about in your arms and tries to stick his head into the container. Luckily, the small nubs on his head, his newly budding antlers, stop him from reaching too deep.

You spend the next few minutes feeding your companions their early morning treat. The doorbell rings as you let Blossom lick the last specks of sugar off of your now damp palm. After rinsing your hands off and drying them, you head to the door. You open it and take in the sight of a newly arrived Malleus, dressed in a simple black dress shirt and a pair of loose-fitting linen pants you made for him when he expressed discomfort over his PE uniform the last time he helped you in your garden.

“Good morning!” you greet him as brightly as you can without being too loud.

“A good morning to you as well,” he greets back. Unlike you, who is still groggy and slow, he seems properly energized despite the time. You’re jealous. You’ve been waking up at the crack of dawn for years, at least a decade now, yet your body isn’t used to the early routine. Though compared to the hundreds of years Malleus has on you, you probably won’t show any sign of improvement until your hairs are gray.

“Have you eaten yet?” Malleus asks.

You shake your head. “The electricity is out, so I can’t use the stove or open the fridge too often.”

“Crowley still hasn’t replaced your generator?”

“No,” you frown. “Every time I try to bring it up he either gives an outlandish excuse or just flat out tells me I don’t need a new one.”

His eyebrows pressed together, clearly upset as you are at the headmaster’s failure as your caretaker. You reassure him it’s fine. Everyone in the dorm has been saving money for emergencies like this, and it just so happens that the money you’ll make for selling the produce you collect today will bring in just enough to buy a brand new generator. You’ll be out of electricity for another week, two at most, but have enough firewood and nonperishable foods to last until then.

“You should at least make yourself some coffee,” Malleus urges. “It’s bad to work on an empty stomach. You've said so yourself.”

“I will once Grim and the ghosts wake up,” you reassure. “For now, let’s head to the back and get started. There’s a lot to harvest, so the sooner we start, the sooner we’ll finish up.”

He’s clearly unhappy at your dismal of his concerns. You know that being so nonchalant towards a fae is rude, but you don’t want to worry him with your own issues. You also have no desire to eat or drink, not this early in the morning at least. If you tell him as much, he’ll probably freak out like he did last time, thinking you were unwell and forcing you to lie in bed for the rest of the day.

Yes, you could have pushed back and argued that you were fine, but it’s very hard to tell him “no” when his intentions are purely out of concern for your well-being. Better to let him hover over you and see that you’re fine than to leave him stewing in his anxieties in silence.

“What have you been growing this season?” Malleus asks as he tugs on the loaned gardening gloves you handed him.

“The usual spread. Some potatoes, cabbage, and carrots. The only fresh additions I planted are some peas and kale. Oh, and broccoli!”

“Did the crops hold well when you were gone?”

“They did thanks to the ghosts. The heat from the fire faeries around the campus also made them easier to protect from the cold,” you explain. “I should probably give them some type of exotic wood as a little thank you gift.”

“You can never go wrong with a bit of mahogany,” Malleus says as he ties back his hair.

You hand him a straw hat, one that you weaved to accommodate for his black horns. “I’ll keep that in mind. Thank you.”

“Your welcome,” he smiles at you before turning back to your garden. “So where shall we start first?”

“I’ll work on picking the cabbage heads. You can cut off the pea pods and we’ll go from there.”

“Very well. I’ll follow your lead.”

It’s 8 a.m. You know this because Ace and Deuce are woken up at this hour by Riddle and one of the first things they do is bombard you with text messages which usually forces you to turn your phone on silent mode. Despite it being late winter, you’re already working up a sweat from the repetitive and demanding motions of picking and carrying around baskets full of vegetables and cleaning them. Malleus is no better, hand continuously raising to his face to wipe away the constant wetness clinging to his forehead. You know he’s not used to manual labor like you are, so you try to bring him a pail of water every so often so he can stay properly hydrated.

“Oh my, you’re already up?”

You turn around to see who’s speaking to you and see one of the ghosts that live with you and Grim in Ramshackle floating towards you.

“Good morning!” you greet him. “Did you need something?”

“No no,” he shakes his head. “I just came to check up on my bees and saw you already hard at work.”

The ghost (Franklin is his name, but you all call him Frankie for short by his insistence), affectionately ruffles your hair with his large white palm. He’s one of the tamer ghosts, but he’s still capable of pulling a prank on you or his fellow housemates now and then. You and he have been cultivating and maintaining a small beehive since October, but he does most of the work and maintenance since he has more experience in the ways of beekeeping than you from when he was alive.

Frankie does a quick once over of the garden, his scanning gaze doubling back at seeing Malleus carefully rinse a couple of heads of broccoli.

“How long has he been here?”

“Since 6:30,” you answer back. “Why?”

“No one gets up that early unless it’s for someone they fancy,” he says rather nonchalantly, but the way he quickly side-eyes you show that he’s clearly talking about you. You try your best to appear unaffected and give a “Is that right?” type of hum, but your efforts are in vain since he just laughs at you.

“If even you know, that means he’s got it bad.”

You say nothing back because you honestly don’t know what to say, or if you should. You’re content to just go back to plucking potatoes out from the ground, but Frankie doesn’t seem to want to leave you alone just yet. He asks you to come with him to the greenhouse where the hive is being kept. The small glass enclosure also houses some flowers and herbs you use for cooking or medicine.

You quickly close the door behind you once you enter, reveling in the warmer air that hits your face. While Frankie lights his cigar and gets a heavy cloud of smoke going (his personal method of keeping the bees calm), he has you open the top and carefully pull out the panels one by one while he checks for any signs of a decaying hive and ensures the queen is alive and healthy. One of your initial worries about beekeeping was getting stung, but Frankie reassured you it’ll only happen if you purposely upset the bees or fail to care for the hives consistently. Now, you gladly let the buzzing honeybees wander around your bare skin.

As Frankie pulls out his cigar from between his lips and taps off the ashes into the respective ashtray, he looks over at you and asks, “Is everything ok?”

You give him a confused expression as you snap the cover for the hive back into place. “I’m fine?”

“You sure? Because if you ask me, you don’t seem like it.”

“I mean, I already have a pile of schoolwork I need to finish and a rundown dorm to take care of. I’m as ok as anyone in my position can be-“

“I’m not talking about any of that,” he interrupts. “I’m talking about you. Forget about Grim and your studies. How are you doing?”

“I’m fine,” you answer again.

“Are you sure?”

Well, when he puts it that way, even he must be able to see that you’re clearly not doing alright. In fact, you haven’t been alright since you were literally kidnapped and held against your will in the Scarabia dorm. Luckily everything worked out fine for everyone else, but not so much for you. You’ve noticed that your appetite is waning and you wake up multiple times during the night because you don’t feel safe, even in your own room.

Malleus’s confession unfortunately was another wrench being thrown at you. With your hands already so full of this and that, you’re struggling to figure out what needs a priority and which issues you need to either drop entirely or find someone trustworthy to take care of it in your stead. It’s hard to ask people for help when they either find a convenient reason to say no or you feel as if you can’t trust them to do something as simple as watering your plants. The only person you feel you can trust and ask for help is Malleus, and things aren’t exactly as they were between the two of you.

“Talk to me kiddo,” Frankie prods. “What’s been eating at you?”

He lifts his ashtray and makes to snuff out his cigar so he can focus on speaking to you, but you hastily reach over and stop him. You take the smoke from him and bring it up to your lips and puff a few grey clouds. Strangely enough, it tastes rather pleasant, floral, and creamy. You didn’t expect to taste like this because of the way it smells, like soil that was just freshly rained on.

“Sorry,” you hand it back to him. “I haven’t eaten and I’m practically running on fumes.”

“That’s alright,” he says, handing it back to you. “You look like you need it more than me.”

Malleus carefully blows small bits of green fire onto his freezing fingertips, trying to warm them up after being drenched in the icy water from the water pump. He looks over his shoulder, over the stalks of peas, towards you. You’re still in the greenhouse and frantically moving your lips. He can see your eyes are glistening with a fresh layer of… tears? You don’t allow a single drop to get past your lids, wiping them just at the last second before they can pass over the threshold.

He’s only ever seen you cry one other time, when he came to your rescue in Scarabia over the break. He initially thought he frightened you with his aggressive display of magic. Once the dust settled and the blot on Jamil was expunged, no one was more shocked than he was when you boldly ran straight towards him and jumped into his arms. It was all he ever wanted, what his mind dreamed of every single time he closed his eyes. He could no longer brush off the fluttering in his stomach as the mere excitement of making and spending time with his first genuine friend. He was determined to keep his newfound affections for you with him under lock and key, not willing to risk ruining your close-knit friendship with his selfish and potentially one-sided desires.

Your desperate embrace, your toughie exterior lowering to that of a sniveling and shaking human, gave Malleus the impression that the only reason you would display such vulnerability before him was that you reciprocated his sentiments. It gave him a sense of confidence he never knew he was lacking, usually so sure of himself most other times. It made his chest burn with an aching desire to say “to hell with it all” and spill his heart right then and there.

When you extended the invitation you received from Kalim to him, he saw it as his proper opportunity to let his affections be known. He was upset (according to Lilia, more than usual) that he had to take Sebek and Silver along with him for the usual security, but he was determined to get them distracted long enough so he can pull you aside and confess to you without fear of interruption or letting his personal affairs be known to anyone else, at least, for as long as he can keep something so monumental under wraps.

As a prince, he has been taught to look at the long term for each of his decisions, as they carry substantial weight. The long term of pursuing a relationship with you meant having to deal with the prejudices and stigma against humans that still live within the hearts of his people. For once in his life, he didn’t want to think like an heir. As he watches you continue to talk to one of Ramshackle’s ghosts with increasing frustration, he realizes his love utterly blinded him back then. The only long-term his rose-tinted mind could comprehend was of the happy moments he had long conjured in his head becoming a reality.

You didn’t explicitly reject him, however; he knows your behavior well enough to know that once his feelings were laid bare before you, you would not take them into your arms and hand yours over in return. Arms crossed and avoidance of eye contact, you do this when you’re nervous or unsure, sometimes both. He held onto the self-indulgent hope that you’d show him what you look like when flustered. Perhaps you’d stutter?

You did stutter when you spoke up, but they were not the words that he wanted, that he thought he was, going to hear.

“Malleus...I’m so sorry…”

“Ah, you’re here early!”

“It’s just that…I don’t think I can…”

“Hey! Are you listening to me? You better not be ignoring me on purpose!”

“It’s not that I’m telling you I don’t feel the same way, but I can’t exactly say that I do. It’s just... I’ve never- “

“Tsu-no-ta-rou!” Grim’s shrill voice, still a bit riddled with drowsiness, still pierce Malleus’s eardrums and nearly causes him to drop the vegetable in his hand. “Pay attention to me when I’m speaking!”

“Quiet,” he growls at the monster. “If you need your master, they’re in the greenhouse. Though, you might want to come back another time.”

“Huh? Why’s that?”

Malleus lifts Grim from the back of his fuzzy robe (you must have made it and gifted it to him during the holidays) and points to you. Frankie has one of his translucent hands on your shoulder, squeezing it comfortingly now and then while he speaks. You were no longer wiping your face so furiously, allowing your tears to fall and drip off of your jaw and wet your shirt as you listened to your fellow dorm resident.

“What happened? Did you smash all the tomatoes again?” Grim cranes his neck to look at Malleus accusingly.

“No, I didn’t. Those are out of season.”

“Maybe it’s about what happened at Scarabia,” Grim muses. “They haven’t been sleepin’ too good since we came back, y’know?”

Malleus nearly drops the cat. “They haven’t?”

“Nah,” the cat answers, far too casually and dismissively for the fae’s liking.

“This is news to me,” Malleus says, almost whispering to himself. He’s sad, almost offended, at the fact that you haven’t told him you’ve been having some difficulties this whole time. You normally keep him up to date with your personal life. He’s even more offended once he realizes that you’ve been worrying and reassuring him that your friendship with him isn’t ruined after what’s happened.

There’s a small voice in the back of his mind, conniving and twisted, that feeds into his already prevalent belief that your unwillingness to share with him your personal problems anymore is a sign that he hasn’t earned your respect. It’s a ridiculous explanation, but no amount of reassuring from either you or himself is going to stop his Mind from asking such a multi-sided question. Surely, if you thought admirably of him, you’d continue to allow him to bear witness to your moments of weakness and vulnerability. He feels close to you, connected to you in a way he’s never felt. He can be slow and downright miss some references to your jokes and behavior. You always put on a face of understanding, but is he so lost that your patience has worn paper-thin?

Are his feelings for you truly one-sided? Is he still jumping to conclusions too soon and just needs to give you more time and space? Did he just set a course for a ruined friendship or could his hastiness have been a fruitful gamble?

If it’s not iron that kills him, it’s the uncertainty within his heart and mind.

A shrill whistle pierces through the air and Malleus’s eardrums. Grim hisses at the sudden noise and the hairs on his neck stand up. Even Frankie and you can hear and turn your heads towards the source despite still being in the middle of a conversation. The one who whistled was another one of the ghosts who live in Ramshackle. Johnathan is his name, usually shortened to Johnny. His sunken cheekbones make him look unassuming, but you’ve rightly warned Malleus never to turn your back on that one for too long. It’s a miracle that you can keep up with all their shenanigans.

“I got the generator to start up and made some coffee!” Johnny happily announces. “Come get it while it and the dorm are nice and warm!”

“I’ll have a cup or two, so long as there’s a ton of cream and sugar!” Grim says whilst smiling. “And I ain’t skimping this time on the sugar!”

“You better if you know what’s good for you,” you sternly say, now out of the greenhouse along with Frankie. “We’re short on sugar and I’m not stocking up till next weekend.”

“Whaaaat?!” Grim exclaims, his lower jaw almost reaching the floor. “Since when did you become such a cheapskate?”

Everyone, including Malleus, did a sharp intake of breath as soon as the words passed the cat’s mouth. Everyone turns their head towards you, awaiting your reaction to Grim’s comment. This isn’t the first time Grim has gotten lippy with you and, given his nature as a mischievous little monster (a common trait between Ramshackle’s residents, Malleus is now noticing), it won’t be his last no matter how badly you scare or pull a fast one under his clawed feet. Even when your face is all puffy and wet with semi-dried tears, the look of “oh you’re in it now” is still so panic-inducing to everyone, ghosts, and feline alike. To the sole Fae present, he thinks of you as nothing short of adorable and wants nothing more than to wipe your messy face clean.

“Well, if you want more sugar there is one way you can get some more.”

“W-W-What is it?” Grim says, pudgy body shaking and sinking into the comfort and small safety of his fuzzy robe.

You approach him and bend down to grab him by the back of his neck, lifting him so he’s at your eye level before deadpanning, “Get a job, Make some money, and then buy your own.”

Once you set Grim down, he scrambles back into the home with an almost comical amount of fear in his eyes. He screams about how he’s never getting a job even if it kills him and his continued determination to find the small money vault you have hidden around the dorm and spend it all on canned tuna. Johnny, Frankie, and you all give a unison chant of good luck to him before he disappears completely.

“Has he made any progress in his search?” Malleus asks.

“Our money vault isn’t even in the house, so no,” Johnny answers, resulting in you and Frankie cackling and high-five one another.

With the power back on, you announce that it was time for a well-deserved break. It’s your turn to make breakfast and you immediately begin to ask everyone for their preferences. Frankie cuts you off and insists he take over your duties for the day. You normally would protest and insist to whoever was offering to cover for you it wasn’t a problem for you at all. “I enjoy doing [insert chore], so it’s fine!” is your usual go-to reasoning, but not this time.

Malleus notices the way you make to protest as usual, but you quickly back down and just let Frankie go ahead inside to take over for you. In normal Ramshackle fashion, Frankie mentions the cigar you were puffing and waving around earlier and says that you owe him another one, particularly an artisanal one that he’s recently read about in the local newspaper and has been aching to try.

“You got any more highly specific goods you want me to fight tooth and nail for?” you sneer.

“No, just the cigar will do,” he says before turning around to head back inside. Before he can close the door behind him all the way he pulls it back and says, “If you get it sometime this week I’ll buy a new bag of sugar.”

You whisper an impressive string of curses under your breath. Malleus has to restrain the urge to laugh at your colorful vocabulary.

“In that case, I hope your schedule is free tomorrow night. I’ll have it by then.”

Frankie gives you a thumbs up before heading back inside. Once the door behind him clicks shut, you turn towards Malleus and he physically feels his body shift from somewhat relaxed to stiff and proper. You notice this and crinkle your nose a bit, something to do when you find something endearing or as a way of silently giggling. Malleus watches with such an unnecessary amount of focus as you reach up to adjust his straw hat and wipe a bit of dirt off the collar of his shirt.

“I’m sorry for leaving you hanging back there,” you say as you pick off a stray leaf that somehow got tangled in his dark locks. “I’m also sorry you had to see me crying like that. I’ve just been so tired lately.”

There it is again. That damn twisting ache right in his heart.

“It’s fine,” he reassures you. “But if it isn’t too rude of me to ask, is your lack of sleep really all that’s wrong with you?”

You give out a long sigh. “I’m guessing Grim told you a bit of what’s been happening since winter break?”

“He has.”

Your arms cross and the ground suddenly becomes more interesting. You’re unsure, but the way your eyebrows press together is a sign that you’re conflicted. Malleus feels his frostbitten hands accumulate a layer of sweat as you silently mull over your thoughts. Despite the pain and hesitance in his heart, he wills himself to grasp you by the arm and pull you into an awkward hug. He knows it’s not exactly what you might need at the moment, and he was fully preparing you to push him away. He’s relieved when you bring your arms around his torso and reciprocate the embrace.

“I’m tired,” you sigh

“You haven’t been resting well, so it makes sense.“

“No,” you shake your head, the tips of your hair tickling Malleus’s neck. “It’s not just a lack of sleep that’s making me feel exhausted. After what happened with Scarabia, especially with Jamil, I don’t feel safe anymore.”

“Are you afraid?” he asks. To think of you as fearful is an entirely foreign concept for him when you’ve only ever been confident and certain of yourself since the first time he met you.

“Yeah, I am,” you admit without skipping a beat.

Considering what you told him, Malleus thinks your fear is justified. You have no defense against magic…

He fills a strain in his neck as his entire body suddenly seized up. You notice this and pull away to ask him what’s wrong. “Nothing,” he quickly dismisses, but you don’t let him go silent on you.

“If,” he hesitates. He’s thinking too rashly already, yet he’s still so compelled to act upon his thoughts. “Should anyone attempt to do you harm, I swear upon my name and title that I will do whatever it takes to protect you.”

He means every word, but you seem to take it far too casually than he would have liked. You press your face against his shoulder and laugh against his skin, your breath bringing him some much-needed temporary warmth. Such an ordinary action, yet it causes another pang within his heart. It settles next to the one that arose before, but he bites his tongue and endures it for your sake.

“Maybe you could play that electric violin for whoever comes after me,” you jest.

As embarrassing as it is to hear that you know about that incident (he’ll have to reprimand Lilia for telling you about that), he can’t help but laugh along with you. If making a bunch of teenagers’ foam from the mouth amuses you, then so be it.

“Thank you for offering to get your hands dirty for my sake,” you say. “That’s one thing I respect about you. You take care of the people you care for.”

His body goes still once again. “Is that right?” is all his mind can wrap around and say.

“Yes, oh Wise and Great Lord Malleus. I do, in fact, respect you.”

He cringes at that title. It’s something he has heard Sebek try to enforce you to refer to Malleus as, which you never do purely so you can get a rise out of his loyal guard. Before he can ask you to never call him that again, a bunch of howl’s ring out, and the two of you pull away from each other. The wolf’s howling is usually a sign that food is ready, which you seem rather eager to get to as you interlock your arm with his and drag him inside with you.

He looks back at his basket of still dirty vegetables. “What about-“

“It’s alright! I’m not throwing a fuss over a few broccoli heads!”

Crispy bacon, over easy and scrambled eggs, and a mountain of sizzling hash browns. Once everyone grabs a plate and sits down at the dining table (Malleus sticks close to you, hoping he can sit next to you), they grab whatever pieces of food they want in whichever quantity. Somewhere in the next room over, a faint melody plays through the speaker of an old record player. The vintage singer has a rather cheeky attitude in her vocals but with the accompanying music, it all comes together harmoniously. It’s perfect for a rather excitable breakfast.

It seems you never told the ghosts too many details about your sudden disappearance during the break. You downplay the true extent of your dilemma as you willingly giving your time and effort to help a desperate Jamil figure out what was causing his normally kind dorm leader to have a sudden personality switch. The ghosts listen carefully, and as you gradually get to the big climax that is Jamil’s betrayal and overblot, followed by Malleus’s sudden appearance, they’re all practically hanging on the edge of their seats. Your tale even intrigues the wolves and Blossom. They gather and settle near the legs of your chair, ushering you to continue your story by whining and scratching your ankle.

You don’t exaggerate Malleus’s part in your tale, something he greatly appreciates. You tell them how things happened just as they did: Grey clouds suddenly covering the sky and the occasional peak of lightning through their fogginess. Just when it seems like Jamil has the upper hand and is going to put an end to Grim and you, as well as Jade, Floyd, and Azul of Octavinelle, Malleus appears out of nowhere and effortlessly zaps the blot right out of the vice dorm leader of Scarabia.

“That deserves some praise,” Benjamin, the third of your ghostly residents, raises his half-filled mug of coffee and extends it towards the middle of the table. “To Malleus!”

Everyone, including you and Grim, raises your glasses and repeats his chant. “To Malleus!”

“To me, I suppose,” Malleus half-heartedly raises his own cup. “It really wasn’t much effort, or any praise really.”

He catches you looking at him in his peripheral and he feels a lump form in this throat that he immediately swallows. “I simply did what I believed you would have done for me if our positions were reversed.”

“Well, you’re not wrong there,” you say after swallowing a hefty mouthful of scrambled eggs. “But it’s nice knowing you have my back. It makes me feel safe.”

“Safe?” Malleus is surprised to hear you say this, considering what you told him earlier. “I make you feel safe?”

Now it’s your turn to be surprised. “Y-Yeah. I guess you do.”

“You guess?”

“You do,” you say, more definitively this time. “I promise. If you didn’t you’d know.”

He can’t help but laugh. “I can only imagine what interacting with you would be like then.”

“Probably not that good, or not at all. I steer clear of people I don’t particularly like.”

His eyebrows raise in intrigue as he sips his now lukewarm coffee. “What makes you dislike someone?”

“I dislike people I have no respect for,” you say casually. Malleus thinks you might be joking or poking fun at him, but how you take the time to look up to him while you busy yourself with feeding Gunter a few bits of bacon clearly means you’re trying to tell him something secretly. It’s definitely something along the lines of, “I don’t know where this mindset of me not respecting you came from, but it’s a load of bullshit and you need to get that thought out of your head.”

Even within his head, your language is still so vulgar and blunt. Only you would talk to him in such a rude manner.

But he respects that part about you.

#twisted wonderland #twst #twst x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #twst malleus #malleus draconia #malleus x reader #twst writing #fanfic: courtship #reader insert #reader insert fanfiction #gender neutral reader

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omniswords · 4 years

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Little Cat on the Roof [Chat Noir/Marinette Dupain-Cheng]

Adrien's been having nightmares about something he never did. Knows for sure he never did. But it feels like it happened, and it won't leave him alone. And there's only one place he can go to fix it. And there's only one person he can be.

[Spoilers for Chat Blanc; proceed with caution!]

[AO3 Link] [Buy me a Ko-Fi?]

Adrien supposes it doesn’t matter which rooftop he’s sitting on. He’ll always languish without his lady.

He doesn’t know when he decided on this little tune, about a little cat sitting on a little roof. Honestly, he’d say it came to him first. No matter where it came from, he finds himself humming the melody, sometimes singing these simply lyrics under his breath when he hops from rooftop to rooftop on his weekend patrols, when Ladybug is out of sight.

If there are other words, they’ve never come to him, and he gets the feeling they never will. And he’s not quite sure if it’s something he should be used to.

He’s had this feeling of losing things he’s not sure he ever fully had for a while now.

And it’s probably because of the dreams.

They came after the beret; that’s all he remembers. He can’t make the connection, doesn’t even know if there is one. He only knows that they crept in at all hours of the night, from every angle of his mind, and left him awake and shaking with the image of himself—Chat Noir, no some… some other creature, him and not him—at the end of the world. Watching the moon. Admiring the still high seas, the closest he might ever get to the ocean again. Humming. Singing. Alone.

It isn’t as though he isn’t used to the loneliness, what with his father rarely around, his mother missing, and Nathalie and his bodyguard never quite being the people he ever wanted them to be. It isn’t even as though he’s never had dreams about being alone before; the thought of closed doors echoing through empty halls is more than easy to conjure up. This, though… this leaves him with a hollow sensation in his chest, like something—someone, everyone who’s ever been some kind of someone to him—was ripped from him, from the inside out. This leaves him crying at ungodly hours of the night, sobbing with his head in his hands, begging to be saved without ever knowing why, racking his brain and asking what it is he destroyed, craving the touch of Ladybug’s thumb as it dries away his tears and knowing full well he’s never, ever cried in front of her.

Plagg doesn’t know anything about it. Or if he does, he’s remarkably, uncharacteristically good at keeping quiet. The kindest thing he’s done this whole time is looked the other way. He’s never commented on the growing circles under Adrien’s eyes, even when his classmates have commented on them out of concern. Never once said a thing about Marinette watching more closely from one seat behind. Never even cracked a joke about thinking of cheese to dispel all those heavy, terrifying thoughts.

Adrien has to wonder, every so often, how many more of Plagg’s past holders have ever felt like this. If total destruction and self-isolation are just par of the course with carrying the Black Cat.

If any of them had mothers to hold them, coddle them, comfort them through the night when they were afraid to go to sleep themselves. If any of them even remembered their mothers once they weren’t children anymore.

The words—her words—are somewhere in his head somehow. It’s just been so long that they’re all garbled together, and he can’t piece any of them together for them to make the right kind of sense. It just might be the only thing that’s scarier than the dreams.

He has to get out for a while, he decides one night, long before he lets himself even think about getting into bed (and for what? to stay up for hours on end, singing to himself, because he’s afraid of the inevitable?). There’s only one way to do it, he knows, and there’s only one place to go.

Chat Noir can never stay at the mansion for too long once he’s transformed; there are too many risks, too many unanswered questions. So he sets up a mannequin in his bed, the way he always does when he’s out for the night, and he leaps out his bedroom window, and he’s free. He’s himself. He’s alone, somehow, but not lonely, and not for long. All he has to do is run, jump, fly his way across down with the help of his baton, and he’s there.

On Marinette Dupain-Cheng’s balcony.

He wouldn’t say his relationship with her is unlikely. Unlikely has this never-going-to-happen element to it, and, well, he can’t say he doesn’t believe in the impossible. (He kind of still does, even if he won’t admit to it.) But Marinette wasn’t exactly falling at his feet the first time they met—that afternoon when he kissed her hand and flexed for her and called himself her knight. In fact, she was probably rolling her eyes the whole time, completely different from the inexplicably stuttering, blushing girl who still sits behind him in class.

And for some reason, he’s kind of come to like it that way. That they started the way they did because Ladybug tasked him with her, and because he grew from simply not minding her to… really, really liking her. That when he comes to her like this, she pulls no punches and sees through to the kind of person he actually is, as much as he’s able to let her without actually taking off the mask.

It’s nice to let someone see the boy who’s just looking for some company and freedom in the middle of the night. It’s nice that that someone is Marinette.

Being a fool for irony isn’t so nice—the fact that she sees the truest version of himself when he’s hiding in this suit—but it’s something he’ll have to live with.

The melody is starting to seep into his mind again—a little cat on a roof—and it feels like the only way he can get it out of his head, like most things, is to go along with it—languishes without his lady. He hums to himself at first, lonely in the early evening, until the words make their way to his lips, a little cat on a roof, until they buzz in his chest and drift up to the full moon, languishes without his lady.

Until the hatch door opens—

A little cat—

—and there is Marinette, standing on her balcony in her pajamas with a blanket draped over her shoulders and a mildly horrified expression on her face, when he swivels around on his perch.

He’s never seen her look so scared. So speechless.

He’s never seen her look scared at all.

Eventually, she sinks to her knees, still staring at him, and wraps the blanket more tightly around herself. “You know what that sounds like?” she says. “Something out of a horror movie.” It sounds like she’s trying to crack a joke, to keep things light and familiar between them, but it doesn’t sound so funny to him. It almost makes him feel sorry for her, but Marinette isn’t the sort of person who wants or needs to be pitied.

Chat Noir cocks his head by way of greeting. “Nice to see you, too, Princess. I didn’t even know you liked horror movies.”

Marinette wrinkles her nose. “I hate them.” And then, when her eyes glitter with the light show of the Eiffel Tower in the distance, when she fumbles with the latch on her door, “Come on, get in. It’s cold out here.”

“Just like that, huh?” He smiles in spite of himself. “You should know better than to let strange boys into your room at night.”

“Yeah, well.” Marinette shivers. “You’re no stranger.”

Something seems… off about her tonight. He can’t quite place it. But she’s disappeared back into her room before he can bring it up, and he finds himself numbly following after her, into the dark, into the warmth.

He’s only been in Marinette’s room a couple of times, but never as Chat Noir. He came over once to train for the Mecha Strike III Tournament with her, and once when he agreed to model some of her clothes back when she started up her fashion design website. He hasn’t been back since then, but he remembers the little things. Mostly he remembers the taste of her parents’ spinach-and-salmon pie and her father’s homemade cookies, but also the decorations and sticky notes on her bulletin board, the miniature flower designs on the backs of her desk chairs, the red paper umbrella adorning her chaise longue and the organized clutter of her workspace.

It’s all still here, surrounding her as she huddles up on the chaise with her blanket and a stuffed animal. It’s so her. It’s… adorable.

“Some things never change,” he muses to himself, forgoing the cat pun for now. There’ll be other opportunities. There are always other opportunities. He nods to the blanket. He can finally get a better look at it now that she’s turned on her desk lamp, though he shouldn’t be surprised by the design. It’s knitted—or maybe crocheted, he can never tell the difference—with a rose-colored yarn, a few handmade flowers decorating one of the corners. It looks warm, a comfortable weight.

