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ijuststareatstuffhereok89 · 20 days

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Three: Loki's Atoll

Your suspicions/worries are correct: the island is unpopulated, and likely uncharted. Meanwhile, the team realizes that you never made your rendezvous in Australia, and that they may need to enlist help finding you.

CHAPTER WARNINGS: none

MASTERLIST

It took you much longer than you’d thought to reach the base of the large rock formation sitting further into the island’s mass. The jungle floor was pathless, full of vines, rocks, tree roots, and palm trunks in your way everywhere you turned. The sun came down through the canopy in beams, the only aid to you as you meandered, observing your new surroundings in case you had to extend your stay. At least the interior was a few significant, blessed degrees cooler than the beach, with its hot sand and direct sunlight.

Loki was smart enough not to speak to you while you walked, instead making some mental notes for himself about the environment, like the animal sounds he could hear in the distance, the fruits hanging from some of the trees and vines…and how your hips moved with an almost exaggerated accent when you were flustered. The jersey fabric of your maxi skirt clinging to your butt cheeks was by far the most exotic vision here.

He finally dared to break the silence. “So…how much was that sweater?”

You moaned. “A hundred and thirty dollars.”

“And I must say the color flatters your…ankle.”

“Shut up.”

The cliff itself was perhaps a hundred feet tall, but it had enough of a slope to it that you could climb it without too much struggle (although the heat and sun didn’t help when it came to beads of sweat rolling down your brows and into your eyes). It took only about thirty minutes to reach the summit, which was thankfully flat enough for a few people to stand safely on top.

“Shit,” you and Loki muttered in tandem.

It was strikingly obvious at first glance that this was a tiny, isolated, unpopulated island. The rock sat at the edge of a lagoon, which took up much of the small atoll’s middle. You’d climbed from the back, and thus hadn’t noticed the large waterfall cascading from halfway down the hill on the other side. The pool below was an uncorrupted crystal blue. The lagoon itself was enclosed by the trees.

There wasn’t a sign of humanity anywhere in the bird’s eye, 360-degree view you had.

“Well, there we have it,” Loki said solemnly. “It seems like Loki’s Atoll is just for us.”

Your mouth fell open, and you let out a breathy ‘ha!’

What overwhelmed you more than the small little sandbar you were stuck on with the world’s most hyper-inflated egomaniac, was the expansive carpet of ocean that entrapped you. Nothing else from horizon to horizon. No indicator that this small piece of land was part of a larger, populated archipelago. That would’ve been your last hope.

“We’re really stuck here,” you said sadly, defeated.

Loki turned his back and looked out over the lagoon, in and of itself a beautiful sight, “So it would seem.”

“And we have nothing to help us survive,” you added. “It all went down with the jet.”

“Look!” Loki pointed off into the distance toward a small, artificial cluttering of drifting items in the water beyond the surf. “That’s not far. We could try and recover some of our things, perhaps find something to aid us.”

“Go ahead, fool,” you said skeptically. “You wouldn’t even help me row! You’ll never get beyond the surf without me.”

He gave you a look that could only say “oh, really shall we test that theory?” You still had every reason to doubt him.

“Look, Loki, do whatever the hell you want, okay? I don’t give a shit anymore!”

He scoffed. “Did you ever?”

“I get that you assholes up on Asgard live to be a million years old, but down here, we don’t! I need to get off this little sandbar before I waste away. You can treat this like some postcard-picture vacation, but I doubt you’ll ever understand the meaning of the word dire.” Your rant was heating your face, which wouldn’t do, given the conditions.

At first, you couldn’t tell exactly what he was feeling. Insulted? Annoyed? Intrigued? But then he proceeded to open his miserable trap, as per usual.

“Perhaps if you calmed down for five second to stop immediately antagonizing me--”

“--WHO GOT ME HERE IN THE FIRST PLACE??” you snapped, pointing a damning finger right at Loki’s nose. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t immediately antagonize you? It was YOUR shit that brought us here! YOU couldn’t just leave me alone and…and…go fuck your whores!”

Loki smiled wryly. “Ah, that’s it…” he whispered cleverly.

“What?” you asked, the blind rage bubbling under the surface barely contained anymore. You decided to start going down the cliffside to explore the lagoon and see if the water was potable.

The Master of Disaster followed you. “Admit it, this has all been about your obvious feelings for me.” He delivered his remark as if it were the simplest, most well-known fact.

You grunted angrily. “I won’t even dignify that with an answer.”

Loki snickered. “I’ll consider that a confession, then!”

“Fine then, you’re absolutely wrong,” you said. “I have never entertained the thought of having a romantic entanglement with you. I don't date ingrates.”

“She calls the god who saved her life twice in the same night an ingrate!” Loki summarized to the heavens, his words dripping with sarcasm. “Must you push away every male that addresses you? No wonder you’re a virgin!”

“I am not!” you pouted. It was true that you weren’t, but that didn’t mean you exactly had a lot of experience in the department of sex. Dating was never an area you felt confident enough to explore regularly. In fact, you only had one relationship that lasted longer than a year on your resume.

“See, it’s THIS that I hate most about you, Loki,” you said, finally reaching ground-level. You began to trace a path around the rock formation toward where you’d seen the waterfall. “You always feel the need to resort to a sexist quip instead of, oh, I don't know, just keeping your big mouth shut? If you ever want a relationship with someone to last more than a week, you need to turn down the bullshit and turn up the respect.”

Loki scoffed again. “It’s a good thing I’m not looking for a serious romance, then. I suppose the idea of answering to a little woman doesn’t appeal to me. I already endure enough henpecking from you on a daily basis.”

When you arrived at the lagoon, you lost your breath at the beauty of the cove. It was completely encircled by land. The water was so clear you could see the bottom of the pool (you guessed it was about eight or ten feet deep). The falls were gentle enough in their cascade that you imagined you could shower beneath it. It looked like there could even be a cavern hidden behind the wall of water. The small shore was littered with coconut palms and large, flat stones big enough to spread out on. There was no evidence of creatures either swimming or drinking in the pond.

You bent over and scooped a small sample of the blue water, daring to sip it, relieved at the lack of a salty taste. “It’s fresh. If we can start a fire and somehow procure a pot, we can boil it clean.”

Loki didn’t say anything. Instead, he walked further down the beach until he found some wet, fine sand just under the water. Kneeling down, he began to use his magic to manipulate the clay into a large pot.

“I guess I’ll have to get used to you breaking your parole,” you mumbled.

Loki set the first bowl aside and began to form another. “If it means we don't dehydrate, then yes. It may be futile to send a distress signal, but I’m not going to waste away for the sake of the United Nations.”

You had to admit, he had a point. Loki’s magic was the only tool for survival you had at the moment.

“Maybe you could make me some shoes while you’re at it?” you added. Loki didn’t seem to hear you.

You stayed at the lagoon for an hour or so in an attempt to catch your breath from everything that was going on. Loki, surprisingly, didn’t say a word the whole time. After he made three large clay pots with his magic, he did something that caught you off guard: he turned himself into a small monkey and began climbing one of the coconut trees. You’d forgotten his magic could do that.

If only he could turn into one of those giant eagles from Lord of the Rings and fly us out of here, you thought. But if he could surely he would have thought of it by now.

“You can make fire too, right?” you finally broke the silence after wading for a bit, your skirt hiked up to your knees, the hem tucked into your waistband.

“As long as you don’t mind green flames,” Loki replied, turning back into his humanoid form and sitting at the top of a palm. He began hacking away at the bundle of ripe coconuts and tossing each one down to the sand. “Norns, I do wish I could summon my daggers.”

“Why can’t you?” you asked half-heartedly.

“Let’s just say, Thor and Odin arranged for some of my seidr to be disabled. Even a vow before the United Nations couldn’t convince them to allow me access to my weaponry.”

“How the hell can they take your magic away?” you asked, marveling at how cruel that sounded.

“How could Odin render Thor unworthy of his blasted hammer?” replied Loki, throwing the last coconut onto the ground, sliding down the truck after it. “It’s something you mortals still can’t seem to comprehend. Some things just…work differently.”

You sensed there were layers to Loki’s words, but addressing it would only cause further unnecessary strife. You only began to fill one of Loki’s pots with lagoon water. “I imagine it’s early evening,” you mumbled awkwardly. “We should get back to the beach before sunset.”

Loki brought the harvested coconuts back in one of the other pots, and once you found yourselves at the beach again, he began hacking away at the husks with a sharp rock. “You know, you could do some of this work!” he complained. You decided not to fight him, but you did shoot him a smirk. Seeing him sweat was satisfying.

As the sun set, you and Loki kept your distances from one another. You paced the shore nervously as Loki built a green fire and boiled water to drink.

You’d have to strategize for rescue in the morning, perhaps even build a shelter. How often did hurricanes come to this part of the world? Were there wild boars or other dangerous beasts lurking in the trees, waiting for you to fall asleep? You dreaded the thought. But for tonight, the weather forecast promised a clear night sky, so sleeping under the stars would do.

Neither of you said a word to the other for the rest of the evening. As the stars climbed into the indigo canopy above your heads, you manipulated the sand around you into a mound that accommodated your curvy body enough to feel comfortable. You were surprised at how quickly you fell asleep that first night, the last thing you noted before drifting off being the faint flicker of green firelight from behind your eyelids.

“Guys, we need everyone in the conference room ASAP,” Tony was giving all of the Avengers who happened to be in the tower today a red alert via the intercom. Today, that was Steve and Bucky, Natasha, and Bruce. “We’ve got a problem.”

Everyone took the alert seriously, and before five minutes, the Avengers were assembled.

“What is it?” asked Nat, crossing her arms.

“The quinjet’s signal was lost over the South Pacific a few hours back. Loki and Y/N never landed in Sydney,” said Stark.

“Shit!” Nat swore. “He could be anywhere without accountability--”

“--he could be dead, but more importantly, Y/N could be dead,” said Bucky. He hadn’t admitted it to anyone yet, but Bucky nursed a crush on you himself, so this news worried him particularly. “Let’s get the rescue jet--”

“--hold on there, loverboy,” Stark held up a hand. Bucky’s stubbled cheeks went red. “We can’t just do a quick scan of the Pacific Ocean and find them! It’s kind of a big lake.”

“Loverboy?” Bucky looked down sheepishly. Steve shrugged awkwardly.

“So what do you suggest?” asked Steve. “Technically speaking, part of the UN terms concern constant accountability for Loki. If he and Y/N are alive, they could be anywhere in the southeastern quadrant of the planet. Loki could potentially do some damage if he gets a tickle for it.”

“Last confirmed check in was over Hawaii, and it was on schedule,” said Bruce, looking over Tony’s shoulders as he went through the last readings on a transparent screen in front of them both. “There’s a very, very big area that they could be in, and that’s if they survived the crash.”

“We have to assume they did,” interjected Steve. “For God’s sake, let’s have some hope. Tony, what do we do?”

He looked at the people in the room, and his face dropped. “Look, we could send search parties out, but it's a patch of TENS of THOUSANDS of square miles, kids. Even I don’t have the tech developed that could find them in that big of a space. It could take me two more lifetimes.”

“Then let��s triangulate their last signal and make some educated guesses. Perhaps that’ll give us a start,” Steve suggested. “What was their planned flight path?”

“Pacifically, the Specific,” quipped Tony. No one laughed.

“Or,” Nat added, her voice trailing off for a moment as if her idea was too ridiculous to suggest, “We could call Asgard.”

“No!” said Tony with an eyeroll. “I don’t want to deal with those snobs, my head hurts.”

“Thor might have some kind of Loki senses we don’t,” said Bruce, agreeing with Natasha. “It’s the best card we’ve got.”

Tony went quiet as he thought it through. “Fine. Call Dr. Foster and get her to give her boyfriend a buzz. The sooner we find them, the more likely they are to still be hanging on.”

You awoke to the sun rising, your skin pressed against the sand of a tropical beach. The rhythmic sound of the waves crashing over the shore had kept you asleep in spite of the circumstances. Feeling at least a little rested, you rolled over onto your side and allowed yourself to fully come to.

The first thing that caught your eye was a strange pile of something brown just beyond arm’s reach, as if it was set there for you to find. You scowled and sat up. At first glance, it looked like a pile of shit, which meant Loki must’ve put it there as a prank. You were ready to call him out, wherever he was, until you saw what they really were.

They were a simple, crude pair of sandals fashioned out of vine, stone, and clay. And indeed, Loki had put them there for you. It was a good thing you didn’t shout curses in his general direction, for you would’ve instantly put your foot in your mouth.

But…how did he know my size?

Turns out, he didn’t quite guess correctly. The shoes were a little large, but still much better than a broken kitten heel and a decaying angora sweater.

Before you got to your feet, you saw Loki out of the corner of your eye. He was wading about waist-deep in the ocean, his sculpted back bare, his hair loose and sticking to his shoulders. He wasn’t doing much other than standing there shirtless, looking out at the rolling sea and yellow sky.

He’s kind of…beautiful, in his own way, you thought. I mean, he IS a god, right?

It was a shame that those looks were wasted on such an asshole of a person. You were sure the UN wouldn’t have been so keen on a solution of forgiveness had he looked more like The Hulk. Loki’s charisma was genuine, even if it was for ill gain and attention most of the time. You were surprised at how he was able to gather some coconut, start a fire, and fashion a hanging grate out of vines and bamboo stalks without bringing up a single insult.

You got to your feet, brushing off your skirt before knotting the hem at your knees. Maybe…maybe I should extend the olive branch.

Raking your fingers through your hair, dismayed to feel the sand and pebbles that had settled into it while you slept. Well, he can’t expect me to look like some Baywatch lifeguard.

Granted, he did. As you got closer and were able to make his backside out a bit more clearly, you were sure you saw the top of his ass crack peeking out from the surface…

Oh my god, he’s completely naked!

You froze at the shoreline as you realized that maybe you should have faked staying asleep. How poorly would he take to you peeping at him? How awful would the endless teasing be, especially on an isolated island where you couldn’t escape from it?

However, before you could bug out, Loki turned around and caught sight of you on the beach. He grinned flirtatiously and winked, but as he opened his mouth to address you, something else nearby caught his eye instead. You followed his gaze to a large, dark heap washing up some twenty feet down the shore. Loki’s face fell again.

It was a corpse.

You screamed.

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luvmist · 1 year

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could i request fem reader x neteyam and cuddles after she’s had a particularly rough day?

I AM NOW (2.1k)

neteyam x f! reader

CONPENDIUM: after a long day, you seek solace in the arms of your beloved.

WARNINGS: a little angst, ao’nung being a simp

LOLA SAYS: this is my first ever fic so i’d really appreciate any constructive criticism/feedback. i have legit never written in my life so pls bare w me. i hate this but i will do better lol. if y’all don’t see potential tho literally tell me and i’ll stop rn. also pls reblog

the star of day rose from its tranquil slumber and graced the sky, gradually dissolving the lapis of the metkayina night and generously effusing the village with it’s beams. as the phosphoresce rays illuminated the morning, and the water began to shimmer with lucent diamonds, the reef people began to stir awake from their rest. the lambent incandescence kissing their eyelids and evoking their consciousness.

your eyes open softly with the light, instant disappointment fills your chest. as always, you were dreaming of him. and now you were left craving his warmth next to you. throwing your head back down onto the woven flax floor of the metkayina marui, you closed your eyes. envisioning his face. the sides of your mouth tugging upwards into a warm smile. however, your solace was cut short when the noise of your brother tutean, snoring, thundered through your ear drums. a daily occurrence. typically, a good kick in his direction would shut him up. a tactic you could only indulge in if his preposterous pandemonium awoke you overnight. but alas, it was morning. and village life begins early.

rising to your feet and stretching your arms above your head, you admired the striking atolls stretching out for miles ahead of you. the ring shaped sea wall approximately 30 miles across. the reef was beautiful. it always had been. but again, your moment was interrupted when another rambunctious snort – like growl was emitted from your brothers nose. glaring in his direction, you pick up the closest thing you can find. the closest thing being a rather boisterous seashell your mother had collected weeks ago. and without a second thought the seashell flies through the air and collides straight with your brothers skull.

a groan immediately sounds and a “hey! what was that for?” rolling your eyes you reply “for sounding like a damn ikran in labour. that’s what.” throwing on your necklace and arm band, you venture out of the opening and into the village. suddenly you feel your knees buckle and a slippery sensation under your feet. next thing you know your forehead is met with the thick, stringy floor of the walkway from your marui. it didn’t take long for you to acknowledge the cause of your fall. the walkway was wet. splendid. first you awoke to the earthquake that was your brothers nasal system. and now you’re lying down face first like some invertebrate imbecile. “yn! so sorry! are you alright?” you recognise the voice, ao’nung. the chief’s son. which served as no consolation as he had always been sweet on you, despite your ever obvious uninterest. his strong hand wraps firmly around your upper arm, and you are pulled to your feet. “fine. just peachy.” you reply sharply as you shake his hand from your body. a’onung’s face doesn’t falter, used to your rejection. “that my fault, i was out hunting early with rotxo. the ilu’s were feeling quite playful and splashing around this area.” he offers a smile. you offer a glare. “oh cmon. you can’t really be that mad?” he snickers. suddenly you feel deflated. “honestly, i just have a bad feeling about today.” at your words his eyes suddenly fill with concern, and you realise your mistake. “yn, i-” you don’t let him finish — “no.” “no?” he mirrors. “no” you state again. “don’t do that thing where you try to get all real and emotional ok? not sexy.” now ao’nung is the one rolling his eyes. you push past him, sighing. “and i let myself believe you might finally cut tree boy loose and come have some real fun!” he calls after you. the laugh evident in his voice. “yeah, fat chance” you reply. you had come to dread interactions with ao’nung, but today was pleasant. you convince yourself your gut feeling was wrong. today will be good. if a little sarcastic verbal sparring could lift your mood, surely things were looking up. right?

wrong. to your dismay, your gut was right. your day was one calamity after another. for starters, your lighter mood had been quick to leave you. mere minutes after you and ao’nungs interaction you had been scolded by one of the elders in the village for forgetting to collect and juice 12 utu mauti fruits. a task you had been assigned a week prior and had completely forgotten to do. you spent your afternoon trying to make up for lost time, climbing the mangroves in search for them. during this time, you managed to cut yourself accidentally with your knife. twice. you also managed to forget to bring a basket to collect the fruits in. so you had to make a trip back to your mauri. there, you learned from locals that the reason you had yet to see neteyam was because he had been part of the group of boys that left for early hunting, but unlike ao’nung, he had chosen to stay rather than return after making a decent catch. suddenly and irrationally a pang of hurt fills your chest. he didn’t even say good morning, he always comes to greet me in the mornings. you deflect your emotions. this is stupid, you tell yourself. he probably just didn’t want to wake me. when you returned to the mangrove forest, all of the fruit you had spent hours gathering was gone. it didn’t take a genius to figure that one out. feather tail fish were grazing. great. that earned you another scolding. as punishment, you were assigned to sharpen seaglass, which was a task you accomplished quickly, until a young boy no older than twelve walked sheepishly towards you with a basket. you recognised him as the elder’s grandson. he apologised, and told you he had brought you the wrong seaglass. this time you were not scolded. you were reprimanded ruthlessly.