“Did your grandma make that for you?” he asks. He’s always wondered what it would be like to have a handmade thing from a grandmother. Or to have a grandmother who visited regularly. He barely has a cousin and an aunt.

Marinette shakes her head. She’s practically hugging the thing by now, the way a sick person might cling to a comfort object, even though she’s managing pretty decently in a hoodie and some sweats. Maybe even overheating. “I made it. It was kinda hard, but it didn’t turn out too bad.”

Chat Noir smiles from his place at her desk, his tail swishing and swiping at the floor. “’S nice.”

She pauses, looks between him and the blanket, and then gets to her feet. (What the hell—even her slippers are cute.) Without a word, she shuffles over to him, unravels the blanket from her body, and lets it ripple in his lap.

His brow furrows. “You’re lending it to me?”

Awkwardly, Marinette rubs the back of her neck and apparently makes it a point not to look at him. “I’m giving it to you.”

“Hey, you don’t have to—”

“Unless pink isn’t your color or something.” She shrugs. “I can always make another one. Who knows? Maybe it’ll come out even better the second time around.”

Chat Noir thumbs the material, wishes he could feel it for real in his hands, and hopes Marinette won’t laugh or make fun on him when he presses the blanket to his cheek. “Pink could be my color.”

For the first time tonight, Marinette smiles. It’s faint, and it’s fleeting, but it’s there. “Let’s just say it’s the least I could do.”

“Well,” he says, “you can’t just say that and not expect me to ask what that’s supposed to mean.” He winks. “You know what they say about curiosity and cats, don’t you?”

He thinks he might be seeing things, but there’s a flicker of a second where Marinette looks… hurt. No, not hurt. Devastated.

He never… never wants to see that look on her face again.

He tries to apologize for it, but she’s already waving it away, shuffling behind him to turn the lights down lower and to fiddle with the music player on her phone. Soon enough, there’s soft, easy rock music drifting around and between them, and she’s rummaging around for another blanket (God, how many does she have?). She curls up on the chaise again, and it’s not long before she’s bouncing her feet. She doesn’t quite follow the rhythm—it’s more like she’s looking for something to keep her busy—but Marinette’s always been like that. Following the pleasant tune of her own song.

He hums in thought, and it kind of sounds more like a purr, but Marinette doesn’t seem to mind it. In fact, it almost looks like she likes it. Like maybe it sounds like home, even though he’s pretty sure she’s never mentioned having a cat before. “I didn’t know this kind of music was your vibe.”

She’s got her chin in her hand and a meaningful look in her eyes—that’s the benefit of the suit; he doesn’t need her lamp to see that. “There’s a lot of things you don’t know about me, Chat,” she murmurs, and it would sound more fun and light and teasing if not for the way her eyes flutter away after.

He doesn’t exactly know what to say to that, so he sits with it, with her. Two people alone in the almost dark, barely connected. He could reach out for her hand if he wanted to, but he doesn’t see the point if he can’t actually feel her, warm and alive. So he flexes his own, tries to push the urge out through skin and muscle so he doesn’t have to feel it anymore.

It doesn’t work.

“So what’s it for?” he finally asks, daring to cut through the music.

Marinette fidgets in place before she answers, seemingly embarrassed to admit it. “For that night you took me out on the town.” She wraps her new blanket around herself, slithering to the floor. “With the candles and the rose petals and stuff. And when you carried me.” There’s an extra weight to her words, something that says, please tell me you know what I’m talking about, because I don’t think I can stand the shame if you don’t.

How could he not? “It meant something to you? Even if it was for—for…” He pauses. “…Somebody else?”

After a moment’s thought, she nods, slow but sure of herself, and her gaze drops to the blanket in his lap. “It wasn’t meant for me,” she says, “but it got to be mine.”

They stew in that following silence for a while, Marinette idly tapping her feet to some hard-to-follow rhythm. They have these moments sometimes, where they either don’t know what to say, or do know exactly what to say and are just trying to find the right time to say it. Where they look around each other instead of at each other, and stew in each other’s comfort because they’re allowed to. They’re able to.

Eventually, Marinette speaks. She’s usually the one to break the quiet between them, but it’s hard to tell which of them is more anxious about letting it go on for too long without whatever flame they have dying away. But it’s what she says that cocks itself like a gun and barrels down any comeback he might have been loading up. “I’ve been… thinking about you more often, lately.”

It stuns him. In costume, it shouldn’t, but it does anyway, and he’s hoping thats her sight isn’t so keen that she can see him gawking on the inside.

She folds her arms, tries to curl up as tightly as possible. “Don’t make it weird, okay?”

“I’m not trying to,” he admits. He just doesn’t know whether to play up how flattered he is, or to scoop her up and feel how alive she is. How many times does her heart beat in a minute? How many beats does she think of him? And why does he want to know so badly? “But… why?”

Marinette narrows her eyes. “’Why?’”

“Oh, don’t get me wrong”—there’s the usual playfulness, bleeding back in, welcomed home—”anyone and everyone should think of one of Paris’s greatest heroes. Celebrate them, even.” He flicks his tail in her direction, the buckle jingling around his waist. “But you’ve never been the type for all that fanfare. You don’t go falling at my feet all the time.” Even though you should. Even though maybe I wish you would.

She raises a brow. “Does that upset you?”

“Nah.” Another swish, and his eyes go wide in the dark to let more of her in. “Actually, it’s kinda comforting.”

He doesn’t have heat vision, but he almost wishes he did. He just might be a little too curious to know if Marinette is blushing now. “I just have been,” she finally says, with all that hidden meaning of there’s something else, but I can’t let you know. There seems to be a lot of that with her. “I’ve just been thinking that… that I owe you better, I guess. I want to do right by you, because I—”

She pauses—freezes, actually, like the words are caught in her throat—and almost immediately quiets down. And for those few seconds, Marinette looks as lonely as he’s felt in all those dreams.

“Never mind,” she mumbles, and if he strains his ears it sounds like everything she must have wanted to say is sinking back down into the pit of her stomach. “Just. Know I want to be better to you. I’m going to be. If anyone deserves it, it’s you.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I just do,” Marinette says, and there’s that hidden meaning again: please, please don’t ask. “If… if you’ll let me, I mean. Because… well, I’d like to think you like my company, if you keep on stopping by to see me—”

“I do,” he reassures her, and if he says it too fast, he doesn’t care. “More than you know, Princess.” More than you ever will.

For a split second, Marinette wrinkles her nose, then kills her expression, as if afraid he might have seen it. (Of course he did, but he doesn’t mind. There’s something sort of welcoming about those little things—like how she rolls her eyes or gives him a playfully judgmental up-and-down.) “Well.” She sighs, perhaps letting go of every attachment and every inhibition with the way she draws it out. “Okay. Just know—”

“I know,” he says, tenderly, but he throws in a wink for good measure. “I heard you loud and clear.”

It’s… honestly a bit baffling, how determined she looks—well, more so than usual—in the dim light. All this, just to tell him she wanted to be good to him? Is that really something he—

He wants to end that thought with deserves, but the way Marinette is folding her arms tight and bouncing her leg makes it, and every thought that follows, disappear. Makes him think back to the dreams, and twists his gut, just the same as it feels when he bolts awake and tries to tremble and cry it all out. And God, the last thing Marinette deserves to feel is alone and anxious. And maybe… maybe she thinks it’s the last thing he deserves, too.

If it’ll ease her conscience, then… well, he’s not going to complain.

“C’mere,” Chat Noir says, even though he’s the one going to her. There might something cold and unfeeling about the suit he’s in, but he makes do as he wraps his arm around her shoulders, tries to imagine what her blanket must feel like, what kind of comfort it’ll give him once he’s home. She feels stiff at first, which doesn’t really surprise him, but eventually she relaxes, even nestling into his side and laying her head on his shoulder.

If he listens, he swears he can hear her whisper, “You did it.” Breathe it like she’s talking to herself. But he’s not about to read too much into it. It seems like something only she’s allowed to hear.

It feels… comfortable. And right. And safe. He wonders how often something like this happens for her. She wonders if she gets to feel this way, too. If she does right now.

“You ever consider wearing your hair down more often?” It’s the only thing he says to break the silence as she lays his cheek against the crown of her head. It’s soft, and it smells good—which he’ll never, ever say out loud if he wants to keep his hide—and he finds himself playing with the ends of it more than he meant to. “Looks nice on you.”

There she goes, stiff again. Does she really hate it that much? It takes her longer to come back, and even then, he swears he can sense something—fear, or discomfort—lingering under her skin. Maybe even in her bones. “It’s just for bed,” she says, bumping his hand away, and for a moment he lets himself thinking about what it might feel like. What she’d do if he caught it, and held onto it, just for a while. What she’d do if she knew who he really was. But then she pats the back of his hand, as if in apology, and little by little she sinks against his body again. Like, maybe, she’s thinking about that night again.

“That song you sang really does freak me out,” she admits, just barely a whisper over her own music. “Something about a cat on a roof?”

Chat Noir laughs nervously. “I didn’t even know you were still awake.”

“It’s a Friday night. Of course I was still awake. I was just…” Marinette pauses; she doesn’t need to finish her sentence. “Did you not want me to be, or something?”

“No, I… I’m glad you were.” He follows her silence, gives her shoulder a light squeeze. “Do you know any better songs?”

“I guess. Some.”

The song on her playlist turns over to something a little different; she must have it on shuffle. Instead of Jagged Stone or anything of his genre, this piece is purely instrumental and not too upbeat. It’s got that one instrument that sounds like glitter spilling from the sky, and an accordion—or maybe it’s a bandoneon; he can’t really tell, and he doesn’t care to right now. It must be familiar to her, something she’s listened to hundreds of times for hours on end, because she relaxes instantly, and it isn’t long before she’s humming along with the tune.

He didn’t know Marinette could sing. Not that she belts out the notes or sounds like a fairy tale princess—it’s more like her voice holds that peaceful, up-and-down cadence of someone putting her baby or her lover to sleep. But it sounds right, like this is what her voice is made for, and maybe… if she kept at it just a bit longer, he wouldn’t mind falling asleep for a while. And maybe… if he kept on listening, he could hum along, too. For those lonely Paris nights. If he closes his eyes, he can even see and feel those high, end-of-the-world waters receding, every building slowly righting itself, people gaining life in their limbs and warmth in their flesh, walking around like chaos never happened. His suit morphing from white to grey to black, and the bell falling off and rolling away, useless to him. The cold twists in his heart, gone.

From her place on the floor, Marinette turns the music off, still humming that melody, over and over. Within moments, Chat Noir’s eyes flutter shut, and it isn’t until she wraps her blanket around them both and presses her ear to his chest that he realizes he’s purring.

“You were singing about your lady,” she pauses to say. “So… where is she?”

And then the waters are gone altogether, as though none of those horrors ever existed, and his mind takes him to that sunset moment—the same roof, the same old song on his lips—that moment when Ladybug laid her head on his shoulder and watched the day end with him. The day she said…

“Oh,” he says with a smile only he knows. He holds Marinette closer, pulls her in toward the slowing, languid thud-thud-thud of his heart. “She’s somewhere.”

#miraculous ladybug #marichat #love square #marinette dupain cheng #chat noir #adrien agreste #chat blanc spoilers #✌️

1K notes · View notes

i-am-a-bad-influence-writes · 3 years

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The Dutchess’ Garden - Part 4

Series Masterlist - Chris Evans Masterlist - Full Masterlist

Pairing: Chris Evans x OC Emma Meijers (typical Dutch girl. Blonde, blue eyes.)

Warnings: Explicit language, fluff, not really smut but kinda.

Word count: 1902

‘Okay, so come around 6:30? We can eat dinner together?‘ ‘Sure.‘

‘What are we watching,‘ Emma asks while shoveling another piece of pizza into her mouth. Chris doesn’t want to think it’s adorable, but it’s adorable. ‘Dammit, can you eat normally,‘ he laughs. She sees her eyes peek up, ready to say what has to be said. ‘I know, I know, language.‘ ‘That’s what I thought,‘ she says sternly, but he can see her smile just a second later. How did she manage to get him under het thumb this fast? And why doesn’t he mind at all? ‘Back to movies,‘ Chris says, ‘do you have any suggestions?‘ ‘I dunno. What are you up for? We can watch something funny like Not another teen movie, or something touching like Gifted, or something like Red sea diving resort, or-‘ ‘Are you going to name every single film I’ve ever done?‘ She huffs. ‘I didn’t even get to the Marvel movies,‘ she whines, ‘but yes. And as someone who thoroughly enjoyed Knives out I need to know if you still have your knit sweater from that movie. Because you won’t after I leave tonight.‘ ‘I do not own that sweater and even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you,‘ he smiles. She rolls her eyes in fake annoyance. ‘I’ll just take another one to hold hostage,‘ she says and walks over to him, grabbing his shirt by the hem, ‘like this one.‘ ‘You wouldn’t dare,‘ he says with a grin twitching on his lips. She steps a little closer to him. They’re only inches away from each other and Emma wants to pull him down and kiss him so bad, but she won’t. ‘You sure about that?‘ ‘I am fairly certain you wouldn’t be able to, even if you tried,‘ he leans down a little as a joke to tower over her, hoping to intimidate her a little. What he forgot is that Emma is a firecracker. She’s not easily intimidated. In fact, she steps closer so her chest is against his and she has to lean back to face him as he leaned over her. ‘I thought we agreed that I’m stronger,‘ she tries to say it seriously, but bursts into laughter and the moment is gone. She walks back to her seat. Chris tries to laugh along, but he feels a bit strange. Did that just really happen? Did she just do that? He wanted to kiss her, but she made a joke out of the situation. The mood was good, but she manipulated it to her will. ‘I’ll show you strong,‘ he says menacingly. She watches him with wide eyes as he walks over to the couch, grabs a blanket, and walks over to her. ‘Oh no,‘ she breathes out and jumps off her chair, ready to start running from him but she’s too slow. He’s already captured her in the blanket. He picks her up and throws her on the couch. Then, he flops down onto her. ‘I’m stronger.‘ ‘No, you’re just heavy,‘ she whines, ‘get off meeee~.‘ ‘Never.‘ ‘Okay, fine, you’re stronger,‘ she finally admits. Chris gets off her and she pulls her arm from under the blanket to show her crossed fingers. ‘Oh you little-‘ Before he can grap her she jumps over the back of the couch, racing through the house with Chris hot on her heels. Laughter fills the room until the third lap around the couch. She picks up a cushion and hits him with it. Not hard, but hard enough to surprise him. ‘Shit, did I hurt you,‘ she asks worried when he doesn’t move after she’s hit him. She drops the pillow and walks over to Chris, reaching for his face to check if he’s alright. He plays along, pretending to be hurt, but when she’s close enough he scoops her up again and pins her down on the couch, leaning over her body and holding her hands above her head. ‘You lost.‘ ‘Asshole,‘ she laughs. ‘Language,‘ he warns. ‘Dickhead,‘ she smirks. Chris puts both of her hands in one of his and starts ticking her, holding her down with his body. Her aggressive laughter and pleas fills the room. Dodger starts barking and runs over, pushing Chris’ leg. ‘Yeah, get him Dodger,‘ Emma tries to yell, but the dog doesn’t understand it through her laughing. Finally, Chris stops and Emma’s face falls into an angry frown. She crosses her arms, but he knows she’s just playing. ‘Okay, I’m sorry. You can pick the movie.‘

Chris has to admit he didn’t expect her to pick a movie that he didn’t star him. He was fully convinced she’d choose one that he played in to tease him back, but she didn’t. Instead she put on Coco and curled up against him. It was nothing like he expected. When the night got colder, she had coyly asked him if she could borrow a sweater anyway and Chris had said yes without thinking twice. Even after she told him he’d never get it back. He wrapped her arms around her to keep her warm and kissed the top of her head mindlessly when he heard her sniffles near the end of the movie. And suddenly the end of the night was there. Chris let her out after she insisted she could walk herself home. He didn’t want to let her walk alone, but knew he’d only strain their relationship if he forced himself on her. He finds himself back on the couch with Dodger’s head on his lap, trying to explain his feelings to the animal even though it won’t understand a word he’s staying. He looks nothing less than confused. Just a few minutes later, the doorbell rings. Dodger runs over to the door and starts wagging his tail like crazy. For a second, Chris wants to ignore it but Dodger doesn’t look that excited for just anyone. He peels himself off the couch and walks over to open the door. Without really paying attention, he pulls open the door to see a very sleepy Emma with her arms wrapped around herself, holding the sweater towards Chris. ‘I forgot to actually give it back,‘ she laughs, ‘and if I don’t do it now, I’ll probably forget.‘ ‘Please put it back on, you look like you’re freezing,‘ he begs her, pushing the sweater back to her. ‘I don’t want to.‘ ‘Listen, you were bugging me about the Knives out sweater earlier. This one looks like it, just keep it,‘ he tells her, not understanding why she has to be so stubborn about a damn sweater. ‘But if I keep it, it won’t smell like you anymore.‘ Her eyes widen when she realizes what she just said. ‘Oh no,‘ she whispers. Chris takes a step closer to her, taking his sweater from her and wrapping it around her shoulders. ‘You like the way I smell?‘ His lips play an amused smile as he watches Emma go into full panic mode. She takes a step away from him. ‘Ehm, I gotta go. I have a lot to do tomorrow. By the way, I won’t make it to our run tomo-‘ Chris grabs her arm, pulls her back in and gently presses his lips on hers. The kiss isn’t wild or deep, but just their lips together feels like electricity running through. Their lips part and Emma’s eyes go wide again. A blush is pulling up on her cheeks as Chris admires her with a small smile. ‘I like the way you smell too,‘ he admits. ‘I’m sorry, I have to get my head straight,‘ Emma tells him, handing him his sweater and almost running away, leaving Chris feeling confused. Did he read her feelings wrong? Was it all purely platonic?

It has almost been a week. A week since the kiss, a week since Emma disappeared and The Dutchess closed. Robert called Chris for to meet somewhere because he knows it has something to do with him. It has to. Those two were basically eye fucking each other the first time they met. They ended up in Chris’ garden to keep it private. ‘Why do I get the feeling all of this has something to do with you?‘ Robert stares Chris down, not a bit of niceness in his voice. He sounds nasty, like he’ll do something to Chris and he will. If he hurt her, that is. Emma is like family to him and he’ll treat her as such. If Chris took advantage of her, he’ll make it right. ‘I didn’t do anything,‘ Chris argues, ‘I don’t know what’s going on.‘ The two stare at each other for what feels like forever. Then Chris’ phone goes off. ‘Yes?‘ “Hey Chris, it’s Tom. Listen, I just met up with Emma and she asked if you and Robert were coming to the party Monday since she hadn’t heard from either of you.“ ‘You met up with Emma? Where is she?‘ “Well, she just took a plane back to the Netherlands. She’s been visiting family in Europe.“ Chris looks up at Robert. ‘Visiting family in Europe you say? Listen, I’m here with Robert. I’ll put you on speaker.‘ “Hi mister Downey. Emma said that you’d know about the party. She said it’s an annual thing and she felt sad that she hadn’t heard anything from either of you. She thought you would’ve seen the post by now.“ ‘The post,‘ Robert asks. “Yeah, the Instagram post on the private page of The Dutchess.“ Robert pulls out his phone and goes to the page. This is the first time Chris hears anything about a page. ‘What’s this page you’re on about?‘ ‘Don’t bother asking him,‘ Robert snaps, ‘it’s a private Instagram page that keeps members of The Dutchess updated. A better question is how you got into that page Tom.‘ “Oh, I’m a member of The Queen’s Garden. It’s the British version in England. They’re all owned by the same family.“ ‘Well that’s new,‘ Robert mumbles and shows Chris his phone, ‘let Emma know we’ll call her to confirm we’re going.‘ “I can’t tell her. She already left. I think you’re better off just calling The Dutchess or calling her dad. She told me you have his number.“ ‘Okay, thanks Tom.‘ “No problem. Have fun at the party.“ Chris stares Robert down, waiting for an apology he’s never going to get. ‘I forgot about that,‘ Robert admits, which is as much as an apology as Chris is going to get. ‘But there is something going on between you two. I’m certain of it. You wouldn’t be the first one to fall for her.‘ ‘What do you mean?‘ ‘She’s charming and beautiful. There has been more than one occasion where her father blacklisted a member because he was making moves on Emma.‘ ‘I-I’m sorry?‘ Robert sighs. ‘To name a few, Tom Cruise, Channing Tatum, Hernry Cavill got close to being blacklisted,‘ Robert sums up. ‘You’re forgetting about Hiddleston,‘ a voice calls. The two of them turn around to see Emma walking towards them, Dodger already circling her feet. ‘Emma, you’re back,‘ Robert says quite unbothered. ‘Hi, welcome back,‘ Chris says, opening his arms for a hug which she happily walks into. She presses a kiss to Robert’s cheek and sits down with the two. ‘As I said, you’re forgetting about that time with Tom Hiddleston,‘ she says, ‘my father almost blacklisted him because our way of friendship is flirting. He has no interest in me whatsoever. I’m not his type.‘ She says the last thing while looking at Chris. ‘He prefers my niece.‘ ‘I thought you’d be home Monday,‘ Robert says. She looks at him with a smile. ‘I was supposed to be home Monday, but I realized I left someone hanging at home,‘ she explains, ‘so Chris, can I take you out sometime? Preferably tonight at seven?‘

#chris evans fanfiction #chris evans fanfic #chris evans x oc #chris evans #chris evans fluff #steve rogers #steve rogers fanfic #marvel #marvel fanfic #marvel fanfiction #captain america #captain america fanfic

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crewhonk · 5 years

Text

Don’t Call Me Angel

AN: I meant for this to be sexy but then I thought about it more and now its..... sad. this also isn't edited so like, sorry about that

Trigger Warnings: allusion to sexual assault (multiple occasions), PTSD, touch sensitivity, prostitution, exploitation of minorities for profit

Songs: “It’s Nice to Have a Friend”-- Taylor Swift / “Don’t Call Me Angel”-- Ariana Grande, Lana Del Rey, Miley Cyrus / “Work”-- Charlotte Day Wilson / “Bad Dreams-- Piano Version”- Faouzia

CURRENT SERIES

___________________________

You’d never expected your first mission for the Avengers would be such an intense one. The images on the screen in front of you sent a chill down your spine, and a fire rise in your heart. To say that what you were going to be headed into was a disgusting, immoral thing would be the biggest understatement in the world.

The pictures both on the screen and in the file folder in front of you on the briefing table made your blood run too-cold and too-hot at the same time. It was a prostitution ring, but not one that you would usually imagine a prostitution ring to be. You’d gotten tips from those in the pictures which told you that the women and men in the pictures were anything from happy.

Mutants of every shape, colour, size, gender, and sexuality were in front of you. Some, covered in fur— pupils shaped like a cats or a goats as they made eye contact with the camera and wore a devious smile of nothing but sharp teeth. The heady lights of the strip club they were paraded at was dark enough to hide the accounts of bruising and broken bones. There were shape shifters, and elementals, and those who could warp minds and material and it broke your heart knowing that they were likely being exploited.

You were the only one fitted for the mission. Wanda was out with Strange in Tibet currently, Bruce Banner was too well known, Nebula wouldn’t have qualified and frankly, Rocket was less than suitable for playing the submissive naive role.

You however, were trained for this— two semesters at Julliard before being inducted with SHIELD and working directly with a revived Natasha Romanoff gave you that.

The wings sprouting from your back didn’t hurt either.

You’d been born with them and then ultimately rejected to live with Charlie at XSGY, and were raised by him and Storm. You’d grown up alongside Jean Grey and Scott Summers and thankfully, they had turned out to be the only family you ever really wanted.

Then, you had joined the Avengers— a tight knit team who had saved the world from the largest threat in the universe and had opened the doors to new recruits. You had felt the need to spread your wings (pun intended) after 22 years of living at the School and had scored the interview. It wasn’t long until you were living in the compound on the top floor with the majority of the team— you’d trained with Natasha and Wanda, practiced flying and air combat with Rhodey and Sam and sat across the couch from Bucky Barnes and Steve Rogers.

Eventually, however, Steve had left your weekly movie nights with poor excuses every time. ‘Natasha and I need to head tot he lab— Bruce needs us’, or ‘I’m volunteering at the Humane Society (yes, at 8pm)’, or your favourite ‘yeah— I adopted a dog. Her name is Cap’. Bucky and You had watched him make excuse after excuse until he had just stopped showing up altogether.

What followed was an instance of one too many times falling asleep on him. One too many times of reaching for the popcorn at the same time. One too many times that he would wrap his arm around your shoulders and brush your wings with his fingers and make you moan against him before pulling away with a hot blush on your cheeks. When he had found out that your wings were the most sensitive part of your body, he had taken advantage of it— Steve commented every time he would flirt with you how much the old Bucky was coming back— touching them as he passed you in the kitchen, tugging the tips of your white feathers when you were in training and catching you off guard.

You eren’t all that subtle with your actions either. You’d steal his knives from his holsters during training— stepping too close to him and sneaking your hand over his hip and down his thigh before stealing his favourite knife (Rebecca) and throwing it dead centre over his shoulder and into the simulated target. You’d make his coffee in the morning and fan him with your wings after a particularly gruelling training session with Sam or Nat.

The instances of you and Bucky flirting had come to a head one night— no special night in particular— but you had been baking cookies in the kitchen late at night and he had joined you (‘Why’re you up, Buck?’ ‘Nightmare.’ ‘Wanna talk about it?’ ‘Nah, I just want a cookie.’), taken a handful of cookies and had kissed you gently goodnight.

His lips had been soft on yours— nothing like the hairy bull of assassin in front of you. His calloused hands were gentle on the side of your neck and waist, and his tongue had barely teased your bottom lip before he pulled away, backed up with the cookies in hand and a small smile on his face, raised the cookies in salute and turned to leave the kitchen.

The following days had been full of talks in the dark of the kitchen— trying to figure out grounds and rules and limits for a relationship until you’d figured everything out and showed up to the family Sunday breakfast holding hands and blushing furiously. There were no hollers of joy, Steve was the only one to say ‘I’m happy for you’, but their relationship was obviously received well due to everyones knowing and satisfied smirks.

That had been six months ago, and now it was time for you to become a real Avenger and have your first mission.

You walked into your room where you knew Bucky would be curled up in the middle of your nest and took off your leggings, leaving your sweater on and climbing into the bed with him. He hummed, just waking up from his nap and opened his arms, sighing dreamily when his fingers found their place deep in your feathers. You shivered against him and threw a leg and a wing over him and pulled him closer.

“How was the meeting?” He mumbled and you let out a long breath.

“I leave tomorrow for three months.” You stated and his head lifted, looking at you through squinted incredulous eyes.

“For your first mission?” He grumbled and you shrugged.

“It’s a crime against mutants, and Wanda isn’t available.” You said and ran your hands through his long hair.

“Someone needs to do something, Buck. The way these girls are being treated should never be allowed in the first place.” You mumbled and Bucky propped himself on his elbows and towered over you.

“Girls? YN what are you getting yourself into?” He asked lowly and you sucked in a breath.

“You know I can’t tell you, Buck.” You whispered and his face tightened.

“Is it what I think it is?”

“Probably.” You replied and his head fell into the crook of your neck and moaned.

“I don’t like it but you’re much more stubborn and brave than me and Steve were at your age. I know you’ll kill it.” He sniffed and you cooed at him, pulling him on top of you and wrapping both wings around him, hiding him from the world for your own selfish reasons.

“I love you. Have I told you that today?” You whispered and he snuck his arms under your back and nuzzled your breastbone.

“Only this morning when I gave you your coffee.” He joked and you giggled.

“Well, I love you. I love you always, James.”

_____________________

That had been three months ago— your last truly happy memory you could remember. The mission had been worse than the briefings and therapy sessions had prepared you for. Your wings had grown sparse with stress and abuse, and your thin hands shook as they glued dollar store feathers into the sparse areas. Your show was up in an hour, and your wings had to be beautiful but this— gluing fake feathers onto yourself— felt dirty and shameful. You had lost about fifty pounds in three months— the Ringleader (he never showed his face or said his real name) was sure to have all his girls as small and dainty as possible so they would be easier to control by the men who paid for your services. Less of a fight if there was less calories in you.

“You missed a spot. Hand me a feather, please.” A small voice piped up from behind you. You lowered your wing to reveal your closest friend here. She was nothing more than 5’1— small, petite stature, but the reason she was such a main showgirl was the tiger fur covering her body. She had normal human hands, but her fingernails were made to be pointed to better represent claws. Her tail had been broken by the Ringmaster in many places so it had a handful of cricks alone the meter long appendage. Her eyes were the most beautiful thing you had ever seen— sparkling gold (jaded by years of this place) and impossibly black slits down the centre. You were always nervous when those same eyes landed on her, but one night when Ringmaster had rewarded them with the highest quality narcotics, you had giggled mercilessly over how much the slits had dilated.

“Thank you.” You whispered, turning back to the mirror and beginning to brush on concealer over the cut on her jaw.

“You’re nervous.” Sasha whispered and you let your shoulders drop. “Why?”

“There’s something I should have told you the second you took me under your wing— no stop laughing— but I’ll have to tell you after tonight.” You sniffed and winced when the bristles of your brush caught the edges of the newly formed scab.

“Why can’t you tell me now?” Sasha asked and just as you were about to respond, there was a ‘places’ call for you— the finale.

“I promise. After tonight, no more secrets.” You tried to smile reassuringly as you rose to your feet. Your platform stilettos made it so that you were at least a foot taller than Sasha and you wrapped your arms around her neck in a tight embrace. “I’ll come back for you.”

Tonight was it— you had finally gathered enough evidence about who the Ringmaster was and evidence of the abuse that went on with his girls. Bucky and Sam and Steve and Nat and Tony were here and your hands shook as you asked towards the curtains and waited for the Ringmaster to announce you. It wasn’t long until he did.

“Now, please allow me to introduce to you my gem. My life and love and my favourite prize. My favourite treasure that I share with you when the sun sets. Please welcome, My Angel!”

____________________

Bucky hated everything about this situation. He hated the smoke in the air fo the bar. He hated the cracked fake leather fo the couches. He hated the dirty stained curtains that covered the walls. He hated seeing girls parading around in nothing but their mutations as men and women alike slammed them down on there laps and had their way with them right there. He hated how he could see bruises, and ribs and hipbones and limps in some of the dancers. He hated the man’s voice who announced every dancer as /his/ as if these victims were a collection.