it was reaching late afternoon, and neteyam felt the water become shallower as he rode his ilu towards the shore. laughing with his friends, and content with the day he had had. it had been a long hunt, but many rewards had been reaped. “bro, i can’t believe you caught a feathertail fish!” yelled rotxo over the sound of the current. “seriously man,” continued lo’ak, “those things are stealthy, and always hiding in between the mangrove roots, how’d you do that?” neteyam smiled, “lucky shot i guess.”

the truth was he had no idea how he’d caught that damn fish. he was focused for the first hour, and then his mind wandered. all he could think of was you. he felt his senses and mind slowly derailing — he had gone a night and almost a full day without seeing you. suddenly his competitive urge from this morning when lo’ak shook him awake telling him the guys had bet he couldn’t catch a bigger keep than them seemed silly. the need to feel your hands on him was becoming insufferably potent. reaching the peer, the dismounted. tugging his ponytail and undoing the bond between him and his ilu and grabbing onto the thick bamboo of the rafters. “hey do you guys mind if i-” neteyam started, “go see your girl, tree boy. i’ll un tack your ilu.” marek, another boy who had been on the hunt, answered. neteyam didn’t need to be told twice.

you lay in your hammock, dejected and alone. why had everything gone so, so wrong today? closing your eyes you tried to shut everything out. the creaking of footsteps can be heard, and the bounce of the woven walkway begins could be felt too. you prayed whoever it was, was not headed this way. until a shadow became apparent on the wall in front of you, reflected from the entrance. your instincts guessed without you having to open your eyes much, “piss off, tut. seriously. i’m not the in mood.”

“what if i wasn’t tut? would you be in the mood then?” your eyes snap open. that was not your brothers voice. turning, you see him. “neteyam” you whisper. “hi angel girl” he smiles, but only for a second. because when he notices your expression, your stricken, yet relieved expression, your ears lying flat against your head and your eyes already welling with tears, there is no longer anything to smile about. before you can process his movements he’s crossed the distance between the opening and your hammock, taken you out of it, and wrapped you in his arms. “what’s wrong.” he demanded. the empathy in his voice was thicker than the hot summer air that filled the room. all you could do was cry. cry because of the day you had, cry because of how much you missed him, cry because of how being buried in his broad chest was a feeling you know would end soon. cry because you couldn’t live in these moments forever. relishing in his touch and being as close as two people can be. “hey, hey, hey” he says taking your face in his hands. you look up at him. “what’s going on?” his gaze is so intense it makes it harder to speak. you won’t tell him. because you can’t. because how could you possibly waste one more second of time when he was finally here? “i just. i don’t. i can’t. i don’t know how to” you say in between sobs. “ok, ok. sh.” he pulls you back into him. and you stay this way for minutes. when your breathing is level, he kisses you. strong. hard. and once. now your hand is in his, or his is in yours, you can’t tell. and he’s walking, and you’re walking. “tey where are we going?” “we’re going to clear your head.” he says.

you could feel sand underneath you. you could hear waves in front of you. you could see stars above you. and most importantly, you could feel, hear and see him. you had spent the last hour venting. and neteyam, listening attentively. after you had released your numerous emotions. he spoke. he told you he was sorry, he told you he was there. and after hearing your fruit story, he had gone to fetch the feather tail he had caught, and quite literally forced you to punch it.

“neteyam, i am not going to punch a dead fish."

“why not? the bastard ruined ate your utu’s”

“neteyam there are thousands of feather tail fish in the sea!”

“yeah, and i’m telling you to punch this one.”

now, lying in his embrace with your head resting on his forearm. your frustrations had long faded. and the boy next to you was to thank. you looked up at him, his mouth still moving as his eyes stayed fixed on the sky. “but seriously, baby, listen. i just. i don’t want this to happen again, ok? if you’re having a rotten day, send one of the boys to come find me. i’ll be back in a heartbeat. crushes me to think i wasn’t here to do anything until late.” his voice becomes softer. “really crushes me.” his hand is in your hair, tracing soft circles on your scalp. “neteyam” you say. as if you had never spoken, he continues “i mean, i know we haven’t been going out for long but there is nothing more important than you, got that? and i don’t wanna hear you bullshit yourself. you’re capable. you’re the most capable person i know. today was an off day but we all have those, i’ll help you gather tomorrow. we’ll do it together. i just wish you could see how special you actually are.” “neteyam” you speak again. “i know you compare yourself to me and i hate that you do that, you’re just as gifted, if not more and-” “neteyam!”

he finally looks at you. and you look at him. you look at each other. before you can speak again his lips are on yours, enchanting your mouth with his tongue. and you kiss him. the kiss is sweet, he’s docile, patient with you. his hands find your waist, and your being encapsulates his. you pull away, panting. and he is looking at you like you’re the only thing that matters. it’s late, and he can’t think, and words don’t seem effective. so he touches you, and you touch him. he brings you close. and let’s his fingers wander up and down your back. your face in his neck, his breath fawning over you. your hands find his here and there, intervals of separation are including so you can trace shapes on his chest, or rub his arm — but they always find their way back to each other. like old flames.

“you ok?” he asks again, the last time.

“i am now.” you say, smiling.

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aftermidnightspecial · 6 days

Text

The Cove - Part 1 (Male Ceceliae 🐙 x Human Female)

Word Count: 4,610 Warning: Part 1 is SFW but there is some adult language

Summary: Seeking a huge change in life, but ending up in unexpected circumstances, Marisol winds up getting the attention of a somewhat secret admirer. Things don't turn out as planned for either as cultural differences and communication is not their strong suit.

a/n: I'm almost done with part two, which will be absolute filth garbage. Sorry I can't write a one shot. OTZ

🌴🐙🌴

She was drowning.

If Marisol was honest, she had been for some time now. Figuratively, of course, not literally. The oppressive demands of adulthood did not live up to the hype that her youth had dreamt up and the promise of what was to come had not been all that it was cracked up to be. She was suffocating under responsibilities, deadlines, demands, life in the rat race with a high pressure job-- It was utter shit.

It had all come to a head. She needed a drastic change. She'd quit her job, sold all of her things and had found work through an agency as a teacher on some remote island in the South Pacific. It was an extreme and unexpected change of pace to be sure. Giving everything up was scary, but it was starting to feel like she could breathe again.

The ferry rocked gently as it made its way through the bay, leaving the docks in its wake. She was on her way to her final destination, a daunting feeling. It was only a few hours ago that she'd landed at the tiny island airport and now all that was left was an overnight ferry ride, then a short water taxi to where she'd start her new life.

Sighing, Marisol looked out the window that sat in front of the small desk, watching the shoreline slip out of view, leaving just the beautiful blue water that surrounded it. In the haze of the distance, tiny islands were barely visible and she wondered exactly what those locations were. But then again, the South Pacific had lots of little keys and atolls. Who's to say it wasn’t an undiscovered place? Maybe she'd Google it later for curiosity's sake. For now, the sun was still shining above, and it was going to be a long, but relaxing ride. The ferry’s website said just as much.

Mari had secured a cabin, a micro suite, for her overnight trip. There was just enough room for her suitcase and bag, the bed of course, and a tiny desk, but was otherwise snug with zero space for anything other than standing and taking the two steps to the toilet or the exit. Fitting two people in this room would have been quite the challenge and maybe part of her was grateful she was making this journey alone.

Fortunately, it was just her. If you could say it was fortunate. She had been single for a few years now, having casually seen some people, but nothing that would have stopped her from uprooting her life in the dramatic fashion she had. A second glance out the window had her questioning her sanity for the millionth time. It still didn't feel real that she'd actually given up everything about her old life and started a new chapter, easily the craziest thing she'd ever done.

Settling in hadn't really taken her long, and this late in the afternoon, she was a little jet lagged from all the traveling, losing count of however many time zones she'd been through. Grabbing her wallet, she headed to the café area to hunt down something to eat and drink. She wasn't starving, so something light would probably hold her over for the rest of the night. Bonus points if she could just take it back to her cabin and eat in peace. Luckily, her cabin was on the same floor as the café, just at the end of the hall, in fact. It was convenient but it also meant she could hear when other passengers walked past her room, coming and going, which was not ideal.

The café, as it was called, was really more of a cafeteria, where it had some tables and seating, a limited offerings coffee bar, a chill case with some premade sandwiches and some lunch boxes with hard boiled eggs and cheese. Nothing to write home about really. There were also some vending machines with packaged snacks and drinks. Strange enough, there was no attendant, instead a note about it being closed in the off-season meant she would have to make due with what was available.

Just her luck. Mari sighed, sparing a glance to the two other passengers who were drinking something from the vending machines. They’d clearly planned ahead because they had take-out food from the restaurant on the docks while they enjoyed the view. The spacious room was all windows, a door on either side leading to the outside deck where there were benches in a few places, nothing extravagant. She could only see a handful of people milling around, enjoying the beginnings of the voyage.

As large as the ferry was, it was rather empty, or at least it felt pretty desolate. There were only a few dozen passengers and minimal crew. It was off-season though, so not a ton of tourists traveled this time of year.

Marisol thought nothing else of it, pausing in front of the vending machines as she considered what she wanted as she glanced out the windows to the horizon for a moment, the sun sitting a bit lower in the sky. The stars out on the open water would be a sight; she'd have to set a reminder to go outside and look. After all, she was under a new sky, with unfamiliar constellations. Smiling to herself, she swiped her card on the machine and treated herself to a soda, chips, and a candy bar. In her opinion, one of the few perks of being an adult is that you’re allowed to eat trash for dinner if you really want to– which she did.

Retreating to her room with the scavenged junk food, she settled in for the night. Kicking her shoes off and flopping onto the bed, Mari reached down and rummaged around her purse, digging out the book she'd been reading. The signal on her phone had been nonexistent since boarding the boat but she honestly was a little relieved to disconnect for a bit. She glanced at the screen, just in case any of her texts to her family had managed to send, but as of right now, she just confirmed the glorified alarm was plugged in before resuming snacks, eager to get to the good part in the current chapter.

It hadn’t taken much for her to doze off to the peaceful rocking of the boat, melting into the soft blankets, book in hand.

The sudden boom of thunder rattled the ship, waking her up with a start, the boat listing with tumultuous tides. Lightning flashed outside the window, lighting up the room in an alarming way, electricity flickering as the boat was rocked so intensely that it nearly tossed her off the bed. Mari's brows knit together as she scrambled to get up and to the window to see what was going on outside.

Her spine prickled with fear, all the hair on her arms and the back of her neck standing up, eyes going wide. A behemoth rogue wave loomed over the boat like an executioner's blade. It easily would have swallowed the moon if not for the pitch black clouds and torrential downpour. Only the lightning bolts racing across the thunderhead behind it gave it shape in the darkness beyond the cabin window.

There was nowhere to run or hide. Her heart stopped and time slowed as the tidal surge grabbed the boat and sent her violently tumbling head over heels. She hit her head on the wall, seeing stars as any loose objects from around the room crashed into her as they all plunged towards their death. Marisol screamed, scared, angry. She was just starting over, and of course this, this would happen. It wasn’t fair.

The ferry itself groaned as it was hit, pulled under and churned in the abyss of the sea. Mari softly gasped as everything slowed and the boat itself finally stopped spinning. The same couldn't be said for her head. Something was wrong, horribly wrong. She found herself buried underneath anything that hadn't been nailed down. The lights were out and she was now in complete darkness, no more lightning flashing outside the room's window. From the feeling of what she was kneeling on, she could tell she was on the ceiling of her cabin.

The boat was upside down.

Adrenaline and dread coursed through her, desperately shoving off the pillows, the desk chair, random contents of her purse, and anything else that had piled on her. Fumbling towards where she thought the door was, knees weak, she stood as she reached for the handle, managing to get it open. The state outside her room was eerily quiet and she could faintly hear some other passengers crying, trapped on lower floors, but her head was ringing and her fear was screaming at her to flee.

It was a nightmare, trying to navigate the ship in complete darkness, crawling along the ceiling as seawater was now rushing in, pooling around her knees and hands as she timidly crawled through the disorder. It hadn't felt this complicated a few hours ago when the boat was sitting on top of the water.

In the hallway, there was some glow-in-the-dark tape that was on the floor, currently above her head. Once more, the metal sides of the boat whined as it continued its slow descent under the waves.

Mari could hardly control her breathing as she finally escaped the long hallway and had made her way to the café where there was nothing but ominous, dark oblivion surrounding the glass walls that should have overlooked a horizon and midnight sea. The faint whisper of crackling glass under pressure was an omen of what was about to come.

"Fuck." The word softly slipped from her lips.

It was like a bomb went off. Water and glass exploded forward, slamming into her body and throwing her back down the hall she'd just escaped from. Like a ragdoll, thrown around and pulled under the saltwater flooding every available space as the ferry continued to sink further down to rest in the soft white sand below.

🌴🐙🌴 It was so warm now. The sun on her skin and wet sand beneath her, the cool breeze rifling her hair. It was all so serene, surely this was a dream… It only took a few moments before dread seeped into every pore of her body.

This couldn’t be real.

Marisol's eyes shot open, her body jerked forward, sitting upright with alarm. The fast motion was a terrible mistake, everything aching.

"Fuck. Shit. Fuuuuck!" She rasped, her throat sore from screaming and swallowing sea water. With trembling hands, she took inventory of herself, her injuries, her surroundings.

Nothing looked or felt horrendously broken on her body. She found that one of her eyes was bruised, the swelling making it hard to see, her lip split, bruises and scrapes all over, but she would live.

Marisol got to her feet, wobbly at best, resembling a newborn deer taking its first few steps. She was so sore and her memory was foggy, the piercing headache she had was not helping anything at all.

Her eyes adjusted to the bright sunlight and she looked around. The Pacific stretched endlessly before her, far past the sandy cove she’d woken up on. Its crystal blue water was pleasant in every way other than the fact that it had almost killed her mere hours before. Very patronizing.

There was no other sign of human life in the immediate area, none of the other passengers or even anything from the shipwreck had washed ashore. That seemed odd, but it was also her first shipwreck. Who’s to say this was abnormal? Mari double checked the horizon for a plume of smoke or something to signal where the boat may have sank? Did sinking ships even catch fire? Would there even be obvious signs? Mari didn't even know how to begin to answer that. There didn't appear to be a clear answer right now. Maybe this was just a bad dream? She could only hope.

Mari paced around the cove, almost scared to move from the shore. She just needed to think, to get a plan together. The island behind her was still daunting, faced with a wall of trees and underbrush. Just past the cove, it was shouldered with mangroves, covered in greenery making it hard to discern the island’s actual size from her location on the beach. Notably, there was something of a peak, but she couldn't really grasp how tall it was. She’d likely need to head up there to gather more information about how stuck she was. Maybe there were even people living on this island?

This was bleak, indeed. She had no clue how to exist out here. Sure, she'd watched plenty of Survivor Man from the comfort of her sofa, but it wasn't like she had her phone to look up edible plants, no skills in starting a fire, no fresh water, and just… how often did people actually get rescued from shipwrecks? She felt in her gut the number was low.

Marisol took the next few minutes to cry, knees to her chest, sobbing. She wasn’t a big crier, but, these were special circumstances and she felt like she was entitled to that much.

Pulling herself together, she brushed the sand from her legs and off her damp clothing. She wasn’t completely without an idea of what to do. She knew she needed a shelter, even just a temporary cover that would protect her from the wind and rain. She wasn’t holding her breath on building anything structurally sound in an afternoon. Though she was definitely noticing her skin was burning where she’d been cut by some of the glass. A miracle that none had nicked an artery. Bleeding out in seconds sounded much better than dying of thirst and exposure on some rock in the middle of the ocean. Only time would tell.

“Happy thoughts only. Happy thoughts. We’re just… having a beach day.” She grit out to herself, her mind reeling from all the things she needed and wanted to do.

Finding some downed palm fronds that she thoroughly shook out for a spider free™ shelter, she piled them up as best she could near the beginnings of the jungle thicket. It took her an hour and she moved slowly from both the pain and needing to conserve energy. Currently, the only water that was available to her was sea water and that just wasn’t going to work. She’d have to go looking for some or this would be a very short stay here.

She decided to walk inland, hoping to find some water to drink and get a better look at the island itself. She was going to need to be careful and not wander around too much or too far. If the island was huge, she could get lost. On the other hand, the island could be host to a resort or something and she could be freaking out for nothing. Best case scenario to be sure.

Hope surged through her and she pulled her damp hair up into a messy bun, feeling blessed that a hair tie had stayed on her wrist through the ordeal. She glanced back to the ocean, doing a double take as something large and dark darted under the surface near the edge of the cove where it opened up to the larger water. Her heart raced, nervous, the thought of there being sharks in the water did not comfort her.

Marisol didn’t consider herself a scaredy cat, but there were a few things she would rather not deal with. For one, being stranded on an island was currently at the top of her list. Followed by giant animals she couldn’t see in the water with her, invertebrates and bugs were all a little much and she would rather avoid them.

She was in so much trouble.

Steeling herself for some jungle island exploration, Marisol headed towards the peak of the island that was nearby. She was a few steps into the woods, when she screamed, a giant slug on the leafy jungle floor. She was barefoot. That could have been terrible had she not been looking down.

“Grossssss.” She hissed and quickly stepped over, shuddering as she was maximally skeeved out. She paused, picking up a stick to fend off spider webs and any other critters that crossed her path. She had to be careful of everything. This was worse than playing Oregon Trail.

“You died of dysentery.” She snorted under her breath.

It was slow moving through the jungle, there weren't any obvious pathways anywhere. Marisol had to squirm through brush to get to a clearing near the base of the island’s summit. While in the cover of the dense canopy, she paused, finding some giant leafed plant that was holding rainwater. She stared at it, leaning in closely. It didn’t appear to be filled with bugs or anything like that. It was her best bet at the moment. She was already thirsty… besides, how long was it a human could go for without water? Something like three days at most?

Mari bit the bullet and leaned in, drinking the water and hoped for the best. Refocusing the task at hand, she started up the rocky slope on her trek to the top. At its peak, she overlooked the island. It was fairly large, but no signs of humans. She couldn’t even see where the ferry might have sank, but who knows how far away it was before she washed up on shore here. Giving pause, the memory of the enormous wave looming over the boat crossed her mind. She doubted she'd ever forget it.

She hadn’t seen much in the way of recognizable fruit on trees, you know, bananas, coconuts, pineapples, while heading to the peak. From the summit, it looked like the island was much larger than she initially thought and there might be some elsewhere around the area. There also appeared to be a large inlet on the other side and maybe something she could explore later on.

Marisol was ready to head back down to the cove where she would stay for the time being. Looking over the edge of the cliff to the water below, she could see the sandy bottom and the reefs that decorated the sea floor. She glanced at the water, something having caught her attention. She watched some large dark shadow moving in the water below the cliff. It moved in such a weird way, her brain didn’t compute what it could have been. It circled a few times before it disappeared from view as it headed further into the reef.

Probably just… a really big fish or something.

The walk back to the cove was uneventful, only stopping to drink water that had collected in another large leaf. She would need to figure out a way to store water, especially when it rained. But finding clean-ish drinking water felt like such a win.