He hated most that you were last. He hated that you were /his/ angel. He hated how much his breath left his lungs as the heavy curtains were pulled back to reveal someone who looked like you.

You’d lost a lot of weight very quickly— it showed in your face and hips. You’d very obviously had your nose broken— and he knew better than the drunk patrons that the places on your cheekbone, jaw and lip were heaviest— likely due to the abuse you’d endured. He knew you were too young for this but he had never been one to tell you how to do something.

He wish he had chains you to your bed until you forgot about doing this.

You began to walk under the lights on you, leaving you exposed in nothing but a silk robe, kneepads, impossibly high heels and likely a lingerie set. You eyed the pole as if it was the sexiest thing you’d ever seen and grabbed it, stroking it as if it were the prettiest cock in the world while making eye contact with some sweaty overweight man in the front row. He, in kind, threw what looked like a hundred dollar billet you and you winked, reaching under the hem of your robe and tucking it into your bra.

You dropped and bounced while the pole remain between your legend smirked, undoing the fabric belt holding your robe closed and pulled it open, revealing a deep red lingerie set that matched your kneepads and heels and a sudden explosion of money landed on the stage. You threw your head back and laughed, spinning on your knees and backing your ass against the pole began to twerk.

“Bucky—“ Sam tried, but it was too late. The tumbler in his hand had already exploded and Bucky found it suddenly very hard as a man in a business suit slapped the stage excitedly. You crawled towards him on your hands and knees and raised your wings wide and proud and the crowd lost their mind.

“I can’t fucking watch this anymore.” Bucky snarled into the comms and he could hear Steve huff.

“Buck— we corresponded with her last night. She has a plan. In the folds of the curtains on the stage there’s a pistol. When the Ringmaster comes down and closes the night she’ll shoot him in the knees and we’ll take it from there. Stay calm. She’s stronger than she looks.” Steve warned cautiously and Steve could feel his heart break for his best friend. He never did like seeing Natasha sell her femininity to complete a mission, and he voiced it multiple times as the two would get ready for bed together.

“She’s doing… really well, Ice.” Tony tried and Bucky cut him off with a snarl as you leaned forward and kissed the Business Man who gave you a large wad of cash. You smirked and shouldered your robe off, pushing it into his hands and winking. The man fell back into the chair as if dazed.

You stood again, hands squeezing your breasts as you flapped your wings and flew to the top of the pole. There was a pause, and then a red bra falling from the roof followed by you who slid down the pole head first and breasts bared. Your wings flapped cautiously as your head almost touched the stage, but you’d clenched your thighs in time, stopping in time. Your nipples were hard due to the anxiety and chill of the room but a raging monster which had ignited in Bucky’s whole body roared loudly. No. This was something only /he/ should be able to see— that was /his/ best girl. You put your hands on the ground and let one leg fall down, slipping it past the floor and landing in the splits where you once against began to twerk towards the edge of the stage. You rolled over onto your butt and lay back, lifting her legs in the air and shimmying your underwear over your thighs and calves and leaving your body wholly exposed for the crowd. You rolled over and faced leaned against the pole, spreading your legs and exposing your sex as you flung the underwear right into someone wearing a ‘Bride to Be!’ Sash’s face.

He had to give her credit, you did know how to work a crowd.

You were crawling through cash— writhing for the crowd and shaking your body for anyone with a dime in their wallets for who knows how long. Bucky had stopped watching, tears welling up in his eyes as he thought about the pain you had endured these past three months— without him or any of the team you called family.

Eventually the music stopped, and the crowd stood, applauding and yelling nasty things they would like to do to you. You stood, and pranced over to the man who had walked on stage. His face was covered by a balaclava and your wings flapped nervously as his placed a hand on your ass and pulled you to his side. He grabbed your face roughly and slammed his lips onto your own and your wings went stiff— the same way they did when you were about to cry or when you were in an emotional low.

His mouth dipped down to harshly bite your nipple and you tend your head away from the crowd as they screamed happily. His free hand not holding a microphone cupped your sex eagerly and Bucky saw red when the Ringmaster dipped to fingers into your cunt, pulling them out and sucking them into his mouth.

“You did just as well as you taste, Angel.” He crooned into the microphone and you didn’t make eye contact as you turned towards the stage entrance, hand landing on the curtain as you looked back over the crowd. As if it were natural, your eyes landed on him and Bucky could see your chin wobble and a deeply relieved smile spread across your face.

“Doors are locked, and the feds are waiting. Whenever YN is ready.” Tony informed and Bucky stalked towards the stage with Sam beside him. Before he could hop on the stage, you had turned around, closed one eye and pointed the guns hat had appeared in your hands at the back of the Ringmasters knees, shooting both of them out. Bucky couldn’t hear the screams, then because you had broken character, dropping the gun and running downt he stage to your man.

You jumped off the stage and into his arms and Bucky nodded at Sam who threw a shock blanket over your wings and shoulders. Bucky curled his arms around your waist and pulled you close, nosing your neck and holding you as you sobbed— great heaving sounds that shook him to his core.

“I’m here, Princess. I’m here. Always and forever, baby.” He crooned, continuing to whisper sweet nothings as you buried yourself in him and he watched as the Feds and MPD arrest anyone and everyone they could get their hands on.

Justice had never been a greater relief than having his girl in his arms and the man who had tortured her for three months being slammed into he stage and handcuffed. No punishment would be enough, but the seventeen life sentences he had been told about seemed good enough.

“I love you.” You cried and he held you closer, his head breaking over how tiny you’d become and over the state of your wings. He could see the fake feathers, now and how small the muscles at the base fo them had become. He pulled back and held your cheeks in his welcomingly hot hands and your glistening eyes looked at him.

“I love you, YN. I love you so much.” He pressed his lips to your gently, and you flinched lightly before warming up to him again. You had had to remind yourself that this huge, hulking man would never lay a finger on you. You were safe. You were safe with Bucky.

“I’m not— I can’t do much more than kissing for a long time, I think.” You said, sniffling and he pulled you closer, tucking you under his arm as you toed off your heels and slipped them into he sandals Steve had brought you.

“You were brilliant, YN. Not up there— well, yeah up there but that’s not what I mean, you know? I meant that you did something amazing doing this.” Steve had fumbled and you rolled your eyes and laughed slightly.

“Nice to see you too, Steve.” Steve had shown himself out when Bucky glared particularly hard at him nd you turned back to Bucky.

“I have a request.” You asked and Bucky nodded immediately.

“Anything.”

“I have a friend who needs a home.”

“Done.”

____________________

It had been a week since the team returned from Miami. A week since Ringmaster— Victor Doom— had been arrested. A week since the Avengers welcomed their new teammate, Sasha.

A week since Bucky had seen you.

You’d shut yourself in your room as soon as the med bay had ceased you. You didn’t attend the debriefings— you’d sent in all of your files by e-mail, and had left voice memos on the parts which were unclear. Your voice was empty and soft and nothing like the boisterous, outspoken woman you had been before you had left.

Sasha had found Bucky in the gym late at night and she had perched herself on the bench by his things until he had beat the shit out of several leather punching bags. He turned and saw the feline woman waiting and sighed, trudging over to her and sitting on the bench next to her. He thanked Sasha for the ice water bottle she handed him and hunched over, holdings head in his hands.

“Why is this happening?” He whispered and she sighed.

“You want the real truth or the fluffy truth?” She replied and Bucky looked over at her, resting his cheek in his hand and asking for the first option.

“He treated her the worst. In the three months he’d known her, he totally attached himself to her. She was forced to sleep in his room, and she was the finale every night. She was his prized possession. I have a theory since she has those beautiful white wings he thought she was an angel of some sort— and if you had an angel under your foot it made you a God. Ringma— Victor was drunk on that power. She needs time, and she needs to relearn that men aren’t going to hurt her.” She shrugged and he rubbed his wet eyes with his fists.

“I should have never let her go on that mission.” He whimpered and her hand was warm as it rested on his forearm.

“I also know she was the strongest. Out of all fo us she was the strongest, and the bravest and the kindest. Whenever he would want one of us she was there with her gentle hands and her smile and she was there. I think that’s what she needs. Is someone to just show her kindness with no alterior motive.” Sasha mumbled and he stood, looking down at her. She handed him his bag and offered a small smile which showed her tiny fangs.

“Thank you, Sasha. I’m happy you’re here.” He said and the fur on her arms rose. Bucky nodded at her and she smiled at her hands as he left her to go to his girl. His beautiful girl who needed him.

____________________

The room was dark when he opened the door. The black out curtains and windows were shut and there were no lights on— even the alarm clock on your bedside table had been unplugged. Bucky wasn’t even sure if you knew what day it was as he crawled on the bed towards you, hand falling on your shoulder as he turned on the soft warm light on your headboard.

You jumped when you felt his touch, wings flapping up and launching you instinctually across the room. Your eyes, usually warm in colour had turned an ice white, and your stance was immediately offensive. You looked wild and it broke Bucky’s heart.

He kneeled on the bed and held his hands open non-threateningly, slowly walking towards you.

“YN, It’s me, James Buchanan Barnes. It’s September 22nd, 2024 and we’re in Northern New York. Your best friend is Natasha Romanoff and you’re safe here.” He said immediately, making his chest rumble as he spoke to make his voice sound rounder and warmer. Your wings unruffled slightly and lowered until his hands touched yours and you shoved him away from yourself, launching him back onto the bed. He had forgotten how truly powerful you were— you were always gentle with him.

“Your favourite colour is yellow. Not the primary colour version, but a warmer version of it— like a dark sunflower. Your favourite movie is the Zookeepers Wife because you love Jessica Chastain and because it’s genuinely an amazing movie. Your favourite music is pop, but you pretend to be cool and say alternative music. You love leg day at the gym but you hate arm and ab day.” He tried again, shaking himself off and walking back towards you. This time, he was able to touch your arms, and brush back your hair from your face. Eventually, your irises came back, and you blinked up at him as if you hadn’t known you were in the defensive.

“YN?” He whispered and you shook your head, swaying and falling into his arms, wings limp behind you. He picked you up easily and put you on the bed.

“What— why’re you in here? I locked the door and I’m not really in the mood—“

“You need someone, YN. You’re not alone and you’re safe. I’m not going to touch you anymore unless you want it, but you need help and I’m here for you.” He whispered and you sucked in a big breath, laying back down and turning your back on him.

“I don’t need help.” Your voice was small and unsure and Bucky nodded. Instead of leaving, he walked to the window and pushed the curtains open slightly so he could unlatch the windows and push them open. He closed them again and turned to the mess of the floor, beginning to clean it up. He took a washcloth from your bathroom and wiped the dust off of the flat surfaces of your room and lit a candle— your favourite— so the room could smell better than it was right now.

“You do.” He said finally, and he was unsure if you were awake to hear him. “You do, and I’m not going anywhere. You got me until you don’t want me anymore, baby.” He said, opening the door and leaving once more. He wasn’t sure you had heard him until he got three feet from the door and heard one, heaving sob from your room followed by silence.

God, he hoped you’d want him until the end of time.

______________________

The plates of food were hot in Bucky’s hands as he toed open your door. It was a quick recipe that his ma had taught him (the only dish he’d remembered— even back then), and just so happened to be one of your favourite meals.

“YN?” He called, noticing that your sheets were rumbled and empty. The curtains were still closed, but the window had remained open and the light had remained on from when he’d visited early int he morning- or late last night.

There was no response but Bucky put the dishes on your desk and noticed the the light from under the bathroom door was peeking through. He walked across the room and knocked, calling your name once more. When he was greeted with a small cry and a sound of frustration, Bucky’s mind went to the darkest place and he slammed the door open, expecting to see the worst.

Instead, he saw you facing the mirror, a garbage bag half full fo broken or dead feathers. He’d frightened you again, but insured of becoming defensive like you had last night, your eyes spilled over with tears.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you come in and call. I’m sorry, please.” You begged and Bucky’s heart went to his throat.

“I’m not gonna hurt you, baby. I thought you were hurting yourself so I got scared. I’m sorry I scared you” He whispered and YN’s chin wobbled as she nodded.

“Do you— do you need help?” He asked you, noticing that the place where feather met flesh was left untouched. You’d never been able to reach that part of your wings, and always had himself or Natasha help you.

“What?” You asked, looking at him through the mirror.

“Do you need help? Preening, I mean?” He asked again and you breathed in a large breath and nodded, watching as he slowly moved towards you, making his movements obvious as to not frighten you. “I’m gonna touch your wings now, okay?”

You nodded and sniffed and his fingers found their favourite place in your feathers. He picked out the soft downy feathers that had turned brown, and then moved to the larger feathers, apologizing profusely when it hurt or he pulled too slowly. It was another half hour before he finished, and he ran his fingers in the direction the feathers naturally fell.

“Can I kiss your shoulder?” He whispered, looking at you through the mirror. Your wings twitched and he swore the tips of your ears got darker.

“Yes.” You breathed and he didn’t break eye contact as he dipped his head and placed his lips on your shoulder, holding them there for a few seconds before kissing it again quickly and rising to his full height.

“Want to shower and I’ll set dinner up? We can watch something on Netflix— we don’t even need to touch or talk if you don’t want to.” He said, fingers on your wings again, making you shiver.

Your bottom lip trembled and you nodded slowly, turning to him and placing your hands on his chest. You flattened the wrinkles in his t-shirt and didn’t look into his eyes as he kissed your forehead and turned to go.

“Call em if you need me, babe.” He said softly and he turned back to look at you, averting his eyes quickly as you began to pull off your clothes despite him seeing it all before numerous times.

___________________

So, Bucky waited quietyl, listening for you to call him but he waited and waited until you came out fo the bathroom forty minutes later with your hair sleek and clean (for the first time since you’d left) and skin shaved and scrubbed raw. Your skin as pink from irritation fo your exfoliator and cloths and scrubs and heat rashes patterned your body due to the boiling water you’d used.

“You okay?” Bucky asked, voice quiet and gruff. You looked at him and seemingly remembered he was there. You hugged your robe closer and he looked at his hands to give you the privacy you’d had taken away from you in Miami.

“I— I will be. Maybe one day. I’m sorry I took too long, I needed to get /him/ off of me.” She replied, shifting her feet. She moved to her dresser and pulled out the softest clothes she could find, pulling them on and slowly moving toward her bed to sit two feet away from Bucky.

“I’m sorry, Bucky. I— you shouldn’t have to feel you need to hang around. You deserve someone good.” You said and he looked at you sharply, making your gaze fall quickly to your shaking hands. His hand moved to cradle your chin and lift your gaze to his own. His eyes were warm and soft and nothing like the men you’d encountered in that god forsaken club.

“Hey, you hung around me when I had my nightmares. You told me I was more than my trauma and more than the things I’d done. I’m here for you who you are now. Not who you were before.” He murmured and your eyes filled with tears.

“But I’m— I had to do /things/ with other men. What if im all used up, or broken or something.” You cried and he scooted closer, petting your cheek.

“I love you for who you are now. That’s the broken and the dark and the light.” He reaffirmed.

“But what if I never want to have sex again? What if I can’t do that for you?” You whispered. The very thought of intercourse right now made you want to vomit for years.

“Then I don’t want it. I don’t want sex if you don’t want it. I only ver want to be with you for the rest of my life, YN.” He continued and you sobbed, hands falling to your hands and shaking with grief and relief. You believed him— it was hard not to when he spoke to you like that or when he looked at you like that.

“Do you want me to straighten out your feathers so they don’t dry wonky?” He asked and you felt yourself blush involuntarily. You wings flapped lightly and Bucky’s hair moved in their wind.

“You’ll— you’ll stop if I ask you to?”

“Immediately. In a heartbeat.”

“Promise?” You asked. You’d been promised men would stop before— they never did.

“Pinky swear.” He held out his pinky and you smiled softly, wrapping your own pinky around his. If Bucky Barnes followed any rule in the world it would be never breaking a pinky promise. He pulled your hand to his lips and they were warm and soft against your knuckles. His gaze made your cheeks flush pleasantly, and maybe, you would be okay one day.

Pushing back the anxiety in your heart and chanting mantras of affirmations in your head that Bucky wouldn’t hurt you, that Bucky loved you, that Bucky would be here for some time you sat still as he crawled onto his knees on the bed behind you and began tugging your feathers gently. You fell into a half-dazed state— the feeling of someone you knew you could trust combing through the most sensitive part fo your body was something you truly missed. You missed the gentle intimacy that came with good men, and you were grateful you had managed to fall in love with the best one of them all.

#Bucky Barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes one shot #bucky barnes au #bucky barnes angst #bucky barnes angst #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes fluff #bucky barnes x ofc #bucky barnes x you #Bucky Barnes X mutant!reader

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finalfantasyxivwritings · 5 years

Text

Are You my Nhaama?

AO3 Version

Relationship: Magnai/Raen!Reader

Rating: Teen

Wordcount: 1.8k

Summary: In which the reader, a Raen Au Ra healer, realizes they are the beloved Nhaama of Magnai Oronir.

“Are you my Nhaama?”

The question catches you off-guard. It yanks you from your thoughts so suddenly that you scarcely have enough time to turn your eyes to the source.

So focused had you been on tending to a young Oronir warrior, the approach of another is the last thing on your mind--the footsteps all but numbed from your perception when compared to ensuring the gash on the young boy’s arm is sufficiently bandaged.

Though you have been a guest of the Oronir for but a week, you've already learned to deal with the prodding attention of its older warriors. Those who assume they know more than you, some still who see your work as useless--and some, though very few, who see your light-colored scales and say nothing at all, gazes hard and suspicion clear.

It's a healer’s job to heal. To care for people who need help. Though you may have not seen yourself traveling upon the Azim Steppe but few months before, you have long-since accepted to go where fate guides you.

So of course, in the presence of such a large Xaela tribe, you had expected the presence of others to interrupt your hands as they bandage wounds, your thoughts as you channel careful aether into ill bodies.

However, the sight of Magnai himself, leader to the Oronir, falls far beyond such feeble assumption. It's rare to see him, rarer still to see him outside of the throne room, for you have only seen him but twice before.

Once to allow you upon the Dawn Throne, and once to offer you extended blessings for your work upon the tribe. The latter of which was three days ago, when you realized how deep injuries from the previous battle had run across the tribe's members.

But neither time did you feel nearly as afraid as you do now at his approach, his strides long and hurried, reaching you in but a breath of time from the moment your eyes finally lay upon his grand form.

Worry creeps up into your words as you speak despite the desperate efforts to keep the tone even.

“W-what....did you say, r-radiant brother M-Magnai?

Surprise fills your veins and keeps you frozen in place, eyes wide as the moon as the man approaches you. A look of fire burns in his gaze as he stops at last, but a stride or two in front of you, keeping a distance though he looks like a predator readied to pounce.

“My Nhaama,” the leader repeats, tone firm and as unyielding as the rest of his being.

The word is more familiar in mind than upon your tongue, for it is a Xaela word for a Au Ra belief.

You blink, trying to let the thoughts catch up to you, recalling the significance of what the Xaela call the Dusk Mother--Nhaama--and how it ties so intricately with the Oronir tribe.

How Magnai, believing himself to be the mortal-born Dawn Father, known as Azim to the Xaela, searches endlessly for his lover--his equal and destined Nhaama.

To hear him accuse, no, to question if you are such a one as that...

You know not what to say. But the silence at least is not long-lasting, for the leader of the Oronir is quick to speak.

“For years have I wondered if my Nhaama would be born outside of the Steppe, less so outside of the Xaela--but after many sunfalls of thought, such sense does it make at last!”

Magnai’s words are filled with such warmth and energy, an excitement that mirrored that of a child--you can't help but feel a heat across your cheeks as you listen and look upon the man, rising slowly to your feet to but come barely to his chest.

“Just as Azim took on the form of the Xaela, so too might the sun’s own fated one be of the Raen--a union of Dusk and Dawn, of Sun and Moon. An ethereal maiden of healing as if blessed by the Dusk Mother herself--I have seen how your gentle touch has already healed the brave warriors who follow the Sun.”

The words, spoken with such flourish and care, leave you without a single sound in your throat. All you can do is stare at the man, still frozen, still silent, taking in all he has to say.

“You have found your way home at last, into the warm embrace of the Sun’s court, for the Oronir--for the heavenly Sun himself--have been waiting for you. My sweet, beloved Nhaama.”

From around the Dawn Throne’s land, people approach. Young and old step into the open area, if only to explore the commotion of noise of their leader’s booming voice, for Magnai did naught to keep his confident declarations of love quiet.

You can see them all as they grow nearer, some trying to hide their curiosity behind the edges of nearby tents, and others yet who cared if they were seen watching with crossed arms and quirked brows. Buduga and Oronir warriors alike, all watching in a slowly-gathering crowd, gazes fixed upon the grand Xaela warrior at its center, and the small Raen healer who he stood in front of in but a grand display, arms outstretched and tail lashing behind him in that same child-like excitement.

The beat of your heart is rapid. It hammers hard in your chest, making your blood rush and your head feel dizzy. Thoughts come too rapidly for you to catch. Like sand through loosely-bound fingers, they slip through. All you can do is stand and behold Magnai in all of his show, his burning attention upon you and you alone.

Despite it all, your eyes remain locked with his. You heard his words, yes, but they scarcely pierce through your swirling emotions. For as many experiences you’ve held close to your chest, for as many near-deaths, fears, hopes and dreams that you’ve clutched in the years since birth, never once did you feel an emotion quite like the one filling your chest now.

It feels warm. It feels radiant. It feels comforting and familiar.

Like a switch, a button, something flipped inside of your heart. A revelation crashed through your mind like an ocean of water, threatening to swallow you whole, to drown you in its never-ending pressure. One of your hands reached up to your own chest, fingertips digging into the cloth that lay over your heart as if you had to keep it from jumping out.

And still you met Magnai’s gaze.

Without meaning to, you take a step forward.

You take another, and then a third.

Magnai is still as you approach him, closing the last few strides of a gap between your forms, until he is close enough to reach out and touch. He makes no move nor shift. Though he could all but reach out and grab you the man keeps himself still, as if but the slightest motion may scare you away.

The warmth in your chest only grows as you get close to him, getting hotter until it’s a burning radiance of emotion you can but barely describe, of which the Oronir leader is the undeniable source.

Careful. Cautious. Unsure.

You reach a hand up, fingertips shyly brushing across the side of the man’s face. Though you struggle for a few moments to reach him comfortably upon the tips of your toes, Magnai wordlessly leans down enough that you can lay your palm flat over the curve of his cheek, fingertips against the texture of his obsidian scales as black as night.

And then, you feel compelled to speak. A deep instinct bubbles within your chest. It is primal, the feeling, and one you cannot stop.

“You are my Sun.”

It feels as natural as breathing.

"My...Azim."

If not for how you looked so closely upon Magnai’s face, you might have missed the way his eyes widen, glimmering golden in the light of the sun above. You might miss how his lips tremble or his body shakes. The man’s brows knit tight above his eyes in a range of emotions untrained or simply unprepared, the words a key to an ocean of raw feelings he too was not ready to feel.

And all the while, to the outside world, the two of you stand in silence.

Magnai finally reaches a hand up to your face. His fingertips lightly stroke across one of your horns, as if committing the shape and texture already to his memory.

“You are the most beautiful thing ever to grace the vision of the Sun.”

His words are a whisper, spoken soft and intimate for only the two of you to hear. After a moment longer you feel the man’s hand shift, cupping one side of your face against his palm; the touch is warm, fingertips calloused from years of training and battle.

Your heart sings for the simple gesture.

“I...” you start, heartbeat beginning to race again as you take in the moment. “I don’t understand what’s going on....why I feel this way...”

“Worry not, my Nhaama, you will learn the details of your journey to me in time.” Magnai reaches his other hand out to cup your face completely, thumbs gently rubbing over the curve of your cheekbone, as if tracing the lines of your scales. “Know only that you will be loved and cared for in all of your years under the embrace of the Sun. I have found you at last.”

At last his hands move, arms reaching around your body to tug you against him--you offer no rejection, just a soft noise of surprise as you feel your form press flush to his. Your face instinctively nuzzles against where it reaches of the man’s chest before your eyes peer up to meet Magnai’s own once more.

In but one breathless moment he pulls you up and into his arms, lifting you off your feet enough so that neither he nor you have to strain to reach eachother’s lips.

There is no hesitation in how your mouths meet, and neither is there issue with the shape of your horns and his. It is truly an exhilarating thought, a revaluation, your bodies and faces and lips meeting as if you were truly crafted to be with one another.

Though you feel a gentle pressure of his horns sliding against your own, there is nothing to stop him from claiming your lips with tongue and teeth, from growling into the kiss in a manner that only vaguely reminds that you have an audience of Oronir and Buduga still watching the union before their very eyes.

Before you could think to pull away, Magnai has long-since felt the subtle change in the pressure of your lips. His face pulls back just enough, though your foreheads still touch, breaths mingling delicately across one another’s skin.

“I have found you at last,” the man murmurs lowly, making no effort to release you or allowing you out of his arms. “And now that I have you, my beautiful Nhaama, I will never let you go.”

#ffxiv #readerinsert #reader insert #magnai #magnai oronir #magnai readerinsert #aura!reader #raen!reader #i just.........................i love him ok #sfw #sfw readerinsert #he's a smug asshole but damn it do i love him #readershot #sfw readershot

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courtorderedcake · 5 years

Text

Hallow : ch VII - CSSNS 2019

“The Goblin King was prepared to host the Darkness, stealing Fae women away to their corrupted lands underneath the ground as concubines. The Darkness chose another in his stead, but not before this selected vessel enacted a devastating attack in its vengeance, revealing its hatred & rage. The battle was a lesson the old kings had forgotten; never underestimate an opponent.

Many more lives were lost as they razed over any who dared defy The Goblin King’s will. Only the pure love of our rulers united in matrimony, breaking the Vorpal Dagger, sealed the darkness and the Goblin menace away. The light flourished under their fair rule, and the queen bore a child as pure as moon beams, swan feathers, and starlight. They lived happily ever after, and shall be written in history as Heroes for All Time.”

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

Read on AO3 here.

Rated E for explicit themes, Mature situations, and Fae fuckery.

Written for @cssns

Ch 7 / ?? - In which there are new and powerful dynamics in play.

The first day that Emma didn't come racing back in realization of her folly, Killian did not worry. She was stubborn, plucky, and absolutely, intolerably obstinate. She would return, he was certain of it, and he stoked the fire smugly while the Darkness coiled in him, winding tighter with each tick of the clock.

It was no mistake that the voice of the Darkness mimicked the voice of his crocodile-skinned previous master. They both delighted in feats of evil and hated to wait for anything, impatient in every dastardly moment. The days passing made the Darkness break him in ways he hadn't faced since before his imprisonment, with nothing for it to take its anger out on besides him and the body that they shared.

On the fourth day, it shrieked non-stop with no throat to make raw or lungs that needed to draw air, just a steady shriek within his head that rarely switched octaves. When an eardrum burst, it would heal enough to warble tinny scratches before jolting back into shrieking until it burst again in a terrible cycle. Killian could no longer stoke the fire as heavy summer rain poured from the sky and rolled into his abused ears, his hair sticking to him as he sat in the deluge.

On the sixth day it broke his fingers in sections, further mutilating his already swollen and weeping hand that had been scratched by the Dagger, the skin tearing open anew and pouring forth foul smelling gunk. He wrapped it in an old shirt padded with some herbal salve Emma had made and left behind, absently wondering if she left it on purpose for him, or had simply forgotten it. Maybe she would return for it?

Hopeful? You're hopeful she will return? What do you not understand about how hapless and nugatory you are? How futile your stupid hope is? She is not coming back, you insignificant barnacle. This all could have been avoided if you had just listened to me, if you had taken the deal Nil gave you!

"So what do we do?"

The Darkness did not answer, and his head cleared to an eerily sinister silence.

"What do I do?"

Again, no answer came except for the wind moaning through the trees. For another three days, he suffered more of the Darkness' cruelty before he gave in and realized Emma truly was not returning. Or…

A barely there whisper in his mind broke through, a small stab of worry in a distant corner. What if she could not return? What if something had happened, what if something was wrong? Emma had no idea about the outside world, about the customs or cultures her parents had abandoned in the creation of the United Realms.

Moving with a manic frenzy, Killian tore down the camp with a single goal in sight. He was going to find Emma and save her, then chastise her to high hell -

Or, at least get the Dagger piece from whoever had her in their grasp -

And he knew where to start: tracking the two women who took her, Alice and Cheshire, from their ill-fated meeting at Never-Wonder Land. Transporting himself there took more energy than he cared for with the Darkness as loud as it was. Focusing on it not overwhelming his already muddled state of being, he pushed past the yellow tape partitions put up by mortal detectives to enter into the ruins of the club.

"Looking for a souvenir, Killian? Maybe some recommendations on where to get a good gyro?" Tink's voice rang out from the shadows.

"You're still here? You're free Tink, why -"

"We may be free, but that doesn't mean we have anywhere else to go," Tink called down, a heavy sadness in her statement. There was a rumble and a low purr before he caught a shadowy glimpse of the Sphinx stretching on a broken wall out of the corner of his eye. He turned back to Tink. Tink sighed, and he could hear the shrug in her voice. "It's home."

Killian kicked at a broken light that was covered in mirror pieces. It still glowed slightly in the dim room, shooting out shards of light.

"The Light One is not with him." Wendy's voice echoed from behind him. "How odd. Why have you returned here, Dark One?"

"I need to find Emma. I believe she is in trouble," Killian called into the dusty gloom. Bricks crumbled nearby, the sound catching his attention before a large paw pinned him down.

"Half truth. There's some honesty you have left out. Puzzling." Wendy's eyes flicked with golden light, her claws digging through his shirt and trousers as she pushed down on him. Her tail flicked back and forth; Killian couldn’t reply, his lungs crushed and impossible to make noise with. Wendy's eyes widened, her pupils growing as if she could magnify her sight. "Oh. Oh, I -"

She stepped back, staring at a space near a broken beam. Tink's voice called down to her. "What is it? What's the truth he would not say?"