Down at the shore where her lean-to style shelter was located seemed that nothing had changed. At least not at first. Sitting in the sand just past where it was wet from the waves lapping upwards was a dead fish and a suspiciously folded wad of seaweed.

This would have been such a gift if she could have cooked it, but with the sun getting low in the sky, she didn’t think she had any hope of starting a fire. It probably washed up because it was sick. Totally inedible.

Mari shuddered, feeling uneasy as she approached the fish, hesitating as she moved closer to the shoreline. She felt like she was being watched. The fish was intact except for a puncture mark on its head. She couldn’t just leave it to rot in the sand. It could attract predators if there were any. Eating it raw didn’t seem like an option either. Raw ocean creatures had worms and parasites. Memories of a liver fluke video she’d recently seen on social media flashed in her mind.

“Nope, sorry.” She sighed as she picked it up, using extra sand as a buffer and tossed it into the water where it rather grotesquely floated in the cove, the sand making it cloudy as it settled.

“Why can’t a cheeseburger wash up on the beach?” She asked as she stretched and glanced at the pile of seaweed. It was neatly folded into a little square. Quite out of the ordinary.

Well, a lot of seaweed was edible. She thought as she picked it up and rinsed it off in the salt water, inspecting it. Maybe she’d let it dry out first and try it later. Like when she got really hungry.

Carrying the wad of seaweed to the shelter, Mari hung it up on some nearby branches to dry. She hadn’t yet committed to the idea of consuming it, but didn’t want to waste it if maybe she did end up needing to eat it. For now, she planned to explore in the few hours of daylight left. Perhaps she'd find a pineapple or banana.

Mari walked along the sandy shore of the cove, keeping an eye out for anything useful. There were few, if any, places on Earth that hadn’t suffered from humans so she expected to find some trash, even here. Marisol wandered past the cove, hesitant to get into the thigh deep water where the mangroves had dominated the shoreline. But she could see some bottles floating between the roots. Mari glanced further out looking for whatever it was that she'd seen earlier, very concerned about it, in fact.

Moving into the water, wading out slowly and freezing up when a stingray glided by. She was not cut out for this.

Mari carefully walked along the mangrove riddled coastline as she filled her arms with plastic bottles, some fishing line and a large sheet of clear plastic using it as a bag for the time being. She walked for an hour or so, still a little uneasy. A bit more exploring and scavenging had yielded plenty of bottles for holding water, but ultimately she had seen more of the island, most of it on this side protected by the thick mangroves, further down they diminished and there were some palm trees she’d need to come back and look at. It was hard to tell from here if they maybe were coconut palms, but now was not the time to linger. She didn’t want to have to walk back through the water when the sun was going down.

Upon return to the cove, everything appeared untouched this time, no surprise dead fish waiting for her. And oddly enough, no dead fish floating in the water. She’d no clue the exact time, but she’d say late afternoon. Setting most of the bottles down after washing them out in the sea, she went back in the jungle to collect some of the rain water that was still pooled on leaves in the shade and carefully filled the larger bottle before returning to the hut she made, if it could even be called that.

With no hope of starting a fire, Marisol settled in for the rest of the evening, prepared to spend her first conscious night on the island, watching the sun set and the stars come out. She supposed she had felt very differently about that experience the day before.

It was hard not to feel especially exposed sitting on the beach, the feeling that she was being watched persisted much like the itch of a bug bite. Ignoring that creeping sensation as best as she was able, she used the plastic sheet as a blanket to help retain heat and keep her dry. While it wasn’t cold, she was still damp and the wind blowing off the water sucked the heat out of her in an unexpected way.

Sipping her water, Mari reluctantly nipped a few tiny pieces of seaweed. Concerned that they’d make her sick, she started small. Overall, the seaweed didn’t taste awful, kind of what you’d expect, salty and slightly chewy. If she didn’t puke her brains out in the next few hours, she’d maybe eat some more, but it definitely took the edge off her hunger pangs while she enjoyed the sunset. That and the anxiety of being stranded here also took care of her appetite for the time being.

Dusk was settling over the island, the horizon a haze and the edge of the cove where the ocean opened up was just barely in view. Soon she would be in darkness. Wondering what it would be like with only the stars and the moon for light, and if that would be enough.

The waves continued to lap the sandy shore and Marisol watched as the brightest stars were starting to peek through the curtain of night. It was really nice despite the obvious unfortunate circumstances. Disrupting the evening chorus of the island at night was a splash that came from out in the cove.

Her head jerked up as she looked out at the water, squinting as if it would improve the low light quality.

There was something in the water. It was hard to see, but it hadn’t moved, had it? It looked like a pale human face. Suddenly her heart was pounding out of her chest and the blood rushing through her caused the world to quiet around her. The possibility of a body washing up on shore had occurred to her, but now that there was one here, it was more than a little scary. It should have been at least moving with the water, however instead, it remained firmly planted.

She sat like a deer in headlights and pulled the plastic sheeting tighter around her shoulders. A weak attempt to comfort herself.

The minutes stretched for what felt like an eternity for Marisol, but moments later it slipped under the water, reminding her of how a seal would pop its head up when swimming near the docks in her hometown.

There was no more time to think of home as more of the figure emerged from the shallows with the next wave. Its torso on the sand, claws reaching forward and dragging itself out of the water. She thought only for a second that it was a survivor.

“Hello?” Her voice wavered.

Its eyes shot up and pierced her but it gave no response, a breathy hiss of air from its pale grey lips. If she hadn’t been sitting down she would have bolted. Marisol scrambled to her feet. From this view, that’s when she saw it. The mass of slithering black tentacles, churning behind what was a very human shaped body.

Mari jumped to her feet as it started to move faster now, dragging itself towards her and closing the distance rapidly.

Her eyes went wide and her brain turned off as she turned and fled for the jungle. Slugs be damned, she ran for the cliff like the devil was on her heels. She couldn’t be sure she was on the same path she'd taken earlier. The branches pulling at her clothes and hair, scraping her skin but she barely felt it as she stumbled into the same clearing and scrambled about halfway to the top before she breathlessly slowed down. She felt like it was far enough, but didn’t find the need to climb higher. She didn't want to be near the water. She just needed to regroup and process.

She gasped for air settling on her heels. “What the fuck?!”

To be continued. Part Two will be out soon

Original Works Masterlist

#midnightwrites #horror romance #mermay #mermay 2024 #male mermaid x female human #monster boyfriend #octopus merman #male octo-mer #terato #monster lover #monster fucker #male ceceliae #SFW #original fiction #tentacle smut #cilophyte #octopus mermaid #mermay writing

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ceoofmetagala · 4 months

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Eheurmmm .... Trollstopia???? ( I'm too deep into the fixation now 💔😭) under resd more is me waffling Abt my OC It was gomna be fanfic ideas but NOOOO I enjoyed talking abt 1 oc too.kuch

Genreal oc trollstopia thing that takes place after trolls band together

Lotus seabrook(he/him, but not in a boy way but a nonbinary way) ambassador for the vocaloid trolls shows up with some other members of their tribe to say hello after the tribe finds out about trollstopia and are interested

Some background context (sighs in embrssement)

Synth, king trollex and lotus were all raised together, trollex and synth are also brothers (trollex being much older too), Lotus is atucally half techno half rock with his father unknown and not important to mention,due to this the king at the time king coral atroll(taken from atoll but trolled) did not want Lotus sround but his wife took lotus in anwyad because he had no parents to raise him and coral reluctancy accepts this.

In an attempt to get rid of lotus he's made daylight savings dj and to sabotage him so that he has "no choice but to kick him out"

Lotus could dj just fine it was the singing he couldn't do,synth and trollex tried to help but coral forbade them so it was ruined by lotus bad voice that was unbearable to hear and he was kickef out and trollex promises lotus he'll let him back in when he's king and lotus thanks trollex !!

Although after he leaves techno reef he becomes grey and loses color

Lotus then found the travelling vocaloid trolls who were struggling and using some of the mechanical knowledge he had he made what we know was the vocaloid program and with that he could also sing!!! Yayyy ( his singing voice is that of Vflower because purple, and flower correlation and flowers voice is still raspyish) so the queen(hastune Miku) thanks him and he becomes a part of the vocaloid trolls now !!!! And with that he is starting to gain his color back!!

During the events of world tour ofc the vocaloid trolls are captured and he sees trollex among the captured trolls but he can't get the chance to say hi to him during the let's all sing and friendship song🫶🫶(just sing) and decides to make a visit to techno reef for his own sake finally confident that king coral is gone!!!

Wow that's. More background info than expected oh well.

So back to present and synth and lotus are getting along great having not seen each other for a while and the "episode" takes the main plot point for lotus and the vocaloid trolls to make a rave for everyone else and lotus confided in synth that his voice right now isn't really his own and that his own had long been gone and now he uses his program to still speak and sing if needed properly!

Synth plans to keep it a secret but while lotus is seeing branch look at his sleeve branch who was with poppy find out and poppy wants to help lotus ~be who you areeee~~~ (I wanna make her more align to movie poppy a bit but that'll be a tad difficult but she's less pushy and mean here ) while branch says that lotus seems to know who he is perfectly well but Poppy still think he shouldn't need this aht badly to which a lotus takes off jis other sleeve and shows that he can't speak without it !!! Much less sing and poppy tries troll speech therapy and lotus just gets sickly after it from the vocal strain of singing in his real voice and poppy feels bad for pushing lotus too hard and lotus insists it's fine and asks where his sleeves are and branch hands them over but not before dropping and breaking them and lotus freaks a bit but the smartest trolls get together to help rebuild the sleeves before the rave and they manage to idkkk

Lotus and synth do a rave and it goes fine yay👍👍👍👍👍👍👍

Uhhhh TAHTS it . I'm embrssed as hell rn tbh.

#trolls #trollstopia #mocha.txt #trolls band together #techno trolls #trolls movie #dreamworks trolls #trolls oc #lotus seabrook

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alexanderwesker · 2 years

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Hello, I am back and I have catch up from my left chapter on the Twin of Light from Chapter 155 to the latest one, and oh boy this is gonna be epic, when they all just relaxed and have fun for one last day, the day of the reconquering.

The Battles continues on. And so the igniting flame of the revolution, for the L'manberg, For independence against tyranny, against the abusive and authoritarian abomination of the Ram on Manberg, The Despot, with their unholy alliance between the Sovereign, This is gonna be a fucking mess i could instantly tell, and May Lady Luck, and Prime blessed this soldiers with their conquest of their former homelands and holy fucking shit i couldn't get enough of this like this is it.

The Finale, the Climax, the stars have align, the fate have being knot into straight lines, this is gonna be it. With the Nether King on their side, and the L'Manberg Hidden Rebellion is gonna be the one who possibly start the fire, the Ram gonna be paranoid to it's core, i mean with many conscription of the soldiers around Manberg, it was only a matter of time before they all failed and died. And this is gonna a fun one.

And The Modern IRL Soldiers and Squads are gonna be a little anxious about the upcoming tomorrow, but their Squad Captain reassures everyone, that they are gonna victorious and the battle is gonna a one swift battle, and the Squad Captain, have commanded their soldiers to subdue the enemies and maintain as low casualties and instead of killing the Manberg's soldiers they must be captured and detain for the trial they gonna do once the battle and reconquest is done, The Bayonet is being polished, the bullets is being refilled, the gas mask is being worn. Tomorrow's the battle for their new home. For the People and the citizenry of L'manberg and their dying faith and loyalty to the two burs. And the Deepmire crews, They all stand in formation on the midst of the quiet dinner, they all sang after, as they stared at the General and Soot and the Captain Squad shouted on the top of their lungs with such glee and happiness.

''Everyone, raise you're glasses for the leaders of this rebellion. General Wilbur and Soot, tomorrow we gonna be triumph on our battles, Tomorrow a new dawn is awaiting for us all. FOR FREEDOM! FOR LIBERTY! FOR JUSTICE! VIVA LA REVOLUTION!'' the Squad Captain shouted, as the other modern IRL Soldiers shouted ''Viva'' and ''Long live the Generals'' with their voices in unison.

I am happy how far we've come author, from reading this, giving you're opinion about something from the What if Scenarios of mine. Hehehe I am deeply honored author, now please accept this with such warmth and glee Dear author, for you ignite the almost snuffed out passion within me. And provided new things that where i went brainrot and try to vividly imagine how would that played on this fic.

Sincerely, A reader

What if Anon.

Honestly I'm so very glad to hear that you have been enjoying AToL so much and that it has meant this much for you. I've enjoyed interacting with you and discussing your AU, honestly it had me thinking of things I wouldn't usually considering that our Soldier guys are from here and that they too now believe in the Burs like the L'Manbergians have always done.

And reading your words really, it give is that tone of epic like those poems of old, the one last battle against evil, to free their country from the hands of a monster. It is going to be a big battle on that you can bet, and the Burs will try their best to keep the casualities at the lowest they can, even when the soldiers fighting for the ram are branded as traitors, because they are still L'Manbergians so they deserve the trial the ram doesn't (and yes he's technically from the province in this Universe of mine, but he has done too wrong to deserve any mercy). I hope you'll like the progression of the battle, dear anon. And thank you so much for having stuck so long with my fic ^D^ <3

#ask answered #more like comment replied #anon ask #what if scenario #AToL AU #fanfic au #IRL Soldiers AU #For A Monster's Horns Arc #[Wilbur Speaks]

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mygainyear2024 · 17 days

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Day 41 Leiria was a surprise

Today I headed out early to catch the Rede Expressos bus to Leiria to pick up a hire car. As an aside, the local public transport is not great. I'm using a national bus company to travel what I consider a short distance, and the frequency is not great. I did a little research about what I might see in Leiria but didn't have high expectations. I'm now googling vegetarian/vegan restaurants in the hope I might get better coffee! But don't worry in Porto and Lisbon I have several options showing on my newly recommended Kava app!

Sadly at the bus station a woman was being prevented from getting on (I'm assuming) our bus by a man. He had her positioned against a wall and covered by his frame. It was clear to me that had she tried to make a run for it, things would escalate. She was trying to negotiate herself away from him. I might have approached in an English speaking country, but sensing I would not be understood, I instead went inside the office and told the male worker "Policia" and pointed outside. He looked and said "I don't think so!" I insisted "Sim, Policia, 112". I walked out and waited for a short time before I really had to get on the bus. I could see the worker came out and the woman said something to him and then yelled "Obrigada". I suspect he called the police, or was intending to, and either they or he asked her if she wanted help and she declined but said thank you. There really is a long way to go!

Forty minutes later I arrived in Leiria and headed for the mercado municipale. This was the cleanest mercado I have been to. So clean I used their toilets three times as I criss-crossed the city. There was an antique/boot market opposite where I purchased more earrings and a Marilyn Monroe broach (Portugal loves Marilyn and Frida Kahlo). The stall holders spoke great english and told me they'd been to Australia several times, and lived in East Timor for 6 years.

Next stop a walk up to the castle, then on to the coffee shop. Along the way I ducked in and out of interesting clothing and homewares shops, stumbled across street performers advertising the Festival atol João Moital, looked into an art gallery that was the former national bank, made it to the café for a delicious apple cake and great looking coffee (but sadly made on UHT milk) and then headed for Sixt car rentals. A little later than expected and luckily I got there before 12.30 as that was closing time. Three other people were ahead of me and no staff member in site. The poor man was on his own and after sorting paperwork for each person, then had to walk quite a distance to bring the cars in. I was getting quite concerned I would miss my nail appointment back in Nazaré.

One benefit from being the last customer and kept waiting was sweet talking the man into giving me another car after he asked if a station wagon would be ok, god no! I don't have a small car, but it's an auto at least. After discovering I didn't have the right cord for Apple Play and knowing I would be late for my nail appointment, I punched in Pingo Doce to google maps. At least I knew I could park there and it wasn't down some narrow streets. After missing a right turn (yep I've also forgotten my rights and lefts) and losing 5 minutes I'm finally on my way. On the toll road the limit is 120km. I caught myself doing 133km at one point and most cars were speeding past me! Luckily it wasn't busy. I gather the €2.75 toll might be a bit pricey for some locals.

I was going to head out in the car again to Alcobaça to see a recommended monastery, but it closed at 6pm. I knew there were folk festival events down at the beach so I headed there instead, and did a long walk.

Looking forward to celebrating Mother's Day in Tomar tomorrow. I understand it might be a bit medieval.

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javanesedamsel · 2 years

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Savage Romance

November 13th 2022.

I got a headache, it's kinda weird because I haven't and rarely felt like this before, yet it's normal for most people nowadays tho'.

Honestly the problem was about my romantic issues. I've been in a shadow-relationship with a man, named A for sure. I used think to call him a boy probably because he is younger than me. Our ages were different about one year. He had lots of personalities that suit me. He is kind, gentle for some point, but the circumstances was he has a true-relationship with my friend LOL, and many of his personalities make me got impressed at that point. I hate to admit it seriously! I haven't feeling like falling in love with these shitty-attention, yet the reason was I'm going to explain in here it's because we've spent our time in the same hobbies and similar enthusiasm that makes me ill. He likes reading books, talks about football that I love the most (not as much bcs I'm the opposite of himself—I mean my fav club), and he has been know about Islamic knowledge more than me (I guess). So, it was interesting to found someone who worth with, as what I've imagined back then—the final one is I don't think about it anymore.

Based when I knew that he doesn't tell me the truth earlier. Sadly to said that I've been in the cage that was killed by him—specifically because he got it, he got my attentions. Sadly to said that we've going through each other. Take and give our act of service before these things pop-it-up. It was came like bikini atoll blast. He said that he hasn't any girlfriend. He said that it's not a problem to getting along each other since we're just friends. But he doesn't want to explain that we weren't anything more than just friends to everyone (including his girlfriend that was my friend!!! How crazy?!) and the foolish truth was I did accept his will, I used to act like hiding something between us, trying to cooperate with him just as much as I can, but honestly I've told my friend that was his friend too (and my friend that named Z, told to her; my ex-crush's girlfriend about all of these) how rude is he?! After any problems that has happened, she tried to knocking my nerves and she said, “Sorry, for what that you've done both of you!! I can't forgive you”, I hate myself so much after that;")

But the facts that I knew was their relationship haven't done for so long, it means, should is she mad at me like hell yeah?! I don't get it. Okay, I've realized that wasn't good if we've (me and his bf get along together) but if she was the one who understands she will understand about how it goes. Like, srsly I don't get that tbh!!!? Omg, whatever!

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notapaladin · 2 years

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find yourself in time

Teomitl is pining. The ahuitzotls are helping. Acatl rediscovers an old hobby.

yes this shamelessly features my Autistic Acatl Agenda. give this man a rock collection!!

Also on AO3

Mortals, it was commonly agreed, were hopeless. In fighting, in eating, and especially in mating. They had no sharp teeth or claws, and they could barely bend their spines. No graceful spirals through the water for them. Their mortal was stronger and more flexible than most, but whenever he had to put his false-claws down and talk he was the most hopeless of all.

The bottom of their lake was cold and dark, just the way they liked it; they needed no light to identify each other, and no creature of Jade Skirt needed anything so pedestrian as air to talk. The ahuitzotls coiled in a loose pile, legs thrown over backs and tails scratching idly at heads, and once again returned to their most pressing problem.

What to do about their mortal.