Wendy hesitated, but removed her paw. "He's scared of being alone with the thing inside his head. He's scared that it will take over or drive him mad without - " Killian protested loudly, and the Darkness giggled in a jeer he could almost see. Wendy's tail swished agitatedly. "Not important. He wants to find Alice and Robyn, but has no idea where to find them."

"Why should we trust him?" Tink asked, moving to an easier perch to spectate from. "He seems to be in terrible shape. I bet you a meat pie that the princess found a new boyfriend."

Wendy flapped once, the force of her wing beat sending him rolling and forcing his noise of disgust back down his throat. She laid her large head on Tink’s lap, making Tink look even tinier.

"I told you, they weren't together. There was something, but it was not yet romantic. Truth. And I won't take that bet; it's most likely the truth the princess abandoned him in some capacity.” Wendy wrinkled her nose. “He reeks of Darkness. Also a truth. I say we lock him in with the Tweedles, but as a permanent snack. Delicious truth."

"Please," Killian moaned, voice more wheeze than request. His spleen reconnected and reorganized itself, his innards processing their crushing.

Tink's eyes went wide. "What was that? Say again."

Killian licked his lips, the Darkness trying to heal him, and let out a groaned rasp.

"Please?"

Tink pushed off Wendy's head, and landed on the floor gracefully as Killian coughed and his ribs knitted back together.

"The Dark One never asks for help, and never begs." The Darkness sharply jammed another rib into place in agreement. "Why did you ask us for help, and not anyone else?"

"I was hoping our previous… experiences with each other might lend me favor." Crawling to stand and moving into Tink's space, he rocked on his heels, smiling with what he hoped was a smolder. “We could even discuss a few things like last time - "

"Liar," Wendy purred, and Killian debated briefly if he should stuff and mount the beast. "He's seeking physical distraction from the Darkness and his fears for the Light One, but he does not really want it, even in the form of forni -"

"I've got the idea Wendy," Tink hissed. "So you're trying to distract yourself from Emma. No way are we ever going to be - no. Just… no. You were practically possessed when we - I mean just dark and angry. I'm not that desperate anymore, and have absolutely no idea what I was thinking. It was awful. No."

Wendy let out a snort, and a slow, mewling, "Truth."

"Wendy, for the Goddess’ sake!" Tink yelled, and the Sphinx made a hissing noise in annoyance, her tail swinging. Pointing at Killian and jabbing him roughly in the chest with her finger, Tink hissed. "Killian. Tell me the truth."

Killian paused, clenching his fist, the other too swollen to close. "I'm worried for Emma. If she's hurt, I cannot be free… And I don't want her to die."

Tink glanced up at Wendy, who gave an affirmative nod. Leveling a gaze at him, she stepped back to put space between him and herself, smiling curtly. "Fine. We will help you. I have a few guesses where they may have gone, but the top tier - They could have gone to Ursula, but if they did there's no way we could help."

Killian wheezed harder. " The Ursula? The witch who defied her father and Triton in order to save the Selkies from -"

"Yes," Tink said gravely.

"But she's dead, Triton killed her. I saw it when I -"

"She was cursed. She is still cursed. We won't be able to reach her without a guide." Tink sighed. "According to our sources, the Goblin Prince is using Triton this very instant to wreak havoc on the water, presumably looking for your princess. Ursula is hidden very well, and will have added more defenses, whether she has the princess or not."

Landing next to Tink with a thump, Wendy grimly stared Killian down, her tail curled up into a loose twitch back and forth. Tink scratched her chin affectionately as Wendy made a small chirp. "We could… We could ask Marta. I know her truth and she would -"

"That's brilliant, yes, I'm sure she doesn't know about Triton’s capture. If she did, we would know."

Killian cleared his throat. "So, that means…?"

Wendy smirked. "We're all going to Iceland to get Marta, who will get you in to see Ursula. This can work. It will ."

Tink grinned her sharp toothed grin. "And if it doesn't, at least Marta can finally get closure."

*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

Riding Wendy was stomach turning, even with Killian’s experiences of mishaps with gravity. Tink seemed to have the better seat in Wendy's mane of hair. This combined with the fact that she had frail wings that she would use occasionally gave her a leg up on him, and obviously allowed her to enjoy a more pleasant ride. He, on the other hand, found himself spending most of the trip wishing it was over.

They had at least filled him in on who Marta was, and he had raised an eyebrow at that: a neutral party, one of the last holdouts between the Merfolk and Anisapi schism that made up one part of the war. She was a mistress of Triton's who happened to be some sort of Selkie royalty, another dirty secret left buried in the old world when the Fae realms were divided.

Ursula had taken a firm stance on the Selkies being included in the new realms, free of their lesser status and free of the degradation they received from other Fae deeming them 'animals' or Anisapi deeming them too 'Fae' or 'Hume'. The latter was practically a slur in the Anisapi culture. The loss of the Selkie colony was still a division in Mermaid culture, and the Seafolk did not associate with the Anisapi, or vice versa.

As part of the rebellion, many Seafolk who sided with the Anisapi shed their traditional tails in favor of different choices. Ursula earned the title of Sea Witch for her skill in brewing potions to help the Seafolk do so. She herself chose the gauche form of a sleek, jet-black octopus, spitting in the face of her brother, Triton. His banishment of her, and her own magic creating her secret hideaway of Pacifica for her following, were taboo war stories that the United Realms ignored with gusto - but not Tink or Wendy.

"When you live in the world of the left behind or exiled, the stories they ignore become your culture," Tink said with a shrug. "The royals and all those rules… I hated Pann, don't get me wrong, but I can understand how someone could go crazy. All that stuffy, pretentious bullshit. It's why people are rallying around the Goblin Prince here, even if he's lying straight to their faces - they are desperate for a change. The princess and you working together and her freeing those in Pann's clutches is giving him a run for his jewels, though. She's becoming quite the folk hero."

Killian rolled his eyes. "Both are terrible choices. Good to see that politics never seem to change."

Wendy grunted. "There is cynical truth to that. Now prepare yourselves, we are almost there."

The clouds parted, and the rocky coastline of Iceland appeared as they approached Reykjavik.

Marta lived in a simple home in the countryside on the beach, the dark sand leading right up to her porch. Killian could see right away that she was a Selkie, even without her pelt. Silver gray hair was elegantly pulled into an arrangement over her sharp eyebrows, bright eyes, and rounded face. Her grimace made her look starkly angular, teeth far too sharp to be a human’s, fingers tightening on the black shawl she wore over a navy blue dress.

She spoke in a gravelly and heavily accented voice as they approached, Wendy breaking away to chase the waves with the delight of a kitten.

"What brings you to my door, Tinkerbell, part Siren of the waters near Oikos and part Fairy of the Olive Groves? What companions do you ask me to invite over my threshold? What news reaches me on this shore?" The woman's gaze was eagle-like, her dark tawny eyes lit with gold. Up close she looked regal, and far less tattered.

"I am afraid I bring bad tidings to your door, Marta, and grim news. I wish I came with good fortune, but what I have to tell you would break your heart. It is better I tell you than leave you in ignorance."

Marta sighed, and waved a hand for them to follow her. "I'll make some coffee, and get your Sphinx a bowl of cream. Because you speak the truth, Tinkerbell, I will also give you a potion for her to look Hume if she so chooses."

"Marta," Tink let her eyes widen as they entered the shabby kitchen. "Don't use that -"

"I've been considering reclaiming the word 'Hume' from the slur it has become; especially for those of us who are left and have faced what it means to be looked down upon one way or another. If it offends you, truly, I will refrain." Marta poured coffee into mismatched mugs, and emptied a carton of cream into a patterned bowl. She returned to the deck, setting the bowl on the edge as they sat in deck chairs.

Killian shrugged, and Tink squirmed slightly.

Marta turned her to intense stare at him, looking him up and down. She placed her mug on a table and steepled her fingers. "You stink of Darkness, guilt, and broken promises. What are you?"

And you smell of old fish and briney tea, you awful -

"I'm the Dark One, but my given name is Killian Jones. My family name is -"

"Blackwater." Marta nodded, cocking her head in thought. "I knew your mother and father. Your father was a terrible bastard, and I am sorry for the way he must have treated you boys."

Killian tensed, and the Darkness swirled in anger and betrayal at the old memories. "That was a long time ago."

"Your feelings give you away, but that is not something I am willing to unpack - why have you come?"

Tink gave a heaving sigh, and squared her shoulders as she put down her tea.

"Triton has been captured. He's currently being tortured." Marta dropped her tea cup, her hands shaking. "The Goblins are using his magic to search for Ursula."

Marta let out a noise of despair. "No. No, he - "

"I'm sorry," Tink said quietly, gently rubbing Marta's shoulder. The Selkie looked stricken with panic. "You need to go to Ursula, and that's why I brought the Dark One. He has business with Ursula, and you know the way. Take him, and Ursula can help you both."

"That's… I can do that. He will need a tail or two, but I will do it. Goddess be good, my Triton, oh my heart. Do you believe Ursula can help free him?" Marta trailed off, clutched her chest, rubbing in small circles.

Gain their attention, vessel, we have better things to do than watch this pitiful display of emotions.

"I'm right here, so I can hear this conversation," Killian said dryly. "I just need -"

Tink ignored him. "That's who they pitted him against by trying to storm into Ursula's lair, which… Poor decision on their part, but that's Goblins for you."

"Alright. Are you coming?" Marta asked Tink, and Killian threw up his hands with an exasperated huff.

Tink shook her head. "No. I need to get Wendy to her brothers, and we have a lead to where we can find work."

"You're going to leave me with - " Killian tried to interject, but both women were standing, Marta guiding Tink to the door.

"Be safe. I will see you sooner than later, I hope? Your sisters pop by occasionally when they get a chance. Would you like me to pass on anything?"

"No. They haven't known where I’ve been, and I can't begin that conversation right now. Especially between Roselia and Fawn. It'd be too much." Tink sighed, and Killian moved to the doorway, trying to gain their attention, but became distracted by the sight of Wendy with cream dripping down her face. The Sphinx belched, and Tink let out a laugh, mounting her back. Marta shook her head, and waved as they left, leaving Killian alone to figure out this Marta woman.

"Well." Marta turned to him, with a look of grim determination on her face. "We should hurry, it's a long ways off to get to any of the entrances to Ursula's. You are not able to breathe underwater comfortably, yes?"

No drowning works for you, does it? Not in rum, self hatred, pity, foolhardy attempts at destroying yourself -

Killian ignored the hiss of the Darkness, following her back into her cottage, frustrated by the entire ordeal. "No. Not particularly."

Marta eyed him thoughtfully. Gesturing to a wall of vials and small bottles, she smiled warmly. "How do you feel about an eel tail to go with that dreadful gloom of yours? I have lovely draughts for a Muraenidae that I mixed with a Torpedo marmorata to make a real electric eel. None of those ridiculously muddy knife fish variants, along with a pinch of Myctophid for style. They give you the most lovely glow if you end up in the dark."

"I refuse. I know the risks of messing with these potions - "

"I forget how old and out of touch you are. The risks of these are no longer as threatening, and they really never were." Marta gritted her teeth, taking a breath. Letting it out in a heavy exhale, she traced a finger over the labels. "It was a lie by the Merfolk to keep bloodlines pure. Looking back now, it seems silly to think that these terrible risks only happened to Merfolk, Nymphs, Naiad, Sirens - never to the already mixed kin or those who chose to stay in an animal form."

"That sounds -"

"Like something that the rulers would do? Imagine my surprise at still having to correct Merfolk, Fae, humans, and even my own kind that we don't have to wear a skin completely - that we can be partially female or male Fae. Personally, I wear my seal skin up to my breasts - not because I am modest or opposed to nudity, but because scratching your bosom on the crags is a good way to gather sharks and catch an infection. It also simply hurts like a bitch." Looking at him with humor in her smile, she gave a wink. "Not that you would know. Now, for you I think… Eel or a deep sea shark. Something murky, so you can hide in the gloom, but secretly flashy and with too much ego. I have octopus and squid, but getting the hand of, er, well, eight more hands - it’s not great for beginners. The shark tail is good for speed, but less great for tight maneuvers..."

"I really don't care, as long as it gets us there."

"Well, well, look at you. You are very worried about this princess you care nothing for." Killian froze, stiffening. Marta pressed a bottle of shimmering white liquid into his good palm, the throb under the bandage on the other hand particularly sharp. "I can smell her on your thoughts. To think, Darkness chasing Light. It's kind of romantic - "

Disgusting. After this is over, I believe that her pelt will make nice slippers.

"No. There's nothing like that at all, I just don't want her to be dead. She's a naive woman, with no idea how infuriating her demeanor is. It's easier having her as a Master or Mistress because she doesn't - "

"Sure, it's fine." Marta smiled, pulling gray material up over her body, wearing it like a dress. It clung off her shoulders, but her arms and hands were free, even as she dipped a seal tail into the water where her legs had once been. "Come along, then. It's a long swim."

Killian took a deep breath through his gritted teeth, closing his eyes. Taking a small sip of the vial, the Darkness let out a purr of pleasure at the magic binding to them - not white like Emma's, but darker, almost more black than gray, old and esoteric as it forced its vessel to its knees. Killian tried to hold on, his fingernails scraping gouges into the rockscape of the coast as he changed. Shedding his clothing with quick flicks of magic, and slipping into the cool water, he felt relief finally from the potion’s effects. His long eel body felt like pure muscle, dark and striped coiling strength that propelled him with ease by just a flex in the muscles below the navel.

"Looks good on you," Marta commented, quietly. "And, although we shouldn't, it will scare any merfolk that we come across in the opposite direction. Eel kind aren't welcome in the United Realms without surgery or magic."

"They really went all out to keep themselves as traditional merfolk. That's disgusting," Killian hissed, bubbles rising. His tail pulsed slightly with an electric charge.

"Just another example of blood magic and strength, but in a different way. They fear that they will be lesser by diluting pure traits." Marta's smooth movements were pure grace, schools of fish scattering around her like silver coins. "They don't realize that accepting new blood, new ideas, new growth makes us stronger."

He hummed in agreement, and they let themselves be pulled into the strong southern current, speeding down the coast.

"Why does Nil seem to know where Ursula is if no one can get to her? Doesn't that defeat the purpose of her safety? If he can use Triton to just blow her off the map -"

"Ursula is the only one that can let people in or out with her blessing. That's her curse, and what punishment Triton himself put upon her for her disobedience. Not only did she refuse her tail, but she married a half Fae Warlock, Merlin, who gave them both Anisapi bodies. He was a prolific brewer of potions, better even than Morgana. Ursula still blames herself for his punishment. It was far worse and more cruel than hers by far."

“Are you sure Ursula will welcome us with open, er, arms?”

“I used to be the Selkie princess. I introduced Merlin to Morgana, and she introduced him to Ursula. I am free to come and go as I please. Especially since I visit Merlin in his prison.”

The Darkness gave a strange quiver at the sound of the sorcerer's name. “He’s still alive?”

“He was cursed by Snow Margueryte. ' A Mortal who wants to experience the elements they use for their own gain, straying from natural law, shall be granted their wish tenfold ,'" she recited, lazily back stroking with the current. "He is cursed to be an oak tree, his earth magic forcing him to grow roots. He used to be able to speak but his voice has been almost completely swallowed by the bark."

How fitting of a cage, it seems we were not the only ones kept under royal lock and key.

"Bloody hell."

"I've tried to free him, but my guess is that the curse can only be undone by either Ursula reuniting with him, or Queen Snow reversing it herself. Both are unlikely." Marta paused thoughtfully. "Do you think your Light One could help? She has powerful magic - "

"She's not mine, and I don't know. Emma - the princess, I mean, she is too willing to help and throw herself at sympathetic tasks. While she would probably say yes, it would be reckless for her to do so. I doubt she even could."

"Well, you must have a relationship with her to be so defensive. You smell of Darkness, guilt, and this almost cloying pining - "

"Why don't we just swim in silence, yeah? I don't need some sea mongrel telling me about the notes of my bouquet," he snapped, agitated.

Marta looked at him curiously, but to her credit stayed mum for the remainder of their long journey. It was strange to feel muscles burn that he did not truly have and to experience the raw strength of what he could do in this form. While the eel's body was not meant for these long voyages, he could definitely see its use as they moved closer to the hidden portal that would lead them to Ursula's gates.

Marta had broken the silence that stretched between them to warn him of the tight path they would need to take. Both of them wriggled through an impossible series of tunneling caves, sometimes against currents or in almost pitch black darkness. As far as Killian could tell, the only way Marta could find her way was as a full seal, for at some point she had slipped her cowl completely over her upper half to transform completely. Eventually, they came to a small cylindrical chamber that led down to a shimmering portal at the deep bottom, like a well. Killian went to zip downward, but Marta nipped him, slowly removing her cowl and releasing her head and arms again.

"Stay quiet. Move slow. Just drift down gently with the current. You don't want to hit it too fast or the current on the other side will rip you to shreds…" She slowly pointed to small flickering orbs of pink that had begun to light up around the upper edges of where they had come in. "And you'll upset the Reaper Shrimp."

Killian blinked, almost laughing at the thought but listened, staying still while letting himself float slowly downward. A rock fell from above, most likely jostled by their entrance into the space, and Killian watched it push through the on and off glow of the shrimp. The rock wasn't small, the size of a large orange when it began - it passed a few of the pink creatures and broke, the small monstrosities shearing it to dust loud enough for him to hear the grind.

Killian could suddenly understand why Nil had not found an entry into Ursula's protected waters.

The entry into the portal was strange, his tail hitting first and dragging him in; one minute he was in slow motion and the next was being ripped into a suction-like current, unable to see as it jettisoned him through a path lined by stalagmites. He moved slightly, and the current responded to the sudden resistance by shoving him against one, cleanly slicing the flesh of his shoulder. He hissed, but did not move again.

After what felt like hours, the current roughly deposited them onto a sandy cave floor, a steady path that led to a cavern just visible ahead. Relaxing his tense body, he swam up for air. The water lapped at the soft rock shore, and he slid out of the water to lie on the cold stone, actually tired. There was a loud cough, and he snapped back to attention to see a large face frowning at him.

"I'd say look what the cat dragged in, but Marty, you aren't a cat and damn it if you didn't get pulled by this bastard nine tenths of the way here."

Marta laughed, pulling herself out of the water, and towards the giant woman in front of them. "Hey, Sully."

"Mmmmhmmm. Don't you ' Hey Sully ' me when you drop this cretin in my midst. Dark One, what business do you have with me, in my realm? And remember, you're talking to Ursula the Sea Witch here. I will tear you apart just to watch you knit back together."

Ursula had aged since he last saw her, no longer a young woman, but not old either. Her brown skin was wrinkled at the corners of her eyes, and her forehead showed a pinch where her frown pulled her brows in confusion at their arrival. Her size was still the same as it was when she had fought in battle during the war, the enchantment locking her into a gargantuan form. Tentacles colored in shades of wine, maroon, and nearly pitch black writhed from mottled skin under her navel, suction cups as large as a man's hand stretching along a length of fifteen feet. She moved gracefully around the large chamber, even at her full height that dwarfed Marta and his own many times over as she reached to add ingredients from a carved shelf to a large shell reservoir.

The biggest change was her braids. Once a lustrous and dark shining ebony, many - if not all - were now a silvery violet or white. It made the veins from the magic in her skin that held her in the cursed form she wore stick out, lightning like, glowing dark purple that pulsed lavender over her temples and arms.

"Marta, why have you brought this creature into my safe hold?" Ursula boomed, not looking up from her potion making to acknowledge their entrance, as they stood on the edge of the rocky outcrop. Marta slipped off her seal skin, and bowed low, but Killian spoke before she could utter a word.

"Ursula, Mistress of the Sea and Queen of the magic that holds its secrets. It has been ages since our last meeting." He tried a low bow, but the eel tail that he wore was unstable, coiling on the ground. Marta smacked a hand over her forehead.

Turning, Ursula lowered her gaze to stare with malevolence at Killian, her pupils a bright violet. "Yes, Dark One. That was intentional," she said dryly.

"I have come to see if you are holding a prisoner here, one who is in grave -"

"Oh, you dear, naive, stupid boy. You really have not changed since we last met, have you? I admit that in the past I've been nasty, but you'll find that nowadays I've mended all my ways. I've repented, seen the light, and made a switch." Ursula tutted, bringing her body completely around to face him. He could see now there were bones, shells, and bleached driftwood twisted around the ends of her braids like beads, some vaguely humanoid. Her chest was scarred and lined on both sides of her ribcage with lightning like pulses of magic. She leaned forward, laying her head on a long arm. Her head was easily the same height as his entire body as she gave him a poke with her thick, tree branch-like finger tipped with long black nails. "What is all your idle babble for? Intimidating me? You think that you can scare me here? That I'll give up a prize just because you march - or slither as it were - your cute little butt in here?"

"I - what?"

"I said, you haven't learned shit from when you were under the thumb of the Darkness completely, spreading its poison through my waters and killing innocent Fae. Even wrapped in this scrumptious little hors d'oeuvre of a package, you still spread death, Dark One. How hard that must be for you. Pretty face, that lays everything to waste. Even without hearing that dark leech, your body language alone speaks nothing but lies. I'm unfortunately taken, though, so a nibble is out of the question."

"I don't know what you're bloody well talking about. I'm here to find the Princess of the damned United Realms -"

"So is the Goblin prince, his sentries, and many others who have come to my door. Yet, you're the only one who has made it past my portal, I'll admit. The person you seek may be here, or they may not. If they were, they'd be either under my protection, or my prisoner. Either way, I wouldn't let you within a tentacle’s length of them." Ursula poked hard with her nail, stabbing against his sternum. She grinned widely, teeth flashing white. "Describe her to me, and maybe I'll remember which she is, a prisoner or a political refugee. I get many Fae flocking to my cauldron. You may have heard that I know a little magic, a talent that I always have possessed. Who knows who all the Merfolk alone I've helped? Some princess is just another day on the books for me."

"No. This isn't a game and I'll - "

"Then leave! Do you think I don't have better things to do? I'm a very busy woman and I haven't got all day! The position of annoying, death-spreading, evil, dark magic-using man-child has already been filled by Nil, who is wreaking havoc on the ecosystems with his magic. So, what the hell are you doing still standing here?" Ursula boomed, eyes flashing with a malicious gleam. A thick tentacle gripped and lifted him, making to throw him against the rocky cave current.

"Wait!" Marta yelled, and his eel body did what it was built to do, writhing in her slipping grip as electric shock poured off him. Ursula dropped him hard to the ground, Marta wincing with a flinch. "Sorry, I should have warned you. He's an electric eel, Sully, my own formula."

"You and your gods-be-damned potions, Marta. Congrats . I should rake you across the coals for hurting my good tentacle like that," Ursula spat sarcastically, bringing the shocked tentacle up to her face to examine it.

"You want a description of her? Alright." Killian coughed slightly, dazed as he felt the electrical current fade away like pinpricks. Marta shook her head, but he ignored her pleading for him to stop.

"She's pretty, I guess, if you like blonde and aristocracy. Classical beauty, her skin is almost all cream with a touch of sun," he began, licking his lips. His brain felt short circuited and he tried to picture her in his mind’s eye. It felt like it had been too long since he saw her, and while the Darkness was silent in its own daze, a quiet voice whispered gently that yes, it had been too long. It had been too long, and he owed her an apology - so many apologies.

"She's kind, too much for her own good really, well read, funny, bitingly sarcastic with so much wit. Brilliantly smart, but never overbearing, and where there isn't grace in her movement there is purpose instead. She's incredibly strong, so powerful. It's unbelievable that she doesn't know just how much so, or how much she affects others simply by her presence - " The Darkness roared back, and he swallowed bile that rose. "But just as with her family and so many Fae, her 'beauty' and 'purity' is as false as calling a speck of dirt a diamond - she's a vain, shrill, over glorified, annoying, whiny, preening, narcissistic, high born, undeserving, and obstinate brat worth only the crown that will grace her fat head someday. So if you do have her, regardless of whether she's a prisoner or political refugee, let's cut a deal for her to get her off each other's hands, hmm?"

Ursula shook her head, clicking her tongue, while Marta looked on with her hand over her mouth in shock. Someone had brought the Selkie a robe, and a few other women sat with her now, watching him with clear unease.

Ursula spoke coldly. "You have no idea what a pompous, arrogant, assuming fool you look like chasing the princess down here. She's right, you are absolutely oblivious - "

"She's - Emma's alright then? You have her? She's an absolute idiot who needs constant supervision - "

"Says the man who is scandalizing most of my court," Ursula cackled spitefully. He looked to see that the eel potion had worn off, and he was standing nude before the Sea Witch. Against his will, he could feel his ears going red. He waved a hand and his clothes appeared back on his form, just as a chime sounded somewhere down the adjoining corridor.

Ursula sighed, looking tired again. She leveled a harsh stare at Killian.

"Don't you ever get tired of being the villain in these tales? Don't you think you should take a look and see if you can set the story right, especially after all this time? Or are you just a dumbass who has a nice jawline and magic that can destroy an armada?" Ursula gave him a half smirk, and flipped her braids behind her shoulders. Inwardly, Killian flinched at the accusation and how much he didn't want to remember.

But you do remember, don't you? You remember what you did, how good it felt, and how you didn't care about ending your family name as long as you could get revenge. Every part of you that fights it is a liar. There is no happy ending for the Dark One - for you. No, that's not an option for this coward, this milk sop who can't even find a hapless princess who has run away -

Emma's voice filled the chamber, startling him as he tried to determine if it was a trick by the Darkness itself, but no, she was real. She walked in with a red headed woman, both of them drying their hair with linen towels while they wore the standard silken robe that the Selkie seemed to prefer. When she saw him she looked as if she had been struck, rearing back. Somewhere far off, he felt his shoulders go slightly less tense, his relief a tiny sound.

"What is he doing here?" Emma hissed, pointing at him like he was a ghost. He probably looked like some ghoul, he realized, wet hair sticking in all directions and his face unshaven. "Who brought him here?"

"I did. I seek Triton and his freedom; the Dark One seeks his own ends," Marta said, speaking up and standing. Emma took a step back, putting herself behind one of Ursula's thick tentacles. "We both need answers - "

The red head spoke up, in a haughty tone of voice that made Killian immediately believe she was a royal. "And who are you? You're not from this colony. What business do you have with my father?"

Marta looked pained. "We should discuss that in private -"

"No! What business do you have with the King of Atlantica, Selkie?" The red headed woman flushed and stomped her foot.

"I… Oh Ariel, please. I don't want to cause you distress. Just - "

"How do you know my name?"

"Your father and I, we were… We were close. He and I… It's complicated. Look, I heard he was in trouble and I want to help. Please." Marta's pleading tone only further seemed to infuriate Ariel.

"That's not a good enough answer, especially when you travel with the Dark One," Emma hissed, refusing to look at Killian, seemingly trying to compose herself. "The Dark One tried to sell me off to the Goblins, the same ones that hold Triton captive."

"Emma, I -" Killian started, but Emma cut him off, eyes snapping up to look at his face. Her eyes were tired, but fiercely focused in her rage. She looked older, and unlike her companion, was stiffly solemn in her fury.

"You do not have any right to address me so informally, or to speak to me at all!" she yelled. Killian startled slightly, seeing her as if she was stronger, different than when they parted.

"So please excuse Ariel and I for not believing a lying, traitorous pig and his newfound companion,” Emma continued, the defiant coldness in her voice settling over him as he processed her change in demeanor. “Do not address me like we're friends either; that informality has died - is gone. How many days were you alone before you realized that the company you provide is toxic?"

"Please, Swan, hear me out. I came here to -"

"To sell me to a different bidder? Do not call me that, do not come here and act like you have any right to call me Swan. You do not have the right to grovel at my feet. How dare you. Why on earth would -"

"To apologize!" His shouted reply rung through the caves, but Emma simply scoffed at him, looking livid. "Em - Princess, I needed to apologize for my part in the quarrel we had. I was out of line, and I am sorry. Please forgive me."

"You're forgiven. Now, leave."

"No, Emma - That's not what I meant - please talk to me, I -"

"There's nothing to talk about, Dark One. Begone. I don't like looking at you. I don't like hearing you, especially my name said in your voice. I don't like - no, I hate that you are here, and I don't feel safe because of your presence. I hate that you think that you have the right to just walk up to me and demand that things be like - for there to be no walls. Walls you made me build! You can't - you don't ask that of people."

"I'm sorry, but who was left in the middle of a forest without any chance of freedom? I didn't make you do anything. You built your own damned fortress because you are afraid of grief, not because - "

"Leave. I am not afraid of grief, and the hypocrisy of that statement is… Just leave. I can't do this, and I can't stand you. I am glad I left you there. I only wish I had never met you at all."

She stormed away. As he tried to pursue her again, the thick black and burgundy tentacle was back, gripping him tightly around the waist and throwing him to the ground away from Marta. Ursula towered above him, while Marta and Ariel glared at him from their sides of the cavern.

"That poor girl," Marta tutted shaking her head. "I thought you said she would be happy to see you?"

"I thought she would be. She could barely manage on her own when we were last - "

Ursula and Ariel laughed at that, a tentacle smacking him back down as he tried to stand.

"Emma can handle herself just fine, and has been. Alice and Robyn left her here because of that, and their trust in the princess speaks volumes. We have had plenty of time for her to see that she isn't some damsel like you tried to make her out to be." Ariel shrugged, her voice icy towards him. "I don't think she needs your brand of saving anymore."

Ursula chuckled lowly. "Nope. The princess is quite formidable without you. Shame that you are the last to notice. Alice even said she saved your sorry ass at Pann's club - "

"We worked together in that instance. She - "

"Prevented you from being dinner for a Sphinx. At least, that's how half of the Fae community is telling it. The Princess is becoming quite the rallying cry here in the realm of those left behind," Ursula drawled, the tip of a tentacle delicately lifting his chin as his jaw ticked.

"She was popular in the United Realms too, and people still believe she will save them." Ariel chimed in. "My father and I believe it - we prayed to Poseidon to bless her. I know she'll help; she's taken to the water like a natural - "

"Is Triton alright? Have you heard anything about his treatment, or if he's been hurt?" Marta blurted out, wringing her hands. Ariel shot her a look that was clearly full of mistrust.

Killian glanced between the Sea Witch and Marta, unsure what to make of what was happening, even as Ursula sighed and rubbed her fingers against her temples.

"Go on Marta. The girl deserves to know."