Jade Skirt’s chosen had fallen like a corpse—fast and graceless—for a priest who smelled of dry dust and dry bones. A priest who served the gods well and didn’t run screaming when the ahuitzotls slithered up on dry land. A priest who was...quite skilled, for a mortal. Good with knives, at any rate, and a fit companion for their Teomitl.

Who was doing a terrible job of making the man his. Clearly, he needed help.

“He doesn’t bring gifts,” one of them grumbled in a voice like a flute.

Another, its chest splotched white, looked thoughtful. Any of them would come when their mortal called, but White Chest was...fond of him. He had cried into its fur one bad day, when many of its fellows had been summoned and slain at the behest of an embodied ghost. It was inclined to give him the benefit of the doubt. “He brings food?”

“His mate can catch his own meals,” Flute Voice grumbled. “But you are right, it shows...willing.”

“Not enough,” hissed a third.

“His mate has no shiny things,” a fourth growled.

Backs bristled and tails curled. One or two of the ahuitzotls showed their fangs. Plenty of them hunted on their own, but even the most solitary among them had a favorite rock or prized broken earring. To have nothing at all was—it was unheard of! What was their mortal doing?

White Chest ventured, “His mate says he needs no shiny things.” It was true. Their mortal had told it so many times. Mostly in tones of great indignation, admittedly.

This caused something of an uproar. “Ridiculous!” one snarled, and variations on the theme sprung up from the rest of the pile. Their mortal was covered in gold; he smelled of clinking stones and resinous incense, and his clothes were bright as birds’ feathers. His current mate, she who smelled of hearthsmoke and flowers, was a fit match for him, but his intended? The priest of dry bones? Such a man was already drab and boring and at a horrible disadvantage; he needed all the shiny things he could get!

“Well,” Flute Voice finally said. “We must give him some.”

The consequences of doing otherwise didn’t need to be stated out loud. They knew they were all thinking the same thing, and even White Chest had to agree. If they didn’t help, their mortal would pine for the pretty priest forever.

The rainy season was never exactly pleasant, but today it was positively nauseating; even at dawn, Acatl had barely been able to choke down a few gulps of atole. As the day wore on, it had only gotten worse. The smell in the temple complex really didn’t even bear thinking about. And it was only noon, with the hottest parts of the day still to come. He wouldn’t be able to take shelter indoors, either; a woman’s seemingly-normal death had strange traces of magic, and now he had to investigate. Hopefully it would be at least a little cooler on the canals.

And when he stepped down onto the pier, he tripped over something. Hard.

His first reaction, hastily bitten back, was unrepeatable in polite company. Or any company. He could just see Palli’s shocked expression out of the corner of his eye. Still grimacing, he shifted weight off his bruised toes—now radiating pain up his leg, gods, he hoped he hadn’t just broken a toenail—and looked down to see what some idiot had left in his path. A jug? A bucket?

...A rock. A perfectly smooth, oval rock, pure white, with glittery mica flecks scattered across its surface. Not something likely to have been washed up from the lake naturally. Frowning, he bent to pick it up and found that it fit in his palm perfectly. Something was carved or painted on its underside; when he turned it over, he realized it held the shallow stone imprint of a shell. Huh.

“Acatl-tzin?”

He turned back to Palli and Ezamahual, absently slipping the stone into his belt pouch. A faint childhood memory was tugging at him. Hadn’t he loved collecting rocks? “Never mind. Let’s go talk to that woman’s husband.”

It was indeed cooler on the canals. Not by much, but still. Sadly, the trip from their pier to the dead woman’s house was too short to really enjoy it. Her husband had been a wealthy merchant, and as they rowed Acatl found himself thinking about the man. Cuetlachtli, age about forty, had been the one to summon them after his wife’s death, but his demeanor had been...odd. Oh, he’d sounded close to tears, but there had been a strange flatness in his eyes. Acatl frowned, remembering it. It wouldn’t be the first case he’d seen where someone’s spouse had been the one responsible for their demise.

When they pulled up in front of the house—a spotlessly clean facade with frescoes of flowers and mountains—a young woman was there to greet them. She wore a long braid, a yellow-and-red striped skirt, and a scowl so close to the one Acatl was used to seeing on Mihmatini’s face that he had to battle an urge to stay in the boat. “Acatl-tzin. You must be here to question my brother again,” she said.

“We are.”

With a brisk nod, she turned on her heel and motioned for them to follow. Last night, the house had resembled a kicked anthill; the mistress of the house was dead, and everyone wanted to know how such a thing could have happened. Today, it was eerily silent. The various relatives and slaves they’d questioned earlier were keeping their heads down and their mouths closed.

Cuetlachtli’s sister—gods, what was her name—Coyoxochitl, that was it—was not. She spoke softly and steadily as she walked. “I’m not surprised. My brother was a jealous bastard, pardon my language. He’s been holed up in his chambers since after you left. Won’t even talk to me.”

Acatl grimaced. “Well. Perhaps he’ll speak to us.”

The main sleeping chambers of the house opened onto a courtyard. Coyoxochitl stepped onto the packed earth and froze for a moment, spine stiffening. Acatl didn’t need to ask why. He smelled the blood too.

“Cuetlachtli...?” she began, but instead of waiting for a reply she picked up her skirt and sprinted for the closed entrance curtain, yanking it aside in a cacophony of bells.

The room beyond held Cuetlachtli, sprawled on his back with his arm bloody and a knife laying inches away from his nerveless hand. It held a quincunx traced in blood and surrounded by glyphs.

And it held a twisted...thing, a monster with too many claws, which Acatl barely had a chance to register before it was leaping at them.

It knocked Coyoxochitl down; Palli, who was taller with longer legs and had therefore been just behind her, cried out sharply and staggered back, clutching a bleeding shoulder. Acatl struck at it, but it was faster than he was and didn’t seem inclined to stay and fight. Before he could try for another blow, it was already racing past them and out of the courtyard like a starved jaguar.

“After it!” he snapped, but he didn’t need to; his priests were already moving.

The creature clearly didn’t care who or what was in its way; it was solely intent on escape. The rest of the household scattered like startled quail ahead of it, one or two of the braver women throwing things at it as they ran. Most of them missed, but Acatl had to admire their initiative. And it was slowing the thing down.

Not enough, though. They caught up to it just in time to see it slip into the canals and vanish.

“...Well,” Acatl muttered. There was more he could have said, but all of it was profane.

“What was that thing?” Palli panted. He was still clutching his shoulder, and now that Acatl was looking at him he realized it had been a worse injury than he’d thought. He was pale, and shaky on his feet.

He bit his lip. “I’m not sure. Sit down. We’ll...handle things from here.”

The next hour or so passed in a blur. The thing had killed Cuetlatchtli, its claws and teeth leaving unmistakable wounds. Coyoxochitl was in an understandable state of shock, but in between cursing her brother’s name and shakily accepting his death she proved to have a wealth of information for them regarding his failing marriage, his cowardice, and the likelihood that he’d summoned the thing just to kill himself. The sloppy state of the quincunx seemed to bear that last point out.

Regardless, their next steps were clear. Coyoxochitl’s household was doing their best with Palli’s injuries, but he needed a real healer. They could continue searching for the creature afterwards.

When they stepped out onto the street, they had company. A much larger boat was pulling up alongside theirs, and waving to them from the prow was Teomitl.

“Acatl!” he called.

Acatl stared at him. He was glistening a little in the heat, cloak thrown back off his shoulders, and the rippling of his muscles as he leaned over for a closer look at them was an irresistible trap for Acatl’s gaze. They’d seen each other yesterday and it had been just as hot then, but every time was the same. Every time, his heart thumped a little harder in his chest. It felt like a small eternity until he managed to look at Teomitl’s face instead, which wasn’t much better. The concerned wrinkle between the boy’s brows sent a pang through his heart. “Teomitl, what are you doing here?”

The servant at the oar was rolling his eyes. Teomitl didn’t notice. His gaze was as intent as ever. “I...smelled blood,” he said, with a wrinkle of his nose that suggested smell was an inadequate phrase. “And I knew where you were. There’s something...wrong in the water. What happened?”

“We were attacked,” he muttered. “Palli...”

“I’ll live,” Palli grumbled.

Teomitl took in Palli’s injuries and their bloodstained state with a dissatisfied frown. “You’re wounded. I’ll take you back to the Sacred Precinct; we’ll move faster.”

He was right, and Acatl knew it. The imperial insignia outranked their plain craft any day of the week. Still, when Teomitl added, “And you can tell me what happened on the way,” he couldn’t help but wince. He knew where this was going to go.

Sure enough, after Acatl climbed into the boat and finished summing up the entire situation—actually before he’d quite gotten to the last part of his sentence—Teomitl’s first response was, “Let me help.”

He bit his lip. I shouldn’t. He’s skilled, but that thing was too fast. If he’s hurt... If he was hurt, Acatl wasn’t sure how he’d handle it. The Master of the House of Darts injured on his watch would be bad enough, but the idea of Teomitl bleeding the way Palli was, clutching his wounds with gritted teeth and biting back pained gasps into his cloak every time he moved, was a nightmare. He should say no.

But Teomitl was looking at him with a hopeful expression writ clear across his face for the entire population of Tenochtitlan to see, and so what he actually said was, “If you insist.”

“Thank you,” Teomitl said, with a degree of smugness. It might have been annoying if he hadn’t followed it up with, “And I brought you lunch, by the way. If you’re hungry.”

Acatl’s first thought was to turn him down. It was hot, he was tired, and the stench of the canals wasn’t conducive to appetite. Besides, he doubted Teomitl would have bothered to pick up food for his priests as well; though the man seemed determined to get back on their good sides after that attempted coup, Acatl knew that their lunches together were private affairs. And he...well, he rather liked it that way, actually. When he was alone with Teomitl, belly full of good food, he had no fear of speaking his mind. Not anymore. When they were in public, that same impulse was a problem.