"I deserve to know what? We don't mix with Selkie kind. You're lazy filth who refuse to worship the gods, or serve their chosen kings. There's nothing to know."

Killian bristled, and the tentacle next to him came down in a hard smash, the boom echoing throughout the caves.

"You will not use that language in my domain, little Mermaid," Ursula gritted out, half yelling at Ariel.

Selkies in both forms poked their heads in from smaller caves, watching with varying expressions. Many were angry, and he couldn't blame them for their derision at the Mermaid princess’ dismissal.

"Your mother was a lovely Mermaid, and truly kind,” Marta began. “I adored her and respected her for what she and Triton had. It was something I could never give him, even though we were very much in love before he was pushed into their marriage. Then she passed in that terrible accident, and all of you had been born. I could not bear to bring my desires to Triton while he mourned the loss with his children. I grieved for Calypso, for Triton to lose such a wonderful wife and friend, and for you girls to lose such a fierce mother. She loved you so very much. Your aunt Sully, er, Ursula was trapped here. No one had seen Morgana since the sword in the lake incident with Arthur and her exile North… With Poseidon gone on to follow his mother in death, Triton had no one left. No one but me. And I missed him.

"Your father and I reconnected. It was like falling back into a lazy current, right where we left off. He made promises that he would change the laws so we could be together, but he refused to let me meet any of you, refused to let me live in the United Realms with your kind, refused to understand why my kind will not worship your grandfather. Instead, he kept me hidden like an embarrassment, just like before when Poseidon forced us apart - but this time, my heart couldn't take that pain again. I told him to find someone who he didn't have to hide, and to stop lying to himself, to stop lying to me - and I swam as far as I could. I've lived with the humans in Iceland ever since. Your father never gave chase."

Ariel wrinkled her nose, looking at Marta with disgust. "But you're, you're a - he couldn't risk letting more of your kind disrupt our civilization, we are peaceful - "

"What have I done, what has my kind done, that would make us so disgusting in your eyes? What disservice have we brought you, when you, a Mermaid, love a human?"

Ariel sputtered, her face going as red as her hair. "That is not the same in any way, shape, or form. Humans aren't Fae or privy to Fae politics -"

Killian laughed out loud, and eyes drew to him from all corners of the cave. Rocking on his heels to regain his normal swagger, he waved a hand accusingly at Ariel. "So, because he has no idea how anything works and is ignorant to all that has happened, it's alright. Are you keeping a pet, Merprincess? Or do you actually love him?"

"Like you know anything about love, you - "

"He's right, Ariel. What do you love about this human?" Ursula asked, her eyes dark and dangerous.

"Eric is kind, funny, smart - he loves animals and the sea. He isn't like other mortals, at all. He wants to be with me even though we're different, and promised me that he would bridge the gap between our worlds in anyway he could - "

"Then he is much better than you or my idiot brother," Ursula snapped. "You treat humans better than your kin, see in them what you should see in us. Do you not know what humans do to us?"

"Eric would never -"

"I believe you," Marta said quietly. "And I think your Eric probably is all those things, because Triton is too. He spoke about your kindness, your love, and your passionate curiosity that drove him insane. He was always the most worried about you. I wanted to meet his wild daughter so badly. My hopes were higher for this meeting, Ariel."

Out of one of the caves, Killian saw Emma sit with two plump spotted seals, her eyes noticeably red-rimmed even at this distance as she watched Ariel.

"I just… what could my Father like about you? You are dignified for a Selkie, and seem more intelligent, but I just don't understand why he would risk - "

Emma booed loudly from her small cave, other Selkies following suit. Ariel shot her a glare, but Emma only shrugged with her own eyes narrowed.

"Aren't you trying to risk everything for some human?" Killian asked, and Ursula allowed him to move closer to the Mermaid. "Why is any Fae lesser than you, especially one that your kind used to share this sea with? Is there any particular reason why you have to make yourself feel superior to them?" Killian pointed to the Selkies, who clapped and cheered their approval. He heard Emma's voice among them, and glanced at her. For a moment, he thought he caught a hint of approval in the sea glass color of her eyes.

"I don't need a lecture from you of all people, the man who murdered his own kind so indiscriminately. Blood ran thicker in the current than water that day. I may be young, but my people tell their children tales of the nightmare you created, Dark One." Ariel jabbed a finger at him, jutting out her chin. "If I had not escaped the Goblin's clutches in Emma's palace, I would never have imagined in my wildest day dreams that you would try to convince anyone that you were sorry for your actions. I lend a command to Princess Emma, and henceforth demand that you leave."

Scrubbing his face, Killian pointed at Ariel with annoyance. "You can't 'lend a command'. That’s not how any court protocol works!"

"Then I'm demanding you leave, you awful bully! In case you need reminding, I'm a princess, I can do as I please without protocol!" Ariel shrieked at him, and he saw Emma drop her face into her hand, most likely in embarrassment.

"Like hell, I'm not -" Killian began to protest, but Ursula slammed a tentacle between the two of them, separating him from the Mermaid.

"The Dark One has asked for a chance to redeem himself to Princess Emma. He has failed, but I am not in a position to grant him safe passage away from their and our mutual enemy. I will allow him to stay as long as he does not make my other guests uncomfortable or unsafe, and I will have Marta chaperone him. I ask that you, Ariel, use your abilities to follow through with our accord; bring me the shipwrecks so we may face this Goblin menace head on, so I may lend you and your beloved Human help in freeing your father. As a steward of goodwill, I will house Emma in this emergency, and Killian may take one ship once we are victorious in freeing Triton. Until then, Marta and Killian will also help you with this task. Maybe even redeeming themselves, yet."

"I need some time to process this," Ariel huffed, her nose in the air. She slunk back into the water, her tail flipping with a splash.

"Make up your mind quick; you act as if I have all day to play royal mediator. I damn well better be freed of my curse after this!" Ursula yelled after her.

Killian watched Emma slip on a cuff, her body partially turning to jade, silver and gold, a tail flipping below the surface almost silently. The caves dripped, and he was left to watch her leave again while Marta discussed how they would go about bringing sunken shipwrecks into the cave. Watching the water for any sign of the princess, he tried to formulate some way to get the shard.

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Emma felt like she had been slapped hard across her face, head still reeling from seeing Killian again. He had followed her, the audacity of that bastard to have found her, to try and speak with her -

She let out another shriek into the empty water of the kelp forest, letting herself float down to the sandy bottom. Looking up, she couldn't see the surface, only the brackish depths and swaying strings of long underwater vines. Her chest ached, and she took a deep breath of the salty water, relishing the coldness of it. He had looked so disheveled, had looked at her like he was seeing a phantom too, but for an entirely different reason -

She had changed. She wasn't the princess he knew any longer, but the beginning of something completely different - more resilient, more in control, more cold and world weary, more cautious. Killian did not know her any longer. Alice and Robyn had bolstered her, emboldened her to be stronger than ever. Emma had learned to, as Alice put it, give no fucks . Watching Ariel and her antics just proved that. Ariel’s complaints about their hosts’ simplicity set Emma's teeth on edge, and that was only one of the more banal issues Emma took to heart. Ariel could be shallow, brash, impulsive, and petulant in ways Emma had never dreamed of being.

Whereas Emma's parents had raised her to work hard, to be studious, well rounded, and perfect in matters of decorum, Ariel was the youngest of seven sisters. She was a gifted musician, but skipped classes, caused mischief, disrupted others, created mayhem with her magic, refused to listen to her father's reasoning, and found no joy in any of the harder aspects of ruling a kingdom. The woman all but balked at hard work, expecting to be waited on. She seemed more content to have Emma as a source of gossip than as an ally. It was clear that Ursula was frustrated with Ariel as well, even if they were both frightened for Triton.

Ursula's idea of using the old Fae armada that currently lay in half-restored pieces near her kingdom was ingenious, as far as Emma could tell. Eric, Ariel's beau, was happily providing more ships that people were scrapping in his shipyard for the cause, and Ariel's talent of making portals through the water was working exceptionally well when they were done piecing together new parts and old like a jigsaw to make something new. Ursula had amassed three ships already that floated in a cave, waiting to be boarded. The Sea Witch had confided her hopes in Emma early on, realizing her competency.

"If this all goes right, if we free Triton and he knows that I helped, I hope he will return me to my original form so I can beseech Queen Snow to appeal Merlin's curse. It has been too long since I have hoped for any sort of redemption, but your arrival heralds in the beginning of a new era for the forgotten that lay here in wait."

"I can't say my mother will be able to give you an audience, Ursula, but I pray to the goddess that she does."

"Thank you, Princess Emma, you are too kind."

"I am nothing but a weary bearer of hindsight."

Ariel swam by, sighing in a whine.

"So. What do you think of this project Ursula has me on? I can't believe I have to work with that… that Thing , and then that Selkie who believes she can chastise me - "

"Both parts of that are worrisome but for different reasons," Emma said with her own tired sigh and a shrug that rustled the grit she lay on. "Very different reasons, actually - I am worried about you and Kil - the Dark One working together, because he's… He isn't a good person. But I'm more worried for this Marta woman, to be honest."

Ariel scoffed. "You have to be the most bleeding heart royal I've ever met to believe her Selkie sob story. I'm surprised she's not wearing a crocodile skin with the tears she was faking over Daddy. My father would never sink as low as to encourage a Selkie’s attention, let alone dally with one." Ariel floated down to lay beside Emma, and Emma moved slightly so she could rest on her side, observing Ariel critically.

"She was telling the truth, Ariel." Emma stated firmly, tail betraying her agitation with its quick flicks in the sand. "She seems like a very nice woman, and she would have to be to not get chewed up and spat out by the Darkness that permeates his presence."

"But Emma, didn't he - didn't you say that you remembered - " Ariel began, and Emma held up a hand with irritation written in her scowl.

"Yes, I might have remembered that I was stupid when I was drunk, and he got us home. A lot happened after that, so that kiss was inconsequential, and a symptom of the chaos that was our narrow survival. After that, when Elsa… He showed his true colors."

"Yeah. I wish that you had someone fighting for you like I do with Eric. I can't wait to give him that cuff back, I miss him," Ariel said dreamily, dismissing the seriousness of the conversation again. "Your talk of kissing reminded me."

Emma smiled a strained but polite grimace. Squaring her shoulders, she rose up slightly to cross her arms and change her stature to reflect her annoyance. With a hand on her hip and the other extended to gesture, she spoke.

"It's up to you, regardless, Ariel, but I will say that regardless of what you think of Marta or customs outside your own, I do not find your views befitting anyone I would have in my close confidence. You should lead by example and make your own choices from your own experiences. Talk to Marta."

Ariel stuck up her nose, sitting up with arms crossed against her chest. "By that logic, I should give the Dark One a chance as well!" she yelled as Emma turned to leave her alone to stew.

She shrugged before disappearing into the kelp, looking at Ariel with pity. "I did, and look how that turned out."

It wasn't a far swim back to the secret entrance to Ursula's lair, and then into the Selkie caves. The three main chambers were connected by tunnels that spread out to thousands of honeycomb style chambers, some with water flowing through them in little creeks that babbled musically into waterfalls that fell into the bottom pool. Ursula protected the first chamber, her fleet in a cave off of that and her cauldron near the center. The bottom was almost completely submerged with a proliferation of crystals and slabs of limestone, while a current swept along the floor that could take even an experienced diver by surprise. You could enter through that opening, but to leave the same way would cut you to ribbons, and Ursula guarded the other exit that lay at the edge near the other chambers, her own among them. The middle chamber was filled with rock platforms where trees and ferns took root in small gardens and a small waterfall fed a pond covered in lotus blooms. The greenery seemed to attract the nymphs, who giggled profusely at Emma walking past with no tail or pearl bead littered hair.

The last chamber was for socializing, dotted with tables and balconies. Different flags and banners waved in beautiful fabrics. Crystals and moss grew that lit up in the evening darkness, and changed the water color to a startling bright blue. A volcanic spring heated pools on the far side for cooking and cleaning, while the cooler pools allowed for bathing and relaxation.

Emma's room was in one of the higher areas, a small cave with a ledge for a pallet and her things. A few steps cut into the rock led down to a brook that carved its path past a slight bend and into the chamber she had met with Ursula in. A curtain covered the archway that led to where the brook turned, allowing for privacy even at this height.

A clothesline was also provided, and Emma had used it with gusto when she first arrived. It was when she discovered that both her white gown from the failed appeal so long ago and her blue dress were covered in blood: Goblin, her own, and Elsa's… Emma was thankful that the caves were set up so that very few heard her screams when the panic sporadically struck, when all she could do was hold the fabric and weep as that night played over and over in her head.

Occasionally she found sleep, but it was hard to get real rest. Since the attack, when she dreamed, visions of Nil all but ruined those completely. She had to stay strong and focused, but everything felt wrong. Even her movements felt delayed, but pride would not allow her to go to Ursula or Ariel with her complaints.

Her mind fell back to Killian, and Ursula's decision for him to stay. There was no doubt that they might run into each other, but as long as she was under Ursula's protection and good graces, it was not as if she could leave the waters. He was probably already trying to locate where she was staying in the cave system. He was an even match to her stubbornness, to her great consternation. She considered having Ursula just put him out anyway, knowing the Sea Witch would do so without a thought beyond how much of a 'poor unfortunate soul' he would be on his own; however, it left her with a mouth full of ash. She would prove to be not much more than a damsel if she could not dismiss him without a mediator.

That was one of the worst things: it felt as if she was ripping old skin away from new whenever she wanted to remember the good, and not what he was, what he did, what he said. There was no good. She had imagined it when she was drunk, high on adrenaline, confused, and exhilarated just to be alive - imagined how he felt against her like some idiot debutante that he had fled from. That in and of itself should have been enough, but he had lied about it, so blatantly even; the way he had looked at her as he acted playful in those moments before she had failed Elsa was different than before.

That was the only regret she held, and the only unspoken matter left between the two of them that Emma was willing to issue amends for. It was her fault Elsa was dead, the guilt squarely on her shoulders no matter how she dissected those moments in her mind. Every argument that could be made started with the catalyst of her arrival, and ended with her failure to dispatch the Goblin or heal Elsa. Even though the blade had clearly hit Elsa’s lung and part of her heart, Emma couldn't understand why she froze, why she didn't try to heal her friend regardless, why she didn't exhaust herself in every attempt. It haunted her; between nightmares of Nil, panic attacks, and her lack of sleep, she wondered how anyone managed to survive.

And while every part of her screamed to make amends like the diplomatic daughter of royalty she was, what good would it do for anyone? Emma curled further into herself, wishing she didn't feel all at once surrounded, smothered even, but still so alone.

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The morning of their mission to procure the rest of Ursula's armada was bright and serene. Marta was excited and anxious to spend time with Ariel and her human paramour. Killian focused his attention on simply hammering out the work and implementing a plan of action that would allow him to at least get Ariel to speak to Emma, potentially softening her to the idea of speaking with him. The sea princess was unlike Emma in many ways, and prone to falling for the pitfalls he set, or simply biting onto bait he placed to fish for more info. That was, until Emma herself joined their merry mission.

If he had thought she looked tired from afar, up close she was clearly exhausted, barely functioning as she lazily swam with Ariel, who whispered to her in a concerned manner. Killian heard snippets of their conversation, the Darkness gleefully taking in the scent of Emma's weakness.

If an accident were to happen where we could get the shard, no one would be any the wiser. Especially with how close the princess will be to a portal leading to waters outside Ursula's domain.

A pleasurable current ran up his spine, the Darkness growing more fond of his eel form every time he donned it. Killian had caught Emma staring; and even in her practically asleep state, fascination was obvious on her face as she watched his tail cut through the water or curl in fluid motions.

Not fascination, in disgust and horror. Don't think that she is not still scared of you just because she managed to raise her voice a few decibels. Focus.

Ariel opened a portal easily, swimming in quick circles with a swirl of magic that opened to the true ocean. The water was dark, much colder, and much more unruly. Killian and Marta struggled through the opening, Ariel following behind as Emma gave a wan wave while holding it steady with her own magic.

Only a few yards in, he glanced back and the small portal was barely a glow through the choppy waves. They were going to bring a boat through this?

"I know that this looks crazy, but Eric's up top on the skipper and he'll help with the extraction. We just have to attach the chains to the hull, and pull it through."

Killian looked up; he could barely make out the shape of a large boat floating above, the rusted chains slowly grazing the sea floor and sending up clouds of murky silt.

They pulled the chains over the hull of the first barely held together ship, its wrecked carcass shuddering through the portal with a groan. Emma looked pale from using her magic to widen the portal, but ushered them through easily.

The next ship was buried in a deep quagmire of sand which required Ariel and Marta both to help him, along with a few other Selkie, Nymph and Naiads. Sandy clouds billowed in thick columns from where they dug, rising and falling thick enough to make them cough. They worked for what felt like hours, scooping sand, pulling, and digging out the sediment that resettled, only to repeat again and again. The water grew progressively more rough, waves rattling and jerking the chains, causing more sand to shift. Thunder cracked from above and a green bolt of lightning illuminated the water so brightly that the seafloor looked bathed in other worldly emerald sunshine. Green coated where the bolt hit, leaving a shiny residue that seemed to boil the water before fading.

The party scattered, fleeing towards the portal desperately at the sign of magic while Ariel raced upwards towards her human lover without any worry for her own safety.

"Ariel! Look out, stop!" Marta darted after her as sea animals in groups of unnatural and dissimilar species swam towards them from the surface of the water. Killian shot upwards, shocking with electricity several seals that circled the women while pulling another's jaws away from Marta's shoulder. Red began to rise from the wound, Marta's cry of pain barely audible over the roar of the surf while the pummeling current briefly dazed him. Ariel was tearing gulls away from her as she tried to breach the surface, a great cracking noise and thunder rattling his teeth as he fought off another onslaught of seals.

"I thought seals liked and listened to Selkies?" he managed to yell, Marta throwing jets of scalding water at schools of what looked like jellyfish.

"These sea creatures are poisoned or bewitched. Jellyfish usually just float - they don't hunt like this, and we do have kinship to seals - Ariel, oh Atlantis, watch out!" Marta abandoned her attempts as she pushed Ariel aside. A piece of heavy debris hit her as the ship above gave a giant metal groan. Ariel didn't even look back as she grabbed at a piece of debris, pulling out a human man who was clearly unconscious.

"Move, we have to get him through the portal, and back to the air!" Ariel shrieked, and Killian crested the surface to look above, even as waves and birds battered him. A tall, wide, patchwork metal ship glowed green in the circle of a storm, speeding towards them. Goblins . Grabbing a floating glass jar, he dove below, opening the sealed container upside down and handing it to Ariel.

"Go! Get him through the portal!" Killian shouted at Ariel, and she was gone in a flash.

The water was lit again by the ghastly green lightning, and Killian searched for Marta desperately before the light gave way to murk again. She was pinned between a large metal piece, weakly fighting off fish, and he dug to free her as she whimpered. Pulling her to him, she went limp, and he sped towards the portal. Ariel was in front of him, pulling on the chains that had fallen, her brow strained as she pulled the ship they had been working on through so they could slip past. He could hear Emma’s cries from the other side of the portal ringing out as he helped push the ship through, her calling for Ariel and Marta.

Ariel pushed Eric through the minute there was a big enough gap, straight into Emma’s arms, screaming at her to get him to air. Emma was gone in an instant as the mermaid swam in circles to keep the portal open, the ship inching along as Killian handed a Siren Marta's unconscious body through the widening gap. Ariel yelled at him, roughly elbowing him as a shark barreled towards them, its dead eyes glowing green and jaw wide with sharp teeth. Killian hit it hard with an electric charge, stunning himself with the force of the current. In the moment of dazed consciousness that came after, he heard Ariel shriek, the shark too incensed to be affected by the shock as it bit down on her tail. Killian punched it hard in the nose, willing the portal to hold, to stay open as her circles stopped. The realization dawned on him of what he'd have to do, and he braced himself.

Don't you fucking dare you -

Before the Darkness could seize up his muscles, he shoved Ariel roughly through the portal against the ship's backside, watching her wide eyed stare as it blinked into nothingness before him. The shark circled back, along with more seals, more fish, and a swarm of jellyfish. Fighting what he could, he was shocked to feel a warm hand yanking him backwards, the portal going closed in front of his eyes as he was dragged through.

He turned to see Emma, who let go of him as if she'd been burned. Red hung in the clear waters, her face pale and cast in a greenish tone. Emma panted, her eyes closed as she let her chest heave.

"Emma, are you al-"

Emma shot away from him, fleeing through the gathering crowd. The injured were being pulled back into the cove and into the caves where they presumably could be treated.

The princess is weak, now is your chance, we can break her -

He swam into the caves, only to be greeted to the sight of Marta being bandaged in fish scales, gauze, and kelp. Robes lay in piles by the upward slope, and he wrapped one around himself as he willed the magic controlling his eel form away to transform back. There was no sign of Emma, although Ursula was moving all her tentacles at once, handing out towels, gauze, fish skin bandages, poultices, potions, salves, and lotions. Ariel sat near Marta, still with a tail, cupping her humans face as he worried about the bite on her thigh and applied pressure with a cloth. The sounds of moaning and whimpering filled the cave coming from all over and echoed through the halls. The Darkness purred at the sound and his stomach turned over in disgust.

"Killian, oh Goddess' I thought -" Marta started, as she began to tear up, before suddenly wrapping him in a tight hug. He froze, awkwardly trying to pull away as she cried. "You saved us, you saved Ariel and Eric, and we left you -"

"If there's one thing I am good at, it is surviving." Freeing himself from her hold, he kicked a rock with his bare foot, and muttered under his breath, "I always survive."

Ariel looked up at him with a strange look of appraisal. "I owe you - we owe you our lives. Eric wouldn't have made it without that air, and you pushed me through while that shark -"

"Yes, I was there. I don't need to relive the buggering memory." He gritted out. "I need -"

"Name it, and I'll make it happen if I can," Ariel said, wincing slightly as she adjusted her position.

"Where's Emma?"

Ariel winced again, this time from his question. "Except for that. Leave her alone, she's - "

"Help me get back into her graces. That's my request for the debt you owe me for saving you." Killian crossed his arms, watching the flustered mermaid princess weigh her options. Pointing to her grim-faced mortal paramour, he offered his good hand. "For saving both of you. Shake on it."

"Emma does not want to see you, she's made that clear even to me," Eric began, and Killian glared at him with a crazed half smile.

"I wasn't aware that I asked you, mortal. If you're speaking for your woman, you may want to first discuss her opinions about you being an inferior species to her. In many of our views, a pet or play thing." Ariel looked horrified as the man looked at her with hurt.

"Ariel, what does he mean?" Eric asked, and Killian chuckled softly.

"Should I elucidate on who exactly deserves rights in your opinion, darling?" Killian smirked, and Ariel glared at him.

"She's in the upper east part of the caves. Follow the green turtle carvings. Please just let her be."

"Killian -" Marta began, but he shook a finger. The Darkness rose proudly in his chest.

"Oh no no no no, I'll do without the suggestions. You three owe me a debt, which I fully intend to collect. I'll expect your cooperation from now on, as I could have easily let all of you be chum. Start thinking of ideas to get Emma to trust me again while I do some work of my own."

"You're a bastard," Marta spat.

Killian laughed, turning on his heels as he magicked his clothing back on. Shooting her a cocky wink, he called over his shoulder, "And don't you forget it, love."

*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

Emma was sure she was breaking, her body too hot and breathing ragged as if she had eaten glass. The red in the water, the cries of pain, the portal closing around Ariel as Killian’s hands disappeared back into the dirty dark water as a shark flashed by… The stab of panic and despair made her swallow bile. She could not lose another, not another, not even if she hated him -

Opening the portal she grabbed blindly, gripping his shoulder, the feeling of a harsh electrical charge making her fingers numb. She curled them through it, wrenching him back as the shark shot towards them, dead eyes and teeth all she could see as the portal closed.

She let go of him as soon as possible, clutching her hand as it regained feeling. The world was spinning, the single minded focus of saving him giving way to realization of what she had done, to the sounds, the taste and smell of the blood in the water in her mouth. Nausea hit her roughly, a metal ball churning in her stomach, forcing her to close her eyes and steady her breathing. There was so much red, too much red -

"Emma, are you al-"

Her body reacted for her, choosing flight instead of fight. Pushing past the onslaught of Fae that were swimming out of the cave towards the sounds, Emma ripped off her cuff and threw on a robe as she ran. Twisting through tunnels and chambers, she found a path that led downwards, stumbling onto the beach's multicolored sand. Light flooded from a hole high above, tinting the still waters with the different colors of crystals that lay at the bottom.

Falling to her knees, Emma let out the first sob, digging her hands in the sand as it echoed around her.

Sbe hated this. It was weakness, her emotions in the way of her duties. She should be healing, should be composed - she needed to prove that she was no damsel in need of rescue. This wasn't resilience, this wasn't control, and this was nowhere near strength. She was failing, failing in every aspect of her change for the better. How could she ever prove to be a leader like this? Another cry shook her, her hands shaking even as she dug them further into the shore. Why? Why couldn't she control this, push it away, push it down and lay a smile over it?

Emma thought of her mom, the tired smile she gave that her eyes did not reflect. Emma had only seen her give it when she was upset or something was amiss, and she wondered if it was the same smile she gave delivering news about deaths in the same bloody water, the same red-tinged depths.

Her stomach heaved, the taste of copper on her tongue making her retch. There was nothing in her stomach apart from a few mint leaves she had chewed, her appetite far diminished, but her body tried to push anything out of her throat. Footsteps from the corridor surprised her, and she dreaded being found, curling herself into a ball. There was no one she wanted to see her like this, her old flaws laid out like a spill of ink into clear water. Peeking out as the footsteps stopped, she saw black boots against the rock hewn floor, just before the sand. There was quiet for a moment and she shut her eyes tight. Not him. Anyone else but him.

Footsteps started away from her and her stomach violently lurched with panic, even as she was glad her hands were buried so she could not reach for him. Flashes of Elsa's hand going limp mad her lungs tighten, images coming unbidden, fast and without stop. Her body and mind weren't her own anymore, these reactions getting worse, like a flood that could not be contained. Her heart beat out of her chest, and she flopped on her back shivering. This was a terrible way to suffer. Her father's bleeding skull in her mother's lap was in sudden focus as a sharp whine took over the noise around her.

She couldn't breathe, everything crushing at once, but then she was being sat up by soft hands -

"Emma. Emma it's okay, take a breath for me and focus on my voice."

Emma whined in response, opening her eyes to see a worried Robyn examining her. Alice stood behind her, moving from foot to foot, and wringing her hands.

"She's having a panic attack. He said that she hadn't looked well and fled here," Robyn commented, placing a cool rag on Emma's forehead. Emma sighed in slight relief, still shaking and numb in her fingers, toes, and legs. "Emma, have you eaten much today?"

"Nuffin'." Emma bit out, teeth chattering. Robyn's face fell, her eyebrows knitting together.

Alice knelt by her side, holding her hand. "He said she looked tired, too… Emma, babe, are you not sleeping? Are you not eating?"

Emma looked away, unwilling to meet Alice's eyes with her own. She attempted to curl her body away, but Robyn held her firm.

"You have to take care of yourself, too," Robyn said slowly, wiping at Emma's brow. "You can't keep every emotion inside and bottle everything up. You can't just ignore the pain and hope things get better, you need to talk about it, to take care of yourself and let people know if it's too much - "

"I'm scared to," Emma admitted, crying harder. Alice hugged her tightly, and they sat together as Emma lost herself in her grief. After some time, a strange catharsis set in, and they sat back together in soft conversation.

"Why are you both back? I thought you were going to Merlin to see if my magic could free him?" Emma murmured, her voice hoarse.

"Well…" Alice began, exchanging a glance with Robyn.

"He wasn't there," Robyn said slowly, with a sigh. "The tree stump is, as if it was cut down, but there's no indication of when, or by who, and if they cut it down we have no idea if he's alive or - "

Alice lightly touched Robyn on the shoulder, and she stopped. Emma nodded, chewing her lip hard enough to hurt. Another person her parents had probably destroyed.

"That's not what brought us here, though. Tink and Wendy are looking for more on Merlin, covering leads and rumors, because we - Well, someone needed us here," Alice said, her voice strange.

"Me." Emma sighed, her resignation and frustration flaring.

The two exchanged glances again, Robyn nervously adjusting her glasses while Alice twirled a blonde strand of her wildly curled hair.

"No, actually," Robyn mumbled.

Alice took Emma's hand again, examining her palm with interest. "You know, I can read palms right? Look at that love line, so rocky at first, and there's a little chip out of your li - "

"Who was it then?" Emma asked, making Alice tense.

Robyn looked Emma dead on, her face serious. "What is your relationship with the Dark One?"

#Hallow #Courtorderedcake #CSSNS #CSSNS 2019 #Captain Swan #Captain Swan Supernatural Summer

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unlockthelore · 4 years

Text

Sweater Strikes Back

The best part of being in a large and rather dysfunctional family was the lack of boredom. Every day was something new and there was a spectacular aspect to the mundane that Kurama lacked when he was simply going about his days pretending to be a human boy.

After meeting Hiei, falling in league with the others, and going on more than his fair share of adventures — he found a wealth of treasures in the people around him that outmatched all the ones he’d gathered during his days as a bandit. He loved and he lost in those days, gaining perspective in a quick brush with death, and later on a family all of his own.

Along with a loving husband and children to dote on day in and day out.

Though speaking of his husband and children, Kurama was ecstatic for Hiei’s return from the Makai. Mukuro was busy with her duties in Alaric so she wasn’t able to come to the Ningenkai for Christmas.

While the children had been admittedly downhearted with the lack of their grandmother’s presence, they were appeased to know that Hiei would take over delivering her presents to her including their drawings and other things.

Kurama wasn’t sure what Mukuro would do with all of it but for the children’s amusement, he’d filled a red sack with the presents then sent Hiei on his way. The fire demon was less likely to spark a flame with their children watching him with awe.

And Kurama knew that it meant a lot to Hiei to see their smiles. With the promise of getting him back and a quick kiss, Hiei was gone and Kurama was left to wrangle their children into their surprise for their father.

Finishing up the last few stitches on one of the sweaters, Kurama held it up and smiled at his handiwork. It was a dark red with miniature white foxes chasing snowflakes around the hem, patches of white along the elbows and the neckline. Setting it aside, Kurama glanced up at the sound of thundering footsteps.

“It fits, dad,” Kohaku said, swinging around the banister to peer into the living room with a wide smile.

He was twelve years old now and his hair had grown well past his shoulders, wavy and thick, it was tied up in a ponytail with a hair ribbon similar to the one Yukina wore. The light blue and eggshell white of his sweater a sharp contrast to the murky dark grayish-black tear gem connected to his earring. His dark-grey eyes bright as his gaze flicked down to his sweater, the depiction of flames lining across his chest and at the center of his stomach seeming to glow with his reiki.

“Figured out a new trick?” Kurama asked as Kohaku padded over, climbing up onto the arm of the couch.

“Yeah,” Kohaku said, settling on the couch arm and leaning over to press a kiss to Kurama’s cheek. “If I channel my energy, I can make it light up.”

Kurama listened to Kohaku’s explanation with a smile. No matter how old he got, Kohaku was still as affectionate as the little baby that Hiei brought through his window all those years ago.

And it warmed his heart to see him so excited and experimenting with his abilities. Kohaku’s fear of his own being broke Kurama’s heart and worried Hiei to no end. Seeing him come into his own and try to understand himself was the best gift they could’ve gotten.

“Where are your brother and sister?” Kurama asked, glancing up at the clock. “Papa will be home soon.”

Kohaku tilted his head and glanced at the staircase. “I think that Ai was playing with Youko and Genji was trying to get his tail to fit in his pants.”

Almost on cue, a little white fox came running down the steps two at a time, pausing at the last one to look up the staircase. Another set of thundering footsteps coupled with a flying leap came from upstairs, a little girl with messy dark hair sticking the landing, stumbling forward a bit with her arms wheeling around then catching herself. After a short pause, she turned to face Kurama and Kohaku with her arms stretched high over her head.

Her own sweater was a darker shade of grey with two violet dragons chasing their tails in the center and flames around the neckline and hem. And with her arms stretched over her head, Kurama was pleased to see that it was big enough for her to keep for a few more years.

“Good job, Aiko,” Kurama said over Kohaku’s cheering. “But try not to jump from that high, okay?”

The fox sitting beside Aiko’s feet tipped its head to one side before scrambling up her leg to scale her side and settle on her shoulder as she hurried into the living room. All but tackling Kohaku and draping herself across his legs as she looked up at Kurama with bright green eyes.

“It’s alright, dad. Haku told me a funny joke so if I remembered it at the last second, I’d just float.”

Kurama shook his head and tweaked her nose. “Just because you can use your powers to float doesn’t mean that you should abuse them.”

Neither Kurama or Hiei guessed that one of their children would manifest with powers connected to the Dragon of the Darkness Flame, and Aiko’s capabilities were just as unknown to them as the mythical entity itself.

It was a surprise to find that she could float when she was an infant, prone to lifting off when she was happy enough to be lighter than air. And considering her perpetual state of cheer, it was difficult to keep her on the ground.

Yet despite the unusual state of her being and her powers, Aiko seemed to take everything in stride. At nine years old, she was well on her way to learning how to control her powers with ease, likely taking after Hiei and his learning ability. Nonetheless, Kurama didn’t mind her silliness. She was a child despite being connected to an ancient being. And he wanted her to be a child as long as she could be.

“Come here, Youko,” Kurama cooed, the fox’s ears perking up as he clamored over to climb up onto the couch and curl up by Kurama’s side.

In lieu of having a dog or a cat, or any conventional pet, they had a fox. While Youko had started out as a stuffed fox, plush and made by Hiei’s hand, he’d been brought to life by Aiko two years ago. Only reverting back to his stuffed state when he desired but otherwise happy to tag along with the children to ensure that they weren’t getting into too much trouble.

“Now all we’re missing is…” Kurama leant forward and smiled as Genji came hopping down the steps two at a time.

Their only child that manifested as a youko, he bore a likeness to Kurama as the youko and his human form resembled Kurama’s own with a few key differences. At the tender age of four, he didn’t have much control over changing his forms and seemed more than happy as a youko. Silver hair brushing against his shoulders, his ears perking up and golden eyes brightening as he laid eyes on his siblings and Kurama, running over to clamber onto Kurama’s lap.

“I got my tail to fit!” He said proudly, the tail in question swaying with gusto.

“You did, little one.” Kurama said, balancing Genji on his lap as he leant over to grab his sweater, helping him pull it on. “And don’t you look nice?”

Genji grinned and snuggled closer to Kurama. It was times like this that Kurama couldn’t help but agree with Yusuke and Kuwabara’s thoughts on Genji being a “child-sized” version of the youko. Far more innocent than Kurama’s other form and infinitely cuter in his own personal bias, and definitely cuddle-sized. Genji enjoyed being doted on and soaked up his sibling’s praise and adoration along with Kurama’s arms settled around him.

After awhile, the children started to talk about their own sweaters and each other’s before Kohaku pointed at Kurama’s.

“What’s that on your sweater, dad?”

Aiko squinted at Kurama’s sweater and Genji wiggled to one side to look at it himself. “It almost looks like Papa.”

“Yeah…” Genji agreed, tipping his head to one side.

Kurama chuckled softly, brushing his fingers through his youngest son’s hair, rewarded with Genji’s rumbling purr. “When your Papa comes back, ask him to tell you the story of the little alien.”

“Little alien?” Genji asked, curling up and pillowing his cheek beside the caricature.

Aiko knelt behind Kohaku, her arms draped over his shoulders as she peered closer, effectively squishing her cheek against her brother’s. “What kind of story is that, dad?”

It was a testament to Kohaku’s balance that he didn’t go toppling over onto Kurama’s lap. And to spare the older boy all the weight, Kurama made room for them and reached out to bring Aiko closer to him, Kohaku settling beside her with a sigh.

“I’s part of the story of how Papa, Uncle Yusuke, Uncle Kuwabara, and I helped to save the realms.”

The children loved hearing stories about their adventures and before they could begin their onslaught of questions, the glass door leading to the backyard slid open and Hiei walked through with the empty sack thrown over his shoulder.

“Telling stories already?” He asked, after taking one look at them. His eyebrows knitted together, eyes narrowing when he noticed what they were wearing. “Wh— What are you all wearing?”

“Papa!”

The kids clamored off the couch, making a beeline for Hiei and hugging or in Genji’s case, scaling up the fire demon’s body to find a place to hold onto him. They launched into several talks and explanations of their day and their sweaters and asked about Mukuro and a number of other things. With the deluge of information, Hiei wasn’t sure which to answer first but he bore witness to their sweaters then leveled Kurama with a stare.

“Merry Christmas, anata.” Kurama said cheekily, resting his chin in hand as he leant against the couch arm.

Hiei rolled his eyes, setting the sack down and starting to try and wrangle their kids so that he could sit down himself, a smile playing on his lips once he finally flopped down beside Kurama.

“Merry Christmas,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to Kurama’s cheek.

#yu yu hakusho #kurahi #kurama #hiei #fanfiction #my fanfiction

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dergonageloser · 6 years

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The days Hawke spent in forced bedrest were long and dull. Even the books she’d bullied her new guard into fetching —Peige MacGill’Onaidh, what a wonderful name—became a chore to read. Not that it wasn’t a chore in the first place, given that the most interesting of the bunch was the History of Antivan Wines. Fenris might’ve liked that one.

Hawke sighed to herself. Even now, when she could limp around with a hastily-made crutch, she could only think about Fenris. Where was he now, she wondered. Was he hungry? Had he gotten enough sleep? The bitter cold of Ferelden suited him ill, and the constant dampness of the cold ground even more so. While Hawke herself hadn’t felt Ferelden’s chill in some time, the southern winds that tasted of mountains felt to her like she’d taken her first breath in years. But for Fenris, child of the Seheron jungles, the cold leeched his strength and stole the air from his lungs.

She looked across the frozen pond from where she sat upon the rotting pier. Her fingers played along the rough lines of her crutch.

The bed they shared was far too small for two people. But, now, the empty space seemed to swallow her like a cold bath. Bean, at least, made up some of the warmth Fenris had taken with him. But it’s not like Bean could wrap his massive paws around her as they slept, or stroke her hair when he thinks she’s asleep.

Five days, it’s been, and Hawke had already started pining like a maiden and wondering if her husband had enough blankets.

An eager barking drew her attention to Bean, who now slid across the ice with a pup-like glee. He lost his balance, and all four paws flew into the air with a yelp. He shook his head, tail still wagging, and looked back towards Hawke. His tail thumped harder as he let out a bark.

“Absolutely not,” Hawke told him, resting her chin in her hand. “If I fall, I’ll have Serah Adan on my arse. And he’s hardly even a healer. Anders would—”

Hawke clamped her mouth shut as soon as she realized what she’d said. She swallowed back the bitter lump that had been hanging around in her throat the past few days.

Damn him. Over three years since she’d cast him from her life and he could still put a damper on her day.

Hawke shook her head. Her day was already damp. She needn’t let him bother her now.

Her thigh tensed, and a dull throb rippled from the wound. Hawke grimaced and squeezed her hands into fists. It had finally stopped bleeding, but the pain lingered. It wasn’t until after the Kirkwall Incident that she realized how much she’d taken Anders for granted. He was an arse, a fuckwit, and a few shades of spiritually unstable. But no one could ever say he wasn’t the best healer in the Free Marches. Scrapes and bruises lasted minutes under his care, and injuries that normally took weeks to heal were gone within an hour.

And before him, she’d had Bethany. Before Bethany, she’d had their father.

Now, it was just Hawke and her shitty healing spell. She let her hand hover above the wound, brows pulling together in a squint as she focused her magic in her palm. It crackled once, twice. So easily could lightning and fire spark from her fingers, yet it took all of her willpower to turn her magic into something more soothing.

A few careful breaths, and her hand glowed a faint blue. The muscles in her thigh didn’t magically knit together, but the worst of the pain faded, and her body relaxed once more.

Bean, unaware of her inner turmoil, rolled onto his back and wiggled about. His feet kicked to the sky and his tail slapped against the ice as though he were but two years old. Hawke sighed and rested her chin on her palm. “I suppose it’s been a while since you’ve seen ice,” she said. “Kirkwall only ever had muddy slush. Did you miss Ferelden?”

Bean sneezed. His tongue lolled out from his mouth as his lips pulled back into a goofy mabari grin. His tail thumped even harder.

Hawke turned her head to look across the blankets of snow, piling atop the trees like icing. Crisp was the sky, and sharp the wind that brushed through her hair.

When she and Fenris had crossed into Ferelden the first time, and her eyes beheld the vast pine forests and the great mountains far in the distance, she’d turned away to hide the swarm of emotions pushing through. Fenris had surely noticed, as he’d placed a hand on her back to gently guide her away from the docks.

The last of the Amell line, of the Hawke legacy, and she dared return home.

Perhaps, Hawke had thought, perhaps this was her punishment.

A weight on her leg, and Hawke rested her hand on the mabari head that lay there. His feet shifted on the ice, sliding away from him, but he stubbornly held steady.

“Good boy,” Hawke said, scratching behind his ear.

A whisper of boots on the wood behind her. She turned her head, and there approached Leliana, nodding her head in a brief greeting to Peige, who stood guard on the bank. Her feet almost glided across the pier, rivaling even Fenris’ grace.

Hawke turned back to the pond. “I’ve already turned in my report on Corypheus and the Temple of Dumat and what have you.” She leaned back on her hands. “If you want a more detailed version, I’m sure Varric has his lying around somewhere.”

A chuckle, like wind chimes. “That is not what I’m here,” Leliana said, standing next to her. She paused, barely long enough for Hawke to notice. “May I?”

Hawke shrugged and scooted over to make room. Leliana crouched down, letting her legs dangle over the ice.

“Firstly,” Leliana said as she looked out across the pond. “I would like to apologize for the… poor impression I gave you.” She idly fiddled with the hem of her cloak. “I wanted to see what kind of person the Champion of Kirkwall really was.”

Hawke squinted at her, unsure at first what she was talking about. There were several impressions Hawke could think of. Then, she blinked, the memory of the late-night meeting in the Chantry fluttering to mind, when Fenris had yet to wake up and Hawke had been even more short-tempered than usual.

“So you intentionally pressed at my weak spots?” Hawke asked, narrowing her eyes.

Leliana nodded. “More like, I was determining what your weak spots are," she said. "That Fenris is yours speaks quite highly of you." She leaned forward to rest her elbows on her knees. "It’s a little strange to me now, that among proud Ferelden, basic manipulation is considered bad form,” she said. “But when you’ve played the Game as long as I have, it’s merely a survival tactic.” She folded her hands and looked at Hawke. “Still, I apologize.”

Hawke looked away, towards the snowcapped mountains. The glare of the harsh white hurt her eyes. She wasn’t entirely faultless, as her metaphorical hackles were always spring-loaded, like a complex, dwarven trap. Spikes and all. And figures of authority almost always made it worse. Something about her rebellious nature, as her mother would say. It’s entirely possible that Hawke was simply… easily threatened.

But she wouldn’t tell Leliana that.

“Don’t suppose I could ask you to not manipulate me, could I?” Hawke said.

“You could,” Leliana replied. “And I’d try not to. But sometimes it can be beneficial. A commander picks the words that best rallies the troops, after all.”

Hawke hummed. “Then let’s just tack on a sign that says, ‘Manipulate at own risk’.”

Leliana laughed. “I’ll remember to pass the word on to Josephine.”

“Much appreciated.”

A yelp drew Hawke’s attention back to the pond, where Bean had once again flopped to his side. He shook his head and pawed at his ear. Alas, it wasn’t enough to stop him, for barely a heartbeat passed before he carefully got back on all fours.

Hawke watched him play, the corners of her lips twitching. She could almost imagine he was a decade younger, playing with her siblings as they scraped across ice with their handmade skates. Carver had all the elegance of a newborn hart, and he frequently found his feet flying from under him. He had been Bean’s main source of amusement in these moments. Bethany wasn’t much better, truth be told, but at least she could skate backwards for a solid five seconds.

The familiar squeeze in her chest appeared like a friend you only tolerated, but Hawke was surprised to find that it didn’t hurt nearly as much as it once did.

Even more of a surprise, Hawke noticed with a touch of suspicion, was that Leliana still sat next to her.

Hawke suppressed a sigh. “Why else are you here?”

A smile touched Leliana’s cheeks, but faded as her brow pinched just a little. She reached into a pack resting on her hip and withdrew something. Hawke leaned closer, frowning when she recognized the arrow that had pierced her thigh. The wound in question throbbed, and she tightened her fist over it.

“We were able to locate the smith that made this,” Leliana spoke, turning the arrow over in her hands. “Varric was correct, there are only a few that make this specific kind of arrow these days. It’s cheap, a little unorthodox, but effective.” Leliana nodded to her wound. “As you’ve discovered for yourself.”

Hawke’s lips quirked downward. “Alright, so how does that help us? Can the smith remember everyone he sells to?”

A loud thump drew Hawke’s eye for a moment, where Bean was wriggling across the ice like an overjoyed worm. A couple of villagers lingering near the shore pointed at him, their quiet laughter bouncing along the ice.

“There are a few possibilities as to who is behind all this,” Leliana said. “Enemy of the Champion, random bandit, rogue templar—” she held out a hand, bending a finger for each point. “Talking to the blacksmith might help narrow it down a little.”

Hawke slid her jaw to the side. Bean had gotten back to his feet and was trotting to the shore towards the villagers. He bowed in a play gesture, rump wiggling high in the air, though his front paws slid out from under him again. Still, his tail whipped back and forth furiously. The villagers gave him a few claps and tossed him bits of their lunch.

“What will you do,” Hawke asked. “When you figure out who they are?”

Leliana didn’t reply immediately, which was answer enough. More laughter from the shore carried across the pond as the villagers tried to get Bean to catch each toss. Despite his unstable footing, Bean performed admirably, jumping up and snatching the food out of the air.

When Leliana finally spoke, she said only, “We’ll gift them the regards of the Inquisition.”

She really shouldn’t be pushing herself just yet, but Hawke found that she was quickly tiring of Haven. Much too cramped together. Kirkwall had been as well, but its size made up for it. And before that, her family lived on farms with sizeable plots of land—cheap land, but land nonetheless. You had to plan a whole day around actually visiting neighbors.

So here Hawke was, putting space between herself and the eyes of Haven by going on a walk in the forest. A poor, less-than-thoughtful idea on a few fronts. Firstly, there were many, many roots and rocks to trip over—something she’d already achieved at least twice by now. And then, of course—

“If you’re injured or killed by another bandit,” Peige grumbled behind Hawke. “I’ll tell Lady Cassandra this ‘walk’ was your foolish idea.”

Hawke huffed without looking back. “And you wouldn’t be lying, of course,” she said cheerily, knocking a rock out of the way with the butt of her staff. “But be honest, you hardly tried to stop me, a temporary cripple.”

The response was swift and cutting. “’D’ruther fight off bandits than endure your whining.”

Hawke snickered. Varric must have picked Peige as her guard, if this was the sort of back talk she'd be getting. There was something about strong swordsmen—well, swords-women—that made her feel at home. Like she was going to be nagged about noise complaints and destroyed property any moment.

Damn, Hawke missed Aveline.

She paused to lean against a tree for a moment, pretending to adjust the straps holding her bandages together. Really, she just needed a breath. Her last dose of an elfroot poultice had been some time ago. “Well, are you surprised at all?” she asked Peige. “Pretty sure there’s a book about my adventures of foolish endeavors. And yet people are still disappointed.”

Up ahead, Bean buried his nose in a clump of snow, shoveling it around in search of something. He raised his head, and Hawke giggled behind her hand at the snow frosting his muzzle.

“You must not have read it,” Peige replied. She scanned the forest around them as Hawke gathered herself back up. “Varric did well painting you a mighty hero.”

This, Hawke knew. She’d read the earlier versions of his manuscript. Even now she still had trouble deciding if she liked it.

“A reader of his, hm?” Hawke said. “And what are your thoughts?”

Peige didn’t look at her, still searching between the distant trees. “Admittedly, it’s not his best work.”

That startled a laugh out of Hawke.

“I’d imagine not,” she managed, her lips forming a crooked smile. “Everyone prefers the happy endings.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Hawke noticed Peige turn her head in her direction. Hawke decided she wasn’t interested in whatever expression she made. Instead, she pushed herself off the tree, patting Bean on the head as she passed.

Some time later, when the sun had just started sinking towards the horizon, Hawke picked the barest rock she could see and carefully lowered herself down. The entirety of her thigh ached. She brushed her fingers across the bandages, letting a small amount of healing magic seep into the wound.

Peige leaned against a tree, watching Bean stick his nose in some bushes. “We should head back soon,” she said, though her tone suggested it wasn’t so much of a we should as a we will. Hawke wanted to argue, but the thought of propping her leg up on pillows and taking a long doze prodded the back of her mind and she found herself, for once, in agreement.

“Fine,” she replied. She reached into her pack for her water pouch. “I reserve the right to be carried.”

“Denied.”

“Hmph, fair enough.”

Before the mouth of the canteen touched her lips, however, Hawke’s eyes flitted towards movement among the trees. She squinted, lowering the pouch. Bean’s ears twitched, and he lifted his nose to the air, a growl crawling up his throat.

Two soldiers, then another a ways behind them, rushed through the snow-laden underbrush. Hawke scanned the forest, searching. Two, maybe three more soldiers further to the west.

“Ser Peige?” Hawke spoke, bracing her staff into the ground to heave herself up. “In your experience, what does a group of hurried soldiers tell you?”

Peige also had her eyes on her comrades, her hand drifting toward her sword reflexively, brow pinched under her helmet. “Nothing good, my lady.”

Hawke nodded. “My thoughts as well,” she said, pushing from her heel and taking careful strides in the direction of the soldiers.

Peige caught on quickly. “We really shouldn’t—”

“Doing it anyway!”

Before Peige could stop her, Hawke was already picking her way through the trees, with Bean brushing past her legs to lead the way. He let out a few warning barks, just to let the soldiers know he was coming. Hawke tried to make out what they were gawking at, uneasily wiping their brows and pointing at something above eye level. Peige’s heavy footfall was close behind her.

Finally, Hawke pushed past the soldiers, and her stomach fell when she looked up.

“Shit,” she whispered, her hand moving to her mouth.

Strung up in a tree, with bloodied ropes cutting through the skin of his wrists and ankles, was an elf. Blood dripped from his broken nose, from cuts along his arms, neck and torso, forming a dark red stain in the snow below him. There was hardly an uninjured inch of him, from what Hawke could see.

Most alarmingly, his hair was white.

This was not Fenris, she told her heart as it considered bursting from her chest in a fit of panic. There weren’t any markings carved into his skin, and his jaw was much weaker. That didn’t mean it was easy to cast aside the image tearing into her mind. If she squinted, it could resemble him—

Hawke shook her head and turned back to the soldiers. “Do any of you know this man?” she asked, careful to keep her voice steady. She might not have the authoritative bark that Aveline possessed, but people still seemed to snap to attention when she spoke at a certain pitch. Honestly, it was all in the diaphragm.

A mumbling chorus of no’s and shaking heads was the response she got. Still, most of the soldiers were looking at her now. A sigh broke past Hawke’s lips, and she turned to step closer to the elf.

No markings at all, not even Dalish ones. And though the clothes were ripped and stained with blood, they spoke of a commoner, and his worn boots of a farmer. But the Harvest hadn’t been that long ago, so a thriving farmer wouldn’t be as skinny as he was now. At least, in Hawke’s past experience of farming, he would’ve had at least another month or two before the bounties of his crops ran out.

Peige stepped up beside her. “He looks to be a refugee, my lady,” she murmured.

Somehow, that just made it worse.

“He came here to escape bloodshed,” Hawke said. “Oh the irony—”

Hawke stopped short, her heart jumping in her throat. She leaned in, stretched her fingers as close to the man’s mouth as she could. One, two, three heartbeats of silence.

Then, her fingers warmed, just enough.

Hawke whirled around with curses on her tongue. “You blasted fools didn’t even check if he was breathing?!” She gestured sharply at them. “Get him down, now! And you—!” she pointed to one as the rest rushed to the cut the elf’s bindings. “Go find Adan, tell him he has a new patient.” He nodded and broke into a sprint towards the village.

The rest of the soldiers, Peige included, had already managed to cut the ropes and were carefully lowering the elf to the ground. Hawke approached, scanning his body to note each injury. No missing limbs, a good start. No noticeable punctures or gashes around his vital organs. Even the many cuts looked like they’d been strategically placed where he wouldn’t bleed out all at once. Clearly, whoever was behind this wanted the man to endure a long, painful death.

Hawke picked her way through the soldiers—a few of them already making emergency patches—to kneel by his head. His face had been beaten senselessly. It was broken and swollen in so many places, it was doubtful any friends or family would recognize him at first glance—

She paused, her eyes darting to the specks and splashes of white decorating his face and ears. She hadn’t noticed them before. His hair—unnaturally stiff and cracked. She gently took a lock between her fingers. Dry crumbs of white came loose.

“Paint?” Peige echoed Hawke’s thoughts as she looked on.

Hawke nodded, her blood running cold as numb realization budded in her mind.

This wasn’t a random attack. This was a statement.

Someone was after Fenris.

#fenris: herald of andraste #fenris #hawke #fenhawke #inquisitor!fenris #percy hawke #custom hawke #dragon age #dragon age: inquisition #dragon age 2 #tink's writing

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bluebookbadger-blog · 7 years

Text

The Price of a Life - Chapter 13

Title: The Price of a Life Fandom (s): Fullmetal Alchemist/Fullmetal Alchemist Brotherhood Summary: I always thought waking up in another world would be a lot more…interesting. At least slightly exciting and terrifying, but it really wasn’t. It was more of a sudden and underwhelming event, that landed me in the company of fiction and its ignorance to modern physics. I thought it was a dream. Boy was I wrong. Characters: SI/OC, Maes Hughes, Edward Elric, Alphonse Elric, etc. Rating: PG-13

I woke up gasping for air, my lungs taking panicked, hollow breaths that did little to actually pump oxygen into my blood. I was shaking with terror, my body soaked in sweat. My hands were splayed in the dirt as I knelt there shivering, as if some unseen weight was forcing me down and my arms were about to give out. My ears were ringing, and my vision faded in and out. All I could do was breath and hope the feeling of terror would pass.

It had not been a nightmare, I would have been able to remember it if it were, but whatever had terrified me seemed worse than any empty train car or chasing apparition. My breathing slowly returned to normal, the fresh, clean air of the night filling my lungs. The fire burned brightly, and the strange stars danced high above.

'Did I even sleep?' I thought to myself, the sleeping children undisturbed by my alarming outburst. It took longer for my hands to obey me, slowly releasing the fistfuls of sand and my arms folding around my midsection for comfort. A hand rose and touched my choker necklace, the metal of the cross warm to the touch.

"God, am I sick?" I whispered to myself, the breeze chilling me to the bone.

"You are not Ishvalan, child," A familiar, deep voice said softly with a hint of disappointment, startling me. I jumped away from its source, and my bag succeeded in keeping me from from falling on top of one of the slumbering children. I looked up, the Brother sitting calmly by the fire. I felt a wave of relief, as though I expected someone else to be there.

"No," I finally said in agreement as he looked to me in silence. "I didn't mean to deceive anyone, I was just trying to," I paused briefly, not knowing how to word my cowardice of running away from everyone, "Find a home," The old man smiled, the crow's feet at the corners of his eyes deepening.

"You are still welcome here, though I am curious as to why you would want to live in a place such as this," He motioned to the lopsided shacks made out of disused trash. "When you've clearly come from the very heart of Central." The Brother motioned to my attire. Though sweat soaked and dirty, the stiff blouse collar and high boots were distinct from the loose, flowing robes and sandaled feet of the other slum residents.

"I move around a lot. Like I said, I'm just trying to figure out where I fit in," As if I could ever belong in another world. I thought to myself.

"I must say you did work without complaint, which is uncommon of those unaccustomed to manual labor. I presume that's why you thought you could find a place among us?"

"Perhaps. It reminds me of one of my past homes." It was the main reason for my stay, subconsciously though. Yes, the labor was hard and my bones and muscles were so stiff I did not think I would be able to stand, let alone work when the sun rose. However, it was something I knew I could do. Something in this world I understood. Despite the physical discomfort, the work in the fields was a psychological comforter that reminded me of the world I once belonged to, a world to which I might never return.

"I take it you've traveled far," I nodded.

"I'm from Drachma," I said automatically, the name sounding as natural to me as Connecticut.

"Why didn't you stay?" I looked down at my hands. I needed to keep on the good side of as many people as possible, for the sake of not sleeping in a garbage can or in the sewers. Saying I came in search of medical alchemy to save my fictional dying mother would not go over well with the Ishvalans. I hadn't really thought of what my excuse would be in this situation.

"If you haven't noticed already, I don't look particularly Drachman." I said, motioning to my face. A curl of pale blonde hair tickled my ear, and I pushed it back out of my face. A hair cut was desperately needed. "I traveled around, found Amestis, and figured I would settle down for a bit, see how it was."

"You're lucky not to have come to Amestris a few years ago," Brother responded in a lighthearted manner, but I could hear a darker undertone to his deep voice. "I'm sure you've heard of the war," I gave a grim smile, my jaw tightly clenched. I didn't want to talk about war, and violence, and death. Not after the awakening I had.

"People are capable of great evil," I responded, mostly to myself than to the Brother. He smiled, the wrinkles in his face deepened by the flickering shadow of the fire light.

"And they are capable of even greater good," I knit my eyebrows and glanced to the sky.

"That's an optimistic outlook," I noted, watching the bright stars above as intently as though I were reading an enrapturing novel. I had to keep myself from asking aloud how someone who had surely witness the pit of man's evil could possibly believe in infinite good. I believed people were capable of great acts of kindness, but I also felt that people were inclined to act out of selfishness - my own actions the past few weeks proving that point farther.

"Ishvala grants all of us with the ability to transcend our human desires and to experience true peace and goodness with Him," The Brother said in response, his laughing red eyes studying me for a reaction as he continued, "Regardless of our trust in Him or His ways,"

"We have very similar philosophies then," I said with a sigh, the scent of candle smoke at Church back home briefly detected from the flames of the fire.

"Do you believe in a different greater force?" I looked again to the stars.

"Yes, I believe Him to be the one true God, just as you believe Ishvala to be the one true creator of the earth," I stopped, seeing the tail of a shooting star streak just above the horizon. "Maybe we even have the same God, just different names,"

"Perhaps," The Brother sounded thoughtful. "What do you call your deity?" I was enjoying the conversation, and it was interesting to see how curious the Brother was about my religion, regardless of how true and untrue some of my answers were bound to be.

"Well, to us He is the God, so we simply call Him God." I scraped the farthest recesses of my memory to find a name from some years old scripture passage or CCD lesson. "In the old scripts He was called...Yahweh? Yes, Yahweh. I'm not sure if we're supposed to call Him by that name, I'm not as well versed in the Church Catechisms as I should be," I said with a hint of embarrassment.

"You are well educated in your religion, is it common for your holy scripts to be available to all?"

"Well, in the medieval age there was a split in the Church 'cause Luther wanted it to be translated then he realized he was digging a hole for himself, so he just ended up leaving an making his own version; there are other Protestants who are real strict but don't like the Pope, then you've got the Anglicans..." I trailed off, realizing I wasn't answering the question. "Nowadays, yes, just about everything is in the vernacular. I take it Ishvalans don't have their scriptures privy to the common folk?"

The Brother nodded.

"Are there different factions of your religion? I would think it would be hard to keep everyone true to the faith after being scattered by the war." I wondered aloud, curious about the organization of the Ishvalan faith. Brother responded with a soft snort of amusement.

"Change is inevitable in our situation, and I assume not all are as faithful as they were, it wouldn't surprise me if there are many modified versions of the faith." He turned his eyes to the sky, the stars sparkling above. "So long as they preach our message of peace, I do not think I would care for whatever changes they may have made to the old doctrines." My eyes searched the sky one more. I wanted to change the subject, as all this talk of religious factions and doctrines the was getting too formal and too nostalgic for me to bear.

"Do you have names? For the stars?" I asked, the question bugging my since I first noticed the unfamiliar skyscape. The Brother too seemed happy to move on from the otherwise tiresome topic of catechisms.

"Of course," He said, searching the sky for a moment. "The stars are not as clear as they are in the Holy Land, but you can see Archia, the serpent," He pointed to a row of bright stars that sat at the edge of the sky but still shone brightly, "And Ishvala, standing over it," It took a bit more looking to make out the stick figure of dots that was vaguely reminiscent of a man.

"I see it," I said, squinting at the stars. The glare of the fire light had stung my eyes, but now the hot coals burned low, a gentle caress of red on the sandy earth.

"And there," The Brother pointed straight above us, the brightest star in the sky blazing with cold light. If one could see beyond the light, two or three smaller stars flanking the bright one. "That is the crown of Askba, Ishvala's daughter," Brother sighed, a faint smile playing on his dry, chapped lips as he studied the sky with blissful delight. "Back in the Holy Land you could see it much more clearly, I must admit I miss seeing the stars with that sharpness."

"I'm sure you do," I said, finally realizing that Amestris indeed had a Holy Land. 'So that was what Winry was referring to in her Rush Valley exposition...'

"Do you see any constellations that remind you of Drachma?" My eyes drifted back to earth, the rough sand suddenly more interesting than the smooth, silver stars.

"No," I admitted, the pin pricks of white seeming disorganized and alien once more. "I don't think you can see the same constellations this far south,"

"That's a pity, you must miss that familiarity," Brother said softly, head bowed and his grey beard resting on his chest.

I yawned. The first hint of dawn tinged the distant horizon with a few pale ripples, and I internally groaned at the sight. I had barely slept, and I ached all over. I didn't even know if I could stand up, my legs lead weights attached to my body. Unfortunately, or, perhaps, fortunately, Brother noted my agony.

"Don't overwork yourself, you may stay with the children for today, no one will notice." I raised an eyebrow.

"Are you sure? I wouldn't want to worry-"

"Of course it's fine, and," He glanced around as one of the children yawned, and rolled over. It was the boy to which I had given my jacket. "The children could use someone to keep an eye on them during the day," I gave a half smile and nodded. In the distance, I would hear the rumble of a old engine as the truck's rickety frame groaned and creaked.

Suddenly, the horde of children perked up, eyes bright and alert. They moved silently but with haste, creeping into the shacks with steps so soft they barely made an imprint in the sandy earth. The girl from the night before allowed her gaze to linger on me before glancing at the Brother, who nodded sagely. She stepped in that soft-footed manner towards me, and extended a hand.

"Before they send you to work," She whispered, her voice soft yet hoarse, as though she rarely spoke above a whisper. I struggled to my feet and let her lead me, each stepping making the pain in my ankles shoot tendrils of agony throughput my body. Every step was anguish, my bones rubbing against each other and audibly creaking with effort. Somehow we made it to the tent, where I ungracefully collapsed back to the ground.

Bodies lined the sides of the shack, flush against the walls in an attempt to become nothing more than a shadow. I gave a suspicious glance around the darkness, but was grateful to see no evidence of Pride's spying eyes.

It was quiet for a while. It was the kind of dark quietness, filled only by the heartbeats and shallow breaths of an invisible crowd. That would make most people claustrophobic. I, personally, was silently grateful for the enclosed space and warmth of nearby bodies. It felt safe, it felt natural and primitive, like being in your mother's womb.

This silence continued until the rumble of a struggling truck filled the air, dust kicked up by its bald tires infiltrating the shack. The breathing of the children slowed, and so I tried to slow my own, quieting every breath to conceal our location. The truck rumbled away, but the children did not move.

It seemed as though hours had passed, and indeed quite a few must have, before a child near the improvised tarp doorway peered outside. We waited for some signal that the coast was clear before filing out of the cramped space and soaking in the rays of late morning sunshine.

I gave a contented sigh as the light warmed my aching bones, the hot dirt beneath my feet relaxing the cramped and tense muscles. The children also seemed to enjoy the warm air, laying down in the sand and tracing figures in the earth. I sat next to the girl who had led me to the shack, her face serene and eyes peaceful as she stared at the passing clouds in calm reverie.

"So," I began, my voice sounding too loud amidst the comfortable silence. "You guys do this all day?"

"Just in the morning," She responded, her voice so soft and brimming with bliss. "We warm up and say our morning prayers, then we go into town for food." I nodded, feeling a smile creep onto my lips at the mention of food.

"Do you mind if I join you?" The girl smiled back at me, stretching once more before settling on her knees.

"Not at all, the Brother wouldn't want you to stay here all by yourself anyway," She stretched her arms forward and pressed her forehead to the ground, a pose I only knew from my mother's yoga obsession as Child's Pose. The other children were also in this position, their arms reaching in the direction of the sun.

I yawned and copied them, feeling the tension in my hips give way in a quiet pop as the joints reconciled. It was relaxing to lay like that, with the sun beating down on my aching spine and my hands feeling the coolness of the layers of dirt beneath them. I knew that this was how they prayed, and stealing a glance around saw the faces of the children contorted with focus. I shot a few short prayers to my own deity, hoping for nothing to change this new setting in which I had found comfort.

After only a few minutes, I was bored by the stretch, and itched to go into town for food. As if on cue, my stomach began it recitation of Oedipus Rex in whale. I tried to press myself deeper into the sandy earth, embarrassment reddening my already sunburnt ears. The younger children gave a few giggles, their own hungry bellies orchestrating whale calls of their own.

The girl, who I have decided to call Sandy due to our matching sand filled pale locks, gave a chuckle of her own as she sat up, the older children who had thus far resisted the urge to relax a little copying her example.

"Okay, okay, we can go now," Sandy managed through her smile. The children stood up, stretching once more as the pleasantly warm morning sunlight became the overbearing heat of midday. The younger children, from toddlers to tweens filed back into the shacks, each accompanied by one slightly older child. This left a small group of about ten of us left. These kids were in their teens, their bodies gangling and disproportionate, probably due to a lack of nutrition.

An inspiring idea flickered in my mind at the thought, and I retrieved my bag from the shack it resided in to rummage for supplies.

Meanwhile, I could hear Sandy issuing orders that pertained to certain parts of the downtown sector. Train stations, restaurants, street corners - it finally clicked that they were debating the best places to either beg for food or find the money to buy it.

Again my heart constricted in pity, and in self-loathing. So many times I had seen these very children on the streets of Central, and not once had I stopped to pay them or give them something. What a selfish, awful, self-centered brat-

"Miss. Irish?" Sandy asked, her voice quavering as though she was still unsure if she was permitted to call me by name. I stopped my frantic rummaging and looked up, eyes wide and attentive. "We're leaving now, you can come with me,"

I looked once more at the satchel I had packed with necessities from my bag. My Certificate wedged at the bottom for emergencies, about a hundred cenz to buy food for as many kids as I could, and the knife from Hughes. Satisfied with the supplies, I nodded to myself, closed the bag and followed.

We had arrived in the more populous region of the slums after a short walk, and I was doing my best to ignore the ache in my stomach and the ache in my feet.

The street we were on was lined with carts and other vendors hoping to make a buck, or in this world, a cenz. Some sold dishes and cups, others sold herbs and remedies, while others still hoped to sell a few homemade trinkets. The scene vaguely reminded me of a boardwalk in Rhode Island where my parents would take us during the summer, but the oppressive heat and smell of sweat and toil rising from the dusty dirt street reminded me this was anything but home.

The other children had taken off by the time I reined in my nostalgia and focused on the present. Sandy pulled me through the crowd by my hand, her stride constantly fluctuating based on the number of shady figures attempting to offer us a job at the local club and stray dogs blocking our path. I instinctively dug my hand into my satchel, gripping the handle of the knife periodically to remind myself it was there.

We arrived at a dilapidated building, the brick foundation crumbling and the off white facade darkened by dirt and time. I stared at the sign for a moment, trying to decipher why we were at 'Auntie Elosa's Bath House', the name of which was no reassurance. Inside of the building, it was dark, the air humid and dank. Only a few candles strung about the ceiling and on counters illuminated the faces of tired old women and the other children.

I wanted to ask why we were here or all places for food when a rotund lady came from a back room, clad only in a dingy towel. Her long white hair was thinning, plastered to her neck and shoulders like a ghostly veil. The wrinkles in her face seemed like deep ravines carved into the landscape by time, wind, and sorrow. Despite this, her bright red eyes gleamed with joy and pride at the sight of us, a smile stretching from ear to ear as she approached.

It might sound strange, but with that smile she seemed to grow younger, more beautiful. They do say happiness looks good on everyone, and for this woman, it looked as though she just found out she was a grandmother.

"Child, you have brought a visitor!" She announced, rushing me with a speed I couldn't fathom for a woman of her age and size. I clutched my satchel close, my hand already wrapped around the knife's handle out of habit. The woman held my shoulders, staring deeply into my own pale pink irises. She never stopped smiling.

"Auntie, this is Miss. Irish, she's staying with us and the Brother." Sandy explained, holding back a giggle as Auntie ran a hand through my hair. I yelped in surprise and pain when her fingers caught a tangle of my thick locks.

"Sorry deary," She turned to the other children, assessing each of them one by one, occasionally pulling up her towel to prevent it slipping down to reveal her generous endowment to us. "Look at all of you, you're a mess!" She exclaimed smudging the dirt on a boy's cheeks. "Ajah, show our guest to the showers, would you darling?"

"Yes Auntie," Sandy - who, I presume is really Ajah, responded.

"And the rest of you! To the showers at once, you're filthy, filthy, filthy! How dare you spend so much time rolling in the dirt to say your prayers, go!" Auntie shouted, ushering the rest of the children after us. Ajah hurriedly led me to the back room, where both walls were lined with stalls. Ajah entered a stall, and I followed in suit. The cramped wooden space hand only a bench and a towel hung on a peg. I assumed this meant I was expected to bathe, not that I was arguing. A refreshing bath could go a long way.

I emerged wrapped in the towel, the rough fabric in stark contrast to the soft, fluffy towels I was used to at the Hughes' residence. My heart caught in my throat at the thought, my mind spinning all of the possibilities of what was going on back in the heart of Central. Had the Elrics returned from Dublith? Did they know about Hughes? Had Ross been 'killed' by Mustang? The timeline was very loose in terms of days and weeks, it was possible they could have even returned to the Fifth Laboratory, and Havoc could be paralyzed-

"Miss. Irish? Are you okay?" I looked up at the owner of the voice, Ajah standing with her towel held over her shoulder. In front of me the other children marched deeper into the building, towels held in their arms or over their shoulders. I blinked a few times, staring at the ground in an attempt to determine why I couldn't see anything despite the dim lights. I shook my head, recalling that my glasses had fogged up upon entering the building, and now resided in my satchel.

"Sorry, I've never gone to a bath house before," I looked down at my towel, and held it tighter around my chest. "Am I not supposed to cover up?" Ajah smiled, her eyes twinkling with impish amusement as she started walking down the corridor.

"We're not of marrying age yet, so we usually bathe together." She explained, glancing at my pale collar bone and legs that contrasted with the dirt covered hands and face. "You can use the showers though, if you'd like,"

We came into a large room that reminded me of an indoor hotel pool, with one small pool, one large, and a shower area. The other children were already in the large bath, a wooden construction that was slightly smaller than a house pool. The small pool appeared to be a hot tub of sorts, three old women overseeing the children as they splashed and washed below.

I walked over to the showers, an area in the corner of the humid bath house that surely was home to a great variety of mold species. The shower was crude, constructed of silvery pipes and a colander like shower head that perpetually dripped. Once more I revisited my fear of lead poisoning. Deadly lead poisoning. Or a refreshing shower. Deadly Poisoning. Refreshing Shower. I decided to take present comfort over future worries, and turned the knob on the pipe to the left.

An unhealthy sounding gurgle and sputter of water later, and I was enjoying the best shower I had taken since I arrived in an alternate reality. Mind you readers, this was the only shower I had taken in Amestris. The water was freezing cold, so much so that I nearly dropped my towel when testing the temperature. After a moment of fiddling with knobs and discovering that the only preference was Antarctic ice floe, I set the towel on a peg on the wall and proceeded to shower.

There was no soap to use, but after a few minutes of shivering self-consciously, I adjusted to the temperature and did my best to rid my hands and feet of the dirt and filth of the past day. I faced away from the shower head, fearful of accidentally ingesting some lead pipe shower water. Not a soul noticed me standing there, naked and bare in the corner of the bath house. I rubbed my legs, acutely aware I hadn't shaved since I arrived, and equally aware of how sickly I had become.

I had always had, what my mother referred to as a 'healthy amount' of chubbiness, what she told me was insurance against a bad snow storm or food shortage. It never really bothered me, and I wasn't obese by any means, but I had lost that safety cushion of fat during my time in Amestris.

Maybe it was the interruption to my strict regimen of breakfast, lunch, dinner, or perhaps it was the stress and anxiety that had overworked my body, but my legs had grown too thin for my liking, and my ribs too prominent.

My skin had a sheen of what I can only call sickliness, that off white, not quite pale but not shaded enough to be any particular color but held a hue of blue-grey-green. I ran my hands through my hair, working through the knot Auntie had found. I promised myself that as soon as I could, I was going to start getting back into a healthy eating habit.

I looked at the children in the pool, realizing that shared the same underfed overworked gauntness, but their bodies churned whatever energy providing food they consumed into coils of wiry muscle, where I became more cadaverous. Still, their eyes were sunken and their ribs could be counted. None of us were a picture of perfect health.

We all need to eat better. I thought, trying to find any other thought to occupy my mind. I eventually found myself humming, something that usually evolved into horrible, awful, terrible song should I stay too long in the shower. I couldn't place the particular lyrics or song name, but I knew the melody was classical. Perhaps from Beethoven.

A little while later, we were all back in the changing stalls. I was still humming the tune to the mystery song as I changed, in a pleasant mood once more. Though, I must admit putting dirty clothes onto a recently showered body was a little bit of a deterrent. I rummaged through my satchel to grab my glasses when I noticed something. My money was gone. The song evaporated and a groan accompanied by the sound of my head hitting the wall managed to reach the ears of my...acquaintance? Friend? Guide?

"Are you okay Miss. Irish?" Ajah asked, knocking on the door. I sighed, thinking about the dull ache in my stomach.

Whoever took the money probably needed it. I assured myself before speaking. "I'm fine, don't leave without me now," Ajah chuckled at my response.

"Don't worry, I won't." I put on my glasses and followed her out, a forced smile hopefully appearing to be anything but.

Outside the sun beat down on the two of us, the streets mostly empty.

"Where is everyone?" I asked, relieved that a cloud blotted out most of the sunlight so that I could see without struggling against the blinding light.

"Eating, don't tell me you're not hungry anymore?" I snorted at Ajah's response.

"I am always hungry," I retorted, though it sounded a lot better in my head. We walked down the street, passing the vendors who enjoyed some afternoon naps and lunch breaks. "So, Ajah," She visibly winced at the sound of her name, alerting me that it was probably best not to refer to her by name. "Sorry, I heard Auntie call you that, and you seemed okay calling me Irish, and I just thought-"

"No, no, it's fine, I'm just not used to hearing my name from any of the others," She gave a sheepish smile. "We're not really supposed to use our names with strangers. Auntie's an old woman, and we respect her. She just isn't as devoted as she used to be before..."

"I understand, people lose faith in times of struggle, it happens everywhere," The gears of my mind were whirring, pondering how many versions of the Ishvalan faith there could be. With no organized religion after the war, it wouldn't be surprising to see people who's faith has warped as much as Auntie's. Or Scar's. A sigh from Ajah drew me back from my thoughts.

"I worry about the little ones, that they won't learn to respect Ishvala and his laws," Her eyes stared at the earth, misting over with deep thought. "Brother is getting older, and there aren't very many monks left to teach us in Ishvala's ways," Her eyes darted up at me, searching for any sign of reproach or annoyance. I watched her with an attentiveness I hoped she could interpret as genuine curiosity. "Look at that! We're here," Ajah announced, clearly glad for the distraction.

It was a little soup shop, brimming with customers. On either side of the door, a bouncer eyed us warily. The band of Ishvalan youths huddled at the counter were just another source of income, and I assumed the owner wouldn't want paying customers to be reported to athorities.

Ajah and I found seats among the group, where we observed one of the boys count out cenz. Most of the money was dingy - crumpled up, muddy, or otherwise appearing as though it had been dug out of a sewer.

One child added a small stack of cenz to the pile, crisp, clean bills. No one seemed to notice as the older boy counted the money out and bargained with the server. I found myself memorizing the child's face with a bubble of ire building in my throat. His head was clean shaven, though a few tufts of silvery hair had been missed. His right ear bore scars, as though a cat had raked its claws across his head. He had a resting sleepy smile, as though he were coming off laughing gas from a trip to the dentist.

Only when the server brought our food was I distracted by my vengeful glowering. It was a lot of food. Too much for us to eat on our own, which explained why the sever was helping the children bag the food. We were bringing it back for the other kids. We were only in the shop for a few minutes, and as quickly as we had settled in, we left with armfuls of soup cans and bread.

I can't say I wasn't still upset with the kid, he had stolen my money after all, but it had been my plan to buy food for all of us anyway, so I decided we were even, for now.

Suddenly there was a dull twang as a stone bounced off a nearby lamppost and ricocheted, knocking down the kid who had stolen my money. He fell without grace, his bags of food spilling their contents into the dirt road. Ajah rushed to his aid, setting her own packages down gently. Another stone was thrown, this one clipping Ajah's shoulder.

I seethed, turning to the direction of the stone's origin. A blonde haired, blue eyed boy no older than eight or nine glared angrily in our direction, picking up another stone. A younger boy watched on with fearful, cautious eyes.

"Go back to your own country!" The blonde yelled, throwing a stone straight at me. It bounced harmlessly off my shoulder, but the words stung more than the pebble.

I can't go back anywhere, and their country is your country you- I stopped, realizing I was stalking across the street towards the pair with my hands and jaw clenched tight. Ajah placed a hand on my shoulder.

"Don't bother," Her deep red eyes glanced at the two boys, the younger one looking from me to the blonde, tugging at the hem of his shirt in fear. I took a deep breath, feeling the tension leave my body with a heavy sigh.

I set down my bags and helped pick up the salvageable contents of the bag. The boy wasn't hurt, only surprised by the stone. Ajah affirmed she was fine, but the sting of the stone on my shoulder left an ache in my heart.

The two boys probably lived here, in the slums, just like the Ishvalans. I tried to reason their hate, perhaps they had lost their father or an uncle or an older brother to the war, perhaps they had heard of Scar and were afraid. Still, their hate felt so raw and unfiltered, so wrong and unnatural for such young children to feel. It baffled me how they could be so cruel.

We soon exited the slums without anymore interruptions and found our meager home, where children huddled around the glowing fire and the Brother's face was etched with exhaustion and age. As we divied up the food, I finally took the time to relax, unwrapping a piece of bread from its newspaper swaddling. Scar's face stared back at me, a detailed article talking about the recent murder of the Silver Alchemist.

I sighed, no longer hungry despite my earlier affirmations. It seemed both sides of the coin were capable of horrendous cruelty.

A pattern developed as my days with the Ishvalans accumulated. One day I would go with Brother, work in the fields. The next I would spend with Ajah, getting food and taking some of the younger children to the bath house. Once more I settle into routine, the world at a relative quiet before the storm. And believe me, there would be a storm.

I was eating regularly, at least as regularly as I could living in the poorest sector of Central. I never saw the blonde boy again, though I was always a bit jumpy whenever we walked back from town. I never collected a paycheck, but often I would take some produce from the farm back with me, the damaged or imperfect fruits and vegetables that the farm wouldn't be able to sell.

A week or so had passed, and I was working in the fields with the Ishvalans, the sun high and my shoulders red. Another perk of being paler than a ghost - you burn, and burn, and burn. I might have even ended up with a slight tan. The rumble of an engine groaned at the other end of the field. I perked up, some vague hope that we could break early filtering through my conscious thought.

But this wasn't the water truck. This was sleek, black, military vehicle. The Ishvalan workers did not panic, they kept their heads down and worked without missing a beat. Roger - you guys remember him? - was at the end of his row, talking to whoever was in the car. I kept my head down, just like the others, and continued working, though my ears strained to hear the voices above the din of insects and the car's distant engine.

I looked up to see Roger sprinting down the row, bounding with the grace of a dancer over rocks and ditches. He arrived, sweat soaked but not out of breath, red eyes peering up between beads of sweat at me.

"Is something wrong?" I asked, bunching a handful of carrots and throwing them into my basket.

"Those men, they want to talk to you," Roger said, wiping away the glimmering jewels of sweat that had beaded on his long eyelashes. "They said to tell you it's Havoc asking for you," I tensed, immediately have an internal panic attack. Did they arrest Ross? Was she 'killed'? Did Gracia report me missing? I nervously cracked my knuckles.

"I should go," I murmured, looking to my basket of carrots.

"I've got these, you," He looked at me for a moment, searching for the right words as his eyes searched mine and found the fear in them. "Stay safe," Ha clapped me on the shoulder and tended to the field. I ran down the row my shoes clumsily catching on rocks and sinking into ditches as I tried to hurriedly make my way to the black car.

When I finally stepped onto the crude dirt road, Havoc was standing outside of the vehicle, lighting a cigarette. Somehow, it relieved me to see him standing there, inhaling vaporized cancer. I think I was subconsciously aware it might be only a short time before he was sitting in a wheelchair.

When he saw me, he raised an eyebrow, as if thinking the wrong worker had been sent back.

"Mac, that really you?" Mac. Only Hughes ever called me that. I couldn't believe how happy I was seeing him. So many questions were caught in my throat. How was Elicia and Gracia? And Danny? And was Mustang doing okay?

"Yep, this is really me, lover boy," I managed, smiling in spite of myself. Havoc laughed, and went to ruffle my hair. I caught both of us off guard by rushing to hug him. "Nice to see you again, Havoc. What're you doing all the way out here?" I released him, and he got his chance to ruffle my hair, but he didn't. He just stood there, eyes searching me for some sign, some signal of negative emotion.

"I wish I could say it was for a friendly visit," I looked up at him, head cocked and brow furrowed. "We need you to come back to Central, just for a little bit," Why would Central be looking for me? As if reading my thoughts, Havoc stared me down sternly. "We believe we have Hughes' killer in custody, we need you to I.D. them,"

Masterlist

#fullmetal alchemist #fullmetal alchemist brotherhood #si/oc #fanfic #fanfiction #writing #bbb writes #bbb #bluebookbadger

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writingthingsisdifficult · 7 years

Text

Shifting perspective

(Horrible title, I know. I suck at naming stuff.) I don’t know what this is. It came to be from my strong wish to have Norwegian swearing in one of my fics (don’t know why. Don’t ask.) Anyway, this is what grew; one OFC called Oline (nicknamed Oli), one pining Sam, and a bunch of asshole shapeshifters. Enjoy.

The translations are in brackets right after the Norwegian, so you don’t have to scroll so much, but most of the translations aren’t literal, partly because of my limited knowledge of the English language, and partly because I tried to make it flow.

For example: Faen is used a lot. It’s a common Norwegian curse word, and it’s quite versatile, kinda like fuck, but the meaning is of religious origin, not sexual. Faen is a shortened version of Fanden, which is another (old) name for the devil (or a demon, depending on where you’re from).

Please let me know what you think, but also keep in mind that English is not my first language.

My tag lists are open, if you want to be included (or if you want to be removed). Just drop me a line.

Word count: 7392 (sorry not sorry)

”Good morning!” Oline came waltzing into the kitchen like she owned the place, wearing a pair of black pyjama pants with cartoon puppies printed along the side, and a light blue t-shirt with a band name no one could determine, because the print was so faded.

Her hair was still wet from the shower, and she hadn’t put any make-up on, but still Sam’s eyes nearly popped out of his skull, and he shifted uncomfortably in his seat, trying to hide the fact that his body was more awake than his mind was.

She had been on and off hunting with them for almost four years, and lived in the bunker for one and a half of those, but her looks still took his breath away – even looking all dishevelled and tired. It was as if her skin glowed on its own, and her hair… well, Sam would’ve done pretty much anything to run his fingers through it. Quickly, so she wouldn’t catch him staring, he cast his eyes down and kept them focused on the bowl of cereal. “Mrn.”

She didn’t notice the slight breathiness to his voice – or if she did, she was polite enough to not comment on it. Sam smiled into his spoon. She was too nice. If Dean had been there, he would never have heard the end of it.

Daring a glance up, he caught her just as she reached for something on the top shelf; exposing a small line of skin along her hip and back. He could just make out the tips of the points on her anti-possession tattoo, and then decided that he didn’t trust himself enough, so he grabbed his notepad and jotted down a few words just to keep busy.

“Ready for the road?” Her voice sliced through the bubble he’d buried himself in.

“Huh?”

She laughed. “Still not awake, huh? I asked if you’re ready for the road.”

“Oh, yeah, I guess.” He smiled back at her. “Never seen anyone so eager for a shifter job before.”

Oline shrugged. “ They’re not all that common back home. And those that I did come across couldn’t hide their true identity completely. A tail here, patches of green skin there… Or maybe they were just bad at what they did. I don’t know.”

“Tail? Green skin? I don’t think that’s what we call shapeshifters over here?” Sam said, tilting his head and squinting. His earlier embarrassment was forgotten; always eager to learn about new monsters.

“Really? Ooh! Is that coffee?” She snatched his cup and gulped down half of it before he could even blink. “Yeah,” she said, inhaling the word. “Norwegian shapeshifters live underground, or inside the mountains. Most of them have green or blue skin, and at least the females have tails that resembles cows’ tails, but they change to look more human to lure unsuspecting victims to their deaths. They don’t do that here?”

“Wow, no. What we call shapeshifters are humanoid creatures that can take on the appearance and memories of any living person they decide to mimic. Some can even change into animals. We can kill them with silver through the heart. Or even decapitation.”

Oline tilted her head slightly and smiled upside down. “Huh. Interesting. Gotta read up on them before we get there. Everything is so different over here.” Tapping the side of the cup she’d hijacked, she thought for a second. “I’ve been here for what, four years, and still your country is so foreign. You don’t even have proper brown cheese.”

Getting himself a new cup, Sam blew a silent chuckle through his nose. “Technically, you’re the foreign one, you know.”

“You better have coffee in there!” Dean shuffled through the door, looking very much like he just woke up, and wanted nothing more than to go back to sleep. “Ugh, I’m getting too old for this shit. Who decided we start this early?”

“You did,” both Sam and Oline replied, watching as Dean bumped into the counter with half closed eyes, both grateful that he offered some distraction from the disaster waiting to happen. Some times Sam could’ve sworn Oline looked at him like she wanted to eat him up – now that was an interesting thought, and then the next moment she seemed totally uninterested. To be honest it drove him mad, never knowing which way to interpret her language.

They ate the rest of their breakfast in comfortable silence. Sam continued to scribble on his note pad, Oline stared into the air, dreaming about an alternate reality where she had the guts to tell Sam how she felt with actual words he’d understand, and Dean slowly sipped his coffee, generally regretting his recent life choices.

“Road trip!” Oline suddenly called, getting to her feet and dumping her plate in the sink.

“How can you possibly be this cheerful so early?” Dean asked gruffly after he refilled his cup.

Oline waved her own cup around. “Because coffee,” she replied with a short giggle. “Og fordi han der er spesielt søt når håret stikker ut til alle kanter. [And because that one is incredibly cute when his hair is sticking out like that.]” She said it deliberately not looking at Sam, because her insides squirmed at the thought of him suddenly understanding her.

“Hey, no fair,” Sam protested. “We don’t speak Norwegian.”

She shrugged with a mischievous grin spreading across her face. “Dean lukter som en geit, [Dean smells like a goat]” she teased in a sing-song voice, causing Sam to chuckle. “Men Sam lukter som epler og solskinn. [But Sam smells like apples and sunshine.]”

“Be nice!” Dean replied. “I may not understand the words, but I recognise a non-compliment when I hear one. Would you at least wash your dishes?”

Dancing towards the kitchen door, Oline shook her head. “Sorry, Dean. You know I love you.” She stuck her tongue out and leapt through the doorway. “Meet you by the car in an hour.”

Sam laughed to himself. “Dude.”

“What?”

“I think… she, uh…” He could barely get the words out, laughing so hard. “I think she called you a goat or something. I don’t see the lie, though,” he added, flicking some crumbs at his brother.

“Shut up! You’re… a goat.” There was a moment of silence. “Wait… you know Norwegian?”

Sam ducked his head, his ears turning crimson. “No. Just a couple of words. I’ve been trying to teach myself, but it’s is a friggin’ hard language to learn – I wanted to surprise her.”

Dean stared dumbfounded at him for a few seconds before a big grin cracked over his face. “You’re in love! Oh my god! You are!”

Hiding his face in his hands, Sam shook his head, but he couldn’t hide his own grin. “Shh! I’m… I’m not… shut up.” He got to his feet, grabbing his notebook, and left.

“Great. I live with a couple of slobs,” Dean muttered, grabbing the cereal bowl Sam had left on the table. “We gotta get a maid or something.”

“Good news,” Dean said with a shit-eating grin. “They only had one available room.” He dangled a single key in the air, getting scowls in return. Sam sent him a look that stated: “I don’t know what you’re playing at, but I don’t like it.”

Oline groaned. “At least tell me there’s three beds.”

Dean shook his head.

“A sofa? Or a… a chair?”

“Nope. Looks like we’re gonna have to share.”

She rolled her eyes and poked Dean in the chest, lowering her voice. “Du må ikke tro at jeg ikke har gjennomskuet deg! [Don’t think I don’t see what you’re doing!]” And then after a brief pause she added: “Fucker!”

Hoisting her bag over her shoulder, she snatched the key from his hand. “Hey, Sam, your brother is disgusting. Mind if I bunk with you?” It was an opportunity after all. She had to make the best of it.

“Sure,” Sam replied with an easy smile, following her inside with his own bag.

When Dean finally got inside, Oline had claimed the bed closest to the window, and she’d already spread her books and papers all over it, and sat cross-legged on the pillows with a pen in her mouth, scrolling down her laptop. Sam had taken his spot on the floor, with his back against the bed, also scrolling on his laptop, but more aware, alert. Like a watchdog. He looked up briefly as Dean closed the door, but seeing no threat, he ignored his brother as best he could.

How these two didn’t realise they belonged together was beyond Dean. He shook his head with a tiny scoff and dumped his duffel onto the other bed. “Got anything yet?”

“Nah. I’m thinking we gotta go government on this. There’s at least one witness who’s sane enough to interview.” Suddenly, Oline dropped her laptop, sending papers rustling to the floor. “Faen! [Shit!]” She breathed the word with her eyes scrunched shut and punched the mattress.

“What is it?” Sam asked quietly. “What’s wrong?”

“Um…” She looked at the Winchesters with utter despair in her eyes. “I forgot my duvet.”

“What?” Dean burst out laughing. “Damn, I thought you’d found something

She grabbed a fistful of the fabric covering the bed. “Your stupid, American motels only have blankets. I’m gonna die of hypothermia.”

She looked so heartbroken even Sam had to laugh. “Relax. It’s like 68 degrees outside.”

“Yeah, but my feet still get cold in the night. And my duvet is so soft,” she pouted, fiddling with her knitted socks.

“Don’t worry,” Dean said once he had dried his eyes. “Sam’s a virtual fire place. He’s gonna keep you warm. Aren’t you, Sammy?”

His brother’s eyes said “Don’t!” but he nodded to Oline. “I’m always hot. And I don’t mind you poking your cold toes on me.” He thought for a second, the stretched and flexed ever so slightly. “Can’t help you with the softness, though.”

“Dude! You’re gross!”

Oline tossed a pillow on Dean. “Hey, he’s no grosser than you. Thank you, Sam.” She smiled and hopped down from the bed. “I’m gonna change into my FBI gear.”

“Smooth,” Dean nodded appreciatively once the bathroom door closed.

“You set this up, didn’t you?” Sam growled through gritted teeth.

“Maybe…”

“Just… just stay out of this, okay? I really don’t want to screw up our friendship.”

“Well, maybe that’s just what you need to do,” Dean grinned and ducked just in time to avoid a second, zooming pillow.

It took two days of investigating and interviewing more or less willing people to figure out where the shapeshifters were hiding. There were four of them, and as far as Oline could see, the shifters were young and inexperienced, filled with new ideas and not too bright on how to pull it off. But still: shifters were dangerous no matter what, and the three of them went through the safety check behind the Impala.

“Silver knife?”

“Check.” Both Sam and Oline held up theirs.

“Shifter gankin’ bullets?”

“Yup.”

“Alright, let’s go.”

“Wait, wait. What’s the plan?”

“The plan?” Dean resembled a big question mark.

“Yeah, dumbass. The plan. There’s four of them and three of us. We can’t just barge in like we normally do.” Oline winked at him, making Sam snort and turn away so Dean wouldn’t see him laugh.

Dean rolled his eyes and shook his head. “You want a plan, børk børk?”

“Yeah. And the chef is Swedish, by the way.”

“Oh, Sor-ry! I didn’t mean to step on your toes. Not my fault that it’s practically impossible to see the difference.”

“You’re lucky you’re cute, Winchester. Else I’d have to kick your butt.”

“Oh, so that’s how it is, huh?”

“Yeah, that’s how it is. And you know I could do it. Sure, you’re a bit stronger than me, but I’m almost as tall as you –“

“Yeah, and those years spent trudging through the snow,” Sam added with a wink, “means her endurance is high.”

Oline blushed. “Thanks, Sam. But I’m not too fond of the snow. I can’t ski to save my life. But I climbed a lot of trees when I was younger. And I’m faster than you.”

“Not likely,” Dean growled, crouching down to pounce on her.

She squealed and ran to hide behind Sam. “Save me!”

With her hands on Sam’s hips, he almost forgot how to breathe. “Alright you two. You can fight it out later. We’ve got a case here. Remember?”

“Sorry, boss,” Oline said in mock regret, turning to Dean. “Truce?”

“Truce. Let’s do this. And quietly.”

The moment they were inside, they split up. Dean took to the right, through the kitchen. Sam went left, heading for the living room, while Oline took the stairs, slowly sneaking along the wall.

She peered around the corner and spotted a shifter. He clearly hadn’t understood the danger yet, so she tip-toed up behind him, ready to stab him, but just as she raised her knife, he turned. Faster than she expected, he leapt to his feet and rushed past her, knocking her over in the process.

Another shifter appeared above her, and she kicked out, hitting him in the ankles. He landed crookedly on a chair, and it broke with a loud crash. It wasn’t enough to take out the shifter, of course, and a couple of seconds later he got to his feet and charged. But that was all it took for Oline to get ready, and with a massive exertion and a loud groan, the knife pierced through the ribs and into the creature’s heart.

The shifter fell heavily to the ground and Oline listened to the air rasp through the punctured lung to make sure she got him properly.

Sam managed to sneak up on the shapeshifter without being discovered, and swiftly and soundlessly drove his silver knife into the creature’s chest. Unfortunately the ruckus made by the dying shifter attracted another one, who hit Sam over the head, then ran away. He staggered back and forth, seeing double from the impact, but as soon as his vision normalised, Sam ran after him, raising his gun in defence.

The sound of Dean’s gun rang through the house, and Oline mentally counted the kills. Dean had one, she had one, and Sam probably had one going by the sound of it. One left, then, and this one had escaped downstairs, unless there was a secret doorway somewhere.

At the bottom of the stairs, she bumped into Dean. “One left,” they said simultaneously.

“Yeah,” Oline panted. “He got past me and ran downstairs before I could get him.”

“I’ll go,” Dean began, but she stopped him.

“No, I got this. He owes me the satisfaction of dying. Besides, Sam’s still there. Two of us: one of him. Piece of cake. Go get the shovels. “

“Anything to get some alone time with my brother, huh?” Dean replied, wiggling his eyebrows.

“Dean! Don’t make me slap you. I’m more than capable of kicking your ass. I wasn’t kidding earlier.”

“Alright, alright. Calm down. Go help Sam or whatever. I’ll be back in a few.”

When Sam skidded through the doorway he came face to face with Oline, and lowered his gun. “We got them all?”

She grinned widely and took a few steps towards him, but just then he heard her yell “Duck!” somewhere behind him, before something shiny zoomed past him, lodging itself in Oline’s chest. She collapsed on the floor, lifeless and cold, and Sam cried out, dropping to his knees. He was interrupted by Oline’s arms around his shoulders.

“I’m me,” she said calmly. When he didn’t answer right away, she moved around him, pointed to the blood soaked pile of human remains on the floor and said “Shapeshifter!” then at herself and grinned: “Oli.”

His eyes narrowed, and he remained still.

“Hey, it’s okay,” she said, reaching out to him again. When he recoiled, she wanted to scream. To see him unsure and almost afraid of her hurt more than anything else she’d experienced since she came to the US, but she swallowed the grief, telling herself she would probably react the same way.

“It really is me. I promise.” She pulled the knife from the body on the floor, wiped it on her jeans, and ran the edge over her arm. The blood was dark red against her pale skin. “See? It’s me.”

Sam took a few moments to react, so Oline decided to try another approach. “Remember when we got drunk in Seattle and I kissed your eyelid better after you got in a fight with that douche. Over… over… what was it?”

“He insulted your accent,” Sam replied with a smile, neglecting to mention that a shapeshifter would’ve had access to her memories; he was satisfied that she was the Oline he knew. To be honest he just wanted to hold her close. “We laughed so much on the way back from the bar…” He could still feel her lips on his skin, and the memory woke the slumbering butterflies in his stomach.

“Heh, yeah. We must have looked like lunatics.” She thought back to that intensely intimate moment, and felt her ears burn. She’d managed to blame it on the alcohol, but she knew that was just an excuse.

Taking her outstretched hand, Sam pulled himself from the floor. “Come on. Let’s go help Dean.”

“He’s gone to get the shovels,” Oline grinned. “We’re done here.”

He marvelled how quickly she could change; from gentle and caring one moment to bubbly and cheerful the next. And now he had that eyelid kiss stuck in the front of his brain. He wondered if it was possible to love someone more than he did Oline. He doubted it, but still he said nothing.

She let go of Sam’s hand the moment they were outside. More than anything she wanted to keep him close, but with the recently surfaced memory from Seattle, she couldn’t be sure she wouldn’t say or do something stupid. There was no way Sam felt the same way, and she didn’t want to risk heartbreak.

When she let go of his hand, Sam breathed out slowly, both in relief and disappointment. The electricity and heat spreading from her hand made him dizzy, but it felt good. And the lack of contact made him feel cold, but it made it easier not to do or say anything stupid.

They buried the bodies in shallow graves in the field behind the house, salting them for good measure. It was starting to get dark when Dean dropped the last shovel of dirt onto the very last grave, patting it a couple of extra times before kicking a layer of grass and sticks and leaves over it.

“Whooo!” Oline yelled and pumped her fist in the air, making Dean jump in surprise. “Who’s awesome? Oh yes, we are!”

Sam couldn’t help but smile too: her enthusiasm and joy was contagious.

“Damn straight we are,” Dean replied, and they high-fived, causing Sam to groan loudly.

“Really, how old are you?”

“Aw, Sam, you jealous?” she pouted, offering her hand up. “Come on then, don’t leave me hanging. I’ve been told it’s rude.”

“Fine.” He slapped her hand, and she laughed, mostly to drown the squeal that built in her throat every time they touched.

Her laughter rippled through Sam’s body like waves of pure sunlight, and he suspected he could probably live on that feeling alone for the rest of his days. To mask his urge to pull her into a bone-crushing hug, he grumbled a little extra, muttering about acting like teenagers, before throwing the shovel over his shoulder and setting course for the Impala.

“Hey, gimme a break. I never had an American childhood. This is all still pretty new and shiny to me. We typically never touch each other back home. Let me have my moments of physical contact?” She wiped sweat and dirt from her face before following Sam. “We are the champions,” she sang, high-fiving Dean again on her way past him. “Gotta celebrate this. What do you say, huh? The three of us and a pile of beer bottles?”

“Sounds like a plan,” Dean grinned. “Remind me why I haven’t married you yet?”

She faked a gag. “Um, because that would be gross and considered wildly inappropriate, Winchester. You’re not my type.”

Dean laughed loudly. “Oh yeah, there’s that.”

Her eyes flicked over to Sam, and the short gesture wasn’t lost on Dean, but he said nothing this time: he’d tried to push her before, and that nearly ended with a black eye, so he kept to light teasing and inside jokes now and then.

Sam, however, was completely oblivious to the look he’d just received – lost in his own thoughts.

“You in, Sammy?” Dean clapped him on the shoulder.

“Hm?”

“Beer, burgers, babes… Celebrate our success. Come on, bro. Have a little fun. Even you can’t be boring all the time.”

“Yeah, I’m up for a few beers,” Sam said eventually. “But I’d like to wash off this gunk, though.” He wiped the blood from his hands on his jeans.

“Oh yeah,” Oline nodded enthusiastically. “Shower. Definitely.”

The bathroom door opened, and Sam emerged like he was in a cheesy rom-com. Steam billowed around him, and he wore nothing but a pair of jeans.

Oline stopped mid-scrolling. Her brain lost all function, she lost the ability to speak; she just stared with her hand hovering over the mouse pad on her laptop.

When her brain regained consciousness, she quickly averted her eyes and swore silently. “Faen. Skulle tro du gjorde det med vilje. Hvis du fortsetter sånn, kommer jeg til å selvantenne – eller drukne! [Fuck. I could almost think you’re doing it on purpose. If you continue like that I’ll spontaneously combust – or drown!]”

“What was that? He looked up, still with the towel in his hand.

“Uh… nothing,” she lied quickly, rubbing the embarrassment from the back of her neck. “Hope you left some hot water for me.”

They found a table close to the exit and plopped down on the chairs, ignoring their slight stickiness. And after the first sip of beer, Oline sighed happily. “Nothing like a good beer after a hunt,” she smiled, gazing around the crowded room to hide her frequent looks in Sam’s direction.

“Never met anyone who enjoys her beer more than you,” Dean grinned, clinking his bottle against hers.

“Well, how can I not? I mean, beer is so cheap here. It’s like… $4 for a bottle? It’s crazy! Back home you’re lucky if you find one under $10.”

“I’m drinking to that.” Lifting his bottle, Dean toasted the air. “Hey, you never said why you left. Don’t you ever miss home?”

She nodded and smiled sadly into her glass. “I do. But I can never go back. I’ll tell you sometime. Another time. Let’s talk about something else?”

“Sorry.” Dean fell silent, and they all sat just listening to the music and sipping their drinks for a while.

But after a few minutes, Sam put his hand on Oline’s knee. “Hey, you okay?” He’d caught her sighing deeply. She nodded, blinking rapidly a couple of times, and he could have sworn he saw tears glittering in her eyes, but they disappeared so fast he wasn’t completely sure.

Her answer came as a whisper, and it hit him in the gut. “Yeah. I just miss my family. It hurts that I’ll never see them again.”

“I’m here if you want to talk,” he replied, rubbing his thumb back and forth over her knee. “When you’re ready.”

“Thank you, Sam. It means a lot.”

Dean looked up, studying Oline’s face, but said nothing.

After a long silence, she dragged her hand across her face and leaned back in her seat. “I first decided to leave when it became clear to me that I couldn’t stay without killing them – my parents, I mean,” she began. Hesitantly, fearing shock and judgement in the brothers’ faces.

Dean frowned slightly, but kept quiet: she could see the dozens of questions bubbling on his tongue, and how he swallowed them down. Sam’s gaze softened, and he squeezed her knee gently, giving her courage and strength to continue.

When they didn’t show any signs of wanting to run away, she grimaced what could have been an uncertain smile, and spoke again: “…six years ago I think it was, when my parents were bitten and changed. And they embraced their new lives with delight. Soon the small hunting community we were a part of demanded I’d take care of them. But I couldn’t bring myself to do it: even knowing the chaos and destruction they brought. I just couldn’t. My guess is they’re dead now anyway. I don’t know.”

She sighed and breathed out a short laugh. “Pathetic, I know. Running away from my responsibilities like that, but I… so I left. Got away. Travelled for a bit. Eventually I got on a plane and landed in Boston. Did a bit of sightseeing, but the hunter’s life never lets you go, yeah? Hunting new monsters over here became sort of a healing process, I guess. Then I ran into you guys. Best coincidence in my life.”

The three of them fell silent, before Oline spoke up again. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to deflate the balloon like that. Let’s talk about something else. Like that woman over there,” she said after looking around the room searching for a topic. “She’s been ogling you since we got here, Dean.”

Picking up on her intentions right away, Dean sat up straighter. “Who?”

“The one over there with the bouncy, red curls. Don’t look now. I’ll let you know when…”

And so the next few hours flew by in a fog of discussing old and new conquests, women – and a few men, alcohol, music, and even more alcohol. Eventually Dean decided to go say hello to the redhead, bringing her over to the table, and making Oline and Sam uncomfortable.

“I’m gonna get another drink,” Oline declared after a few minutes of being forced to watch Dean’s moves, standing up faster than she ought to, knocking over her chair. “You want anything, handsome?”

“No thanks,” Dean replied, quickly ducking from her hand swatting the back of his head.

She swayed slightly. “How ‘bout you, Sam? Another?”

He measured what was left in his glass and shook his head. “I’m good.”

“Suit yourself,” Oline replied defiantly and made her way over to the bar.

Sam followed her with his eyes, memorising how she moved; still elegant, even now when she was drunk and had to use other people as support to not wobble too much.

“Dude!” Dean said, punching his brother in the arm.

“Ow! What?” Rubbing the forming bruise, Sam scowled back.

“That girl’s got it bad for you,” the redhead said, earning a nod and affirmative grunt from Dean.

“Shut up!” Sam looked back at Oline, who was talking to a guy at the bar. She was laughing and leaning close to him, and he recognised the look in the guy’s eyes: stars and dark lust – he’d hit jackpot.

Once again Sam failed to notice the longing look Oline gave him before she turned around and unleashed her smile on the gentleman next to her. But he did see the effect she had on the stranger. Within a minute of talking to him, he was completely under her spell. And it made Sam feel nauseous.

“I’m… gonna head back to the motel,” he muttered. “Don’t feel too good.”

Looking up from the woman sitting in his lap, Dean raised an eyebrow. “You sure? Need me to come with you?”

Sam shook his head and downed the rest of his drink. “Nah. I’ll be fine. You have fun now.” He nodded once to the woman and left the bar.

When Oline turned back to look at Sam again, she was devastated to find him gone. Devastated, but not surprised. He was bound to find a lady to spend the night with – half the bar practically threw themselves at his feet when they entered, but it hurt nonetheless. She so wanted to be the one he took home.

It wasn’t until Dean slammed the bathroom door and shook his wet hair over him that Sam woke up. Flopping sleepily, he rolled over on the side and pulled the blanket over his face. Silence reigned for a few seconds before he warily emerged from his cocoon. “Ugh. What time is it?”

“Good morning, little brother.” Dean was positively beaming. “It’s…” He checked this watch. “6.15 – and I just got back! Oh man! You missed out last night. Daisy, you remember Daisy? She had a friend, and since you weren’t there, I was feeling generous…”

And with that he launched into a monologue so filled with confidence and smugness that Sam couldn’t wait for Oline to finish in the shower so he could get away. He only hoped she left some hot… water… There was no water running and the door was cracked open.

“Hey, Dean?”

“…and let me tell you: she wasn’t shy. Oh no –“

“Dean. Did Oli –“

“Neither of them were, if you know what I mean –“

“Dean! Will you shut up for a goddamned minute?” Sam almost yelled, causing Dean to smack his mouth shut with a betrayed look on his face. “Thank you. Did Oli leave to get breakfast?” Best to play it casual.

“Don’t think so,” Dean replied with a slight shrug. “Looks to me like she didn’t come back here last night. Her stuff is untouched.”

Sam sniffed her pillow, concealed as a yawn. It still smelled like the motel’s detergent. She definitely hadn’t slept there, but he patted it just to make sure. It was cold. “You’re right,” he muttered.

“Good for her. She needed a good lay. Not surprised she took off when she faced a night in bed with you.”

“Screw you!” Sam grabbed his phone. No messages. Good morning. Will you be long? Dean’s going to get breakfast. What’cha want? We’re rolling in a couple hours. He sent it more to calm the growing unease in his stomach, then got out of bed and into the shower, letting the running water massage his sore muscles.

The first thing he did when he got out was to check for a reply. Nothing. Hey, sleepyhead. Time to head north again. Still nothing. Oli? You OK?

“Dean, I don’t feel too good about this. Oli’s not answering my texts.”

“So she’s busy. I wouldn’t answer your clingy ass if I was in the middle of a good time either.” When Dean put a hand on his shoulder, Sam looked up: seeking some sort of comfort in his brother’s face. He got none. Instead, Dean asked: “I’m getting us something to eat. Want coffee?”

“Please. And a bagel.” Sam didn’t really feel hungry, but he needed some time to think.

Dean nodded. “And don’t worry about Oli. She’ll be fine.”

“Mhm.” Sam automatically glanced down on his phone, then flung it on the bed, picking up his laptop instead. Didn’t take long before he reached for his phone again. Still nothing. Sam sighed.

“Listen, if this bothers you so much, why don’t you talk to her? Tell her –“

“Yeah, alright, Dean. Thank you. Get out of here.” He had a point. But Sam just didn’t know how to begin. And the what ifs were piling high in his brain. This was not how he imagined it though. Sure, he’d been annoyed as hell when Dean conned them into sharing a bed, but it was an opportunity he just had to take. But now he realised he was too late. What if she had found someone? What if she decided to leave the life? He couldn’t blame her. Once he would’ve abandoned everything for a shot at a normal, boring life too.

When Dean came back thirty minutes later, Sam had worked himself so up he was convinced that Oline had already eloped to get married to some random dude. And it didn’t help that Dean thought it was hilarious.

“She’ll waltz in here in an hour, glowing and smiling shyly, and then we’ll carry on like usual.”

The hour came and went. Sam became more and more nervous. Even Dean was becoming a little antsy. “Maybe she just needs some alone time,” Dean said. “Remember when we first met her? I was convinced she didn’t like me, ‘cause she was so hard to get to know. Besides, Oline’s basically a Viking. She can take care of herself.”

“Yeah,” Sam replied with a grimace. “But I still think it’s weird she hasn’t replied to my texts.”

Ping. Sam’s phone chimed happily, but he snatched it with force, staring at the message on the screen.

Dean grinned. “See? She probably just woke up a bit late.”

“No text,” Sam replied silently. “Only this.” He held out his phone. The message was just a link to a video. Nothing more.

Dean cocked his head. “Huh. What –“

Sam groaned. “What if she… what if she says she wants out? That she doesn’t want … I mean, she’s been gone since last night.”

“Come on,” Dean said with a reassuring smile. “Oli would never do that. She’s probably just, I don’t know, lost track of time or something. It happens,” he added with a grin.

Not the answer Sam wanted, and he glared at his brother. “Not helping.”

“Just doing my duty. Let’s see what she has to say before you panic, okay?” He grabbed the phone and opened the link.

The video was dark at first. They could barely make out a dark figure in the middle of the shot, but nothing else. Occasionally shadows flitted across the screen and they heard soft feet pitter-pattering over concrete floor. Somewhere out of the shot they heard running water.

“What the hell?” Dean began, but Sam interrupted him.

“Shhh! Something’s happening.” His stomach felt like he’d swallowed a rock.

Suddenly the light was switched on, and Sam felt like throwing up. If Dean hadn’t been holding the phone too he would’ve dropped it: the dark figure was Y/N. Slumped over in a chair, she looked bruised and beaten, and her jeans were stained dark red.

“Wakey wakey,” a coarse voice said from behind the camera.

Oline groaned and stirred, slowly lifting her head, to reveal a swollen, bloody face, and a split lip.

“Oli,” Sam breathed, gripping the blanked he was sitting on tightly. Dean growled in agreement.

It took a few minutes before she regained full consciousness, blinking and swallowing; wincing when her skin stretched and moved. Then, as if the floodgates had opened, she started yelling. Her voice was raw and somewhat diminished, but her meaning was clear enough. “I helvete?! Hva faen er det dere driver med? Kom her din jævla feige kukskalle, så skal jeg faen steike meg sparke deg så hardt i ballene at du kjenner smaken av dem i halsen! Din forbannade forpulte pikk! Slipp meg løs for faen! Jeg skal faen meg gi deg deng, din helsikes forbannade demonjævel! [What the hell? What the fuck are you doing? Come here you fucking cowardly dickhead; I’ll fucking kick you so hard in the nuts you’ll taste them in your throat. You damned, fucking cock! Let me fucking go! I’ll fucking kick your ass, you goddamn fucking demon bastard!]”

She continued to yell, both while exhaling and inhaling, making Sam’s mouth twitch. At least she still had her wits. But the fuckers were gonna pay for what they’d done. He looked over at Dean who just stared at the screen. Sonofabitch!

“Wow. Didn’t expect such language from a lady.”

Both men whipped around, drawing their guns in fluid motions, but when they realised the intruder was a minor threat, they relaxed somewhat.

“What are you doing here, Crowley?” Sam asked, slouching back on the bed.

“I’ve missed you too,” Crowley replied with an air kiss. “Can’t a King check on his favourite nightmare subjects?”

Sam scoffed. “We’re not your… argh! Forget it!” He grabbed his phone and leaned on the headboard, flicking the phone back and forth between his hands.

“I’m not too proud to admit it: Hell bores me. So I came up to see if you had something exciting going on. What’s up with Samantha? I haven’t had a welcome this icy since I came for Prince Albert. Victoria could be quite stern when she wanted to. Makes me feel all sorts of nostalgic.”

Dean clenched his jaw and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Oli’s been kidnapped.”

“Ah,” Crowley nodded, “that explains it.”

“Explains what?”

“Sam’s dread – seriously, the stench fills the whole room – and Oline’s colourful phrasing. She got quite the razor tongue when she’s pissed.”

“Wait, you understand this?” Sam gestured with the phone.

“I’m the king of Hell, you moron. It’s in my job description. Wouldn’t be much of a King if all it took was a foreign language to keep secrets from me. Now what did I miss?” He held out his hand and Sam handed him the phone.

With the video playing in the background, Crowley started translating. “Well, they certainly aren’t my demons. In fact I rather think they’re something else entirely.” He tossed the phone on the bed, where it bounced a couple of times before settling. “I think I’ve seen enough. Shall we?”

“Shall we, what?”

Crowley rolled his eyes. “Go rescue the damsel in distress, of course. Get her safely home so Sam can go back to pining after her. Really! How thick are you?”

Squinting, Sam got to his feet. “You’re just gonna help us like that? Out of the kindness of your heart?”

“I’m nice like that,” Crowley smirked. “All I want in return –“ He paused dramatically to think, “– is your undying gratitude and a couple of favours to cash in when –“ Sam looked like he was ready to launch himself at the demon. “Alright, I’ll help you for a bottle of whisky; the good stuff, not that gut-rot you usually poison yourself with.”

“Done,” Sam said quickly.

“…and you have to address me as Your Majesty until we get her.”

“Eat shit, Crowley!” Dean spat, looking like someone had suggested painting his beloved Impala neon pink. “You… that’s… you...”

“Appappapp! What are you forgetting?”

Sam looked at Dean, and they both pursed their lips. “It’s a deal,” he said through gritted teeth. “Let’s go.”

“It’s a deal…?”

“Ugh, for the love of… It’s a deal, Your Majesty,” Sam added, apparently struggling to speak without self-combusting.

Crowley clapped enthusiastically before catching himself and reverting back to his dignified, solemn self. “Oh, I gotta get this on tape,” he giggled. “This is going to be the most fun I’ve had in ages.”

“So… your… Your Majesty, gonna tell us what we’re dealing with? Ugh! Do I really have to call you … that?”

“I fully intend to enjoy this as long as I can, yes,” Crowley replied with a nod. “It’s not every day you two morons show me the respect I deserve.”

“Oh, come on!”

“As for who has Oline,” he continued, ignoring Dean’s outburst, “look.” He paused the video and pointed to two tiny, but very distinct flares on the screen.

“Shifters,” Dean muttered.

“But we got everyone,” Sam began.

“Then you did a poor job, because there’s most definitely some left. And they look pissed. I would be too,” Crowley added with a shrug, “if some half-wit hunter burst through my front door and killed most of my family.”

Dean drove like a maniac, more so than usual. Normally Sam would’ve told him to calm down, but now he sat in silence, with a murderous look on his face. In the backseat sat Crowley, starting to feel a bit green around the eyes. He seriously debated whether or not he should just teleport to the hideout, but then he’d miss the opportunity to bother the boys, so he bit his teeth together and focused on the road ahead.

“Well, that was tense,” he said after the Impala screeched to a halt outside the large building. He stretched his legs and gulped down the cool evening air. “This is where you screwed up last night?”

Sam’s lips were straight and his eyes almost shot lightning bolts. “Shut it, Crowl – Your Majesty. Let’s just find these bitches. My patience is wearing thin.”

It didn’t take long to take care of the last two shifters. Although pissed and strong, they were no match for Crowley, who seemed to find it relaxing and therapeutic to kill. By the time the second one hit the floor, he was grinning from ear to ear. “Ah,” he sighed. “There’s nothing like a little bloodshed in the evening. Pity there weren’t more of them.”

Oline didn’t even look up when he started to untie her; just flexed her jaw and furrowed her eyebrows. “Få de jævla hendene dine vekk fra meg! Jeg sverger: når jeg kommer meg løs hefra så er du en død mann! [Get those fucking hands off of me! I swear: when I get out of this, you’re a dead man!]”

Crowley chuckled and ran a hand through her hair. “You’re not gonna kill anyone, darling. There’s no one left TO kill. But I’m sure there’s other ways for you to use all that pent up rage and energy.”

“Crowley? Du er ikke virkelig. Bare en drøm. Faen… [You’re not real. Just a dream. Fuck…]”

“Some people have been known to call me a dream, yes, and I do travel with a pair of plaid nightmares –“

Sam pushed past Crowley and sank to his knees in front of the chair. “Oli, sweetie, look at me. Can you do that for me, please?” He lifted her chin up with his fingers, and smiled softly when her eyes slowly opened.

“Sam? Is it really you? It’s not just an illusion?”

He sighed, sniffing the tear that slid down the edge of his nose. “No, sweetie, it’s really me. And Dean is here too. Even Crowley.”

“I knew you’d come for me. Just hoped it would be before it was too late.”

“Of course we came for you. It’s not the same without you.” He swallowed. He had to lighten the weight on his chest. “I don’t know what I’d do if you – I’m crazy about you.”

Dean coughed and grabbed Crowley’s sleeve. “Let’s give them a few minutes. Help me bury the bodies.” Crowley raised his eyebrows, making Dean sigh loudly. “Alright. Help me bury the bodies, Your Majesty. But this is the last one, I swear!”

“I’m gonna miss it,” Crowley sniggered, but he followed Dean outside.

Oline looked from the door to Sam.

“I know,” he replied to her silent question. “It’s a long story, but a small price to pay, really.” He took her hands in his, rubbing the cold from them. “I’m sorry, Oli. I really am.”

“For what?” Her voice cracked as she let out a short, nervous breath.

“That it took something like this to make me say something. I mean… with the life we lead, you’d think we’d understand how fragile that balance can be. But I’d like to… I mean… Can we try to…”

“Yes! I’m… I’m crazy about you too. Just didn’t know how to…” She reached up and put her arms around Sam’s neck, and he swooped her up, giggling like a teenager.

Carefully Oline pressed her lips against his, but withdrew quickly with a hiss. “Ow! Stupid monsters ruining my dream even when they’re dead.”

“Your dream, huh? Well, luckily this isn’t a dream you have to wake up from. There’s plenty of time to live it.” He searched her face for an unharmed spot, and kissed it tenderly.

“Aww… Aren’t you cute?” Crowley cooed from the doorway.

Oline leaned on Sam’s chest, and he rested his head on her shoulder. “Should think so yeah,” she grinned. “I’m adorable and he’s only the most handsome man in the world.”

Dean stuck his head around the corner and grimaced. “Ew, come on, Crowley. Oli clearly got hit on the head or something.”

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#sam x ofc #sam x oline #sam winchester #supernatural fanfiction #spn #fanfic #norwegian ofc #writing is hard #shapeshifters

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