In private, he could squeeze Teomitl’s arm or let himself smile warmly, basking in the second sun of Teomitl’s answering grin. In public, on the canals, with his priests sitting right behind them, he didn’t dare.

“I,” he started.

And then his stomach rumbled, and Teomitl smiled and handed him a slightly squashed tamale. “Eat.”

“It is wrong,” hissed Flute Voice.

“We will kill it.” White Chest didn’t really have to speak. All of them knew they were supposed to be the deadliest things in the lakes. This...aberration, this monster summoned from the heavens that was nowhere near a fit opponent, would pay for encroaching on their territory.

And its head would make a fine present for the priest. He’d have to be impressed by their mortal then!

The pier held more of his priests, who accepted the injured Palli and their explanations. Acatl would have set off at once for the archives to see if anything held clues to what had attacked them, but Ichtaca informed him in no uncertain terms that he would handle it.

That got Teomitl to speak up. He’d been watching the water with a frown, seemingly lost in thought. “It’s still in the lake. I can bring back its head and you can make your inquiries from there.”

Acatl frowned at him. “Not alone. I’m coming with you.”

Teomitl smiled, light glinting off his lip plug. Acatl wasn’t sure he could blame his sudden flush on the heat. They’d been sitting side by side for the entire trip back to the Sacred Precinct, and the awareness of his skin was seared into Acatl’s mind.

Ichtaca cleared his throat. “Take a less conspicuous boat, my lords.”

He had a point. But as soon as Acatl stepped out of the imperial craft, his eye was drawn downwards.

“Another one?” he muttered to himself, bending to pick up the rock that had absolutely no place being there. This one was striped pale orange and white, a little larger than his thumb.

Teomitl was already picking out one of the temple’s boats, but he lifted his head at Acatl’s words. “What is it?”

He had had a rock collection as a child. He’d spent hours painstakingly lining them up just so, watching how the light picked out sparkly flecks in their surfaces or accentuated their unusual shapes. It had been vitally important to organize them by color and then by decreasing size. Sometimes he’d tried to stack them as high as he could. His cousins and Neutemoc had teased him mercilessly, and the other calmecac students had been ruthless. “Ah, nothing,” he said automatically.

And then Teomitl was giving him that look that said he knew Acatl was lying to him, how dare he, and he tugged the oar out of the man’s hands and muttered, “Today seems to be a day for finding unusual stones. I...used to collect them as a boy.” No matter that it was foolish to expect mockery for such a simple thing, the admission left a sick tension in his gut.

Teomitl knew better than to start an argument over who would be rowing, but that of course didn’t mean he was quiet. “Not anymore?”

Acatl pushed off from the pier. “...No.”

Teomitl bit his lip. “You could start up again,” he remarked. “Nobody would stop you. You know Mihmatini has that ceramic animal collection.”

Acatl hummed noncommittally. Teomitl wasn’t wrong, really. It had been...nice, to look at that collection of stones. They hadn’t been rare or expensive, but they’d held value to him nonetheless. And if they were going to keep falling into his path out of nowhere, it wasn’t as though he didn’t have the space to keep them. It had just been so long since he’d thought of anything like that, even though Mihmatini kept suggesting he should pick up a hobby. The thought of taking time for himself when he was so busy, when he had the fate of the Fifth World as a constant buzzing worry in the back of his mind, had seemed wrong.

Teomitl had brought him a tamale stuffed with honeyed papaya, perfect for breaking the heat of the day. He’d eaten it and found himself happy, no matter that people were dead and they were on the trail of a monster. Teomitl had made him face the reality of Tizoc’s unworthiness. He’d cursed their Revered Speaker’s name out loud and felt no regret. If Teomitl suggested he start collecting rocks again...

He could try.

First, though, they had work to do. “You said you could track the thing.”

Teomitl nodded, all business again. “It feels...strange. Not like that time we fought the beast of shadow or the tlaloques. The lake hates it. Let me...”

And then his face was taking on the cast of Jade Skirt, eyes swirling green. Acatl shuddered at the memory of Tlaloc’s creations, but kept an eye on his former student as Teomitl held out a hand just above the water. The man had never learned his limits.

When Teomitl spoke, his voice was flat and ageless and not his own. Gods, Acatl hated that. “South.”

Acatl started rowing south, heading around the Precinct and out of the city. Boat traffic dwindled as they left the crowded canals behind, the shouting of vendors and fishermen and merchants fading to echoes in his ears. Neither of them felt much like talking; Teomitl needed all his concentration to track the wrongness he felt, and as for Acatl...

Honestly, it was simply too hot. It had been a while since he’d rowed for this long in summer heat, and once they got into open waters the sun beat down on his shoulders without opposition. Retying his hair so it exposed the nape of his neck helped a little, but not enough. He found himself sort of wishing for one of those hats the Maya people wore, but in the meantime there was only one thing he could do. Grimacing, he untied his cloak and let it drop to the bottom of the boat.

Teomitl made an odd noise behind him. Before he could ask what was the matter—the man had seen his shoulders before, they weren’t anything to write home about—a splash brought his attention back to the water where a wrinkled, otterlike face was breaking the surface.

He went very still. “Teomitl—”

“I didn’t summon it!” Teomitl huffed. He waved a hand irritably in its direction. “Go on, shoo.”

If it hadn’t been a creepy, horrible monster, the notion of Teomitl treating it like a dog would have been funny. As it was, Acatl only felt a chill down his spine as the ahuitzotl swam up to the boat and dropped its head over the edge, letting something fall from its open jaws.

It wasn’t alive, bleeding, or scuttling over his toes, so Acatl only dared bend to see what it was after the ahuitzotl had slipped back under the lake’s surface. Blinking in disbelief, he gingerly picked up a third rock.

This one was a little smaller than his palm, rough and dark; basalt, probably. Water had polished it into an odd shape; from a certain angle and if you squinted very hard, it looked sort of like a sleeping coati with its long nose tucked under its tail. “...What,” he said flatly.

Teomitl shifted forward for a look at it. For a moment he had the oddest expression on his face, something between mortification, shock, and disgust—but then he scoffed, a deep flush tinting his cheekbones. “It’s a fine start to your collection, but I can find you a better one. Lots of better ones. Ones that actually look like coatis, if you want.”

Nobody had ever looked at his rock collection and offered to add to it. Or thought about what he might like, if maybe he judged based on shape or sparkliness or simply something that looked interesting. He felt his own face go warm. “...You don’t...have to,” he muttered, ignoring the way his traitorous heart thumped faster at the thought. Teomitl was the sort who liked giving gifts to his friends. That was all. It didn’t mean anything else. Hastily, he groped for a change of topic. “Are we any closer to finding that creature, can you tell?”

Teomitl grimaced. “We were, but I think the ahuitzotl scared it off. I really don’t know why it did that; they like rocks and anything that glitters, but they don’t usually give gifts if they like you. They just...sing. Constantly.”

By the look on Teomitl’s face, he didn’t like that either. Acatl gave his shoulder a quick, reassuring squeeze and wished he could do more. “Let’s hope it hasn’t gone far. I want to kill it before it decides it’s hungry.”

Teomitl nodded, jade gleaming in his eyes again. “Give me a moment.”

For the first time, Acatl had some semblance of an idea how it must have felt when they were hunting the beast of shadows. He was a much better rower than Teomitl was, but being the one following an uncertain, rapidly-shifting heading still wasn’t easy. Teomitl’s sense of wrongness led them steadily south and east towards Nezahualcoyotl’s Dike, thankfully away from major boat traffic. It seemed the creature still didn’t want to be found.

Or it was leading them into a trap.

They were coming up on one of Lake Texcoco’s innumerable small islands—really nothing more than an oversized tangle of lake weeds supporting a few enterprising saplings in its accumulated silt—when Teomitl leapt to his feet and drew his sword. “It’s here!”

Acatl dropped the oar and drew his knives just in time for the monster to burst out of the weeds. His first confused glimpses had been of a thing like a half-skeletal jaguar, nearly transparent, with massively outsized claws and far too many teeth. As it bore down on them, he realized those impressions had been correct, but he’d missed that it had six limbs—really, was that necessary?—and eight spiderlike eyes.

It was all he had time to notice before a trio of ahuitzotls erupted out of the water with such force that the boat nearly tipped over. Acatl thought he cried out, but the splashing and the monster’s screeching almost drowned out his own voice.

It didn’t drown out Teomitl’s defensive yelp of, “I did not order this!” but Acatl ignored that. Grabbing him before he fell off the boat was more important. The ahuitzotls had latched onto the monster and were dragging it under, turning the water to red froth, and he didn’t like their chances if they got in the middle of that.

“I know you didn’t!” he snapped back. The waters were calming down, and the monster was nowhere to be seen. That was probably a bad sign. “Can you make sure they don’t attack us next?”

Teomitl grimaced. “I can try!”

And then something—another ahuitzotl?—slammed into the underside of the boat, and it went over.

Cold.

The water was cold. Deep and cold, but that would have been bearable if not for the weeds threatening to tangle his limbs and hair; he fought the urge to struggle, knowing they’d drag him down if he did. The stones in his belt pouch smacked painfully against his hip as he tried to orient himself. Teomitl couldn’t be farther than an arm’s length away from him, but in the silty water all he could make out was a slightly darker shape.

Teomitl...! His fingers scrabbled for an arm, a trailing cloak-edge, something, and then closed sharply into a fist as he remembered he was a fool. Trying to drag a conscious man through water was only a good idea if you wanted to send both of you to Tlalocan. Besides, Teomitl was Jade Skirt’s chosen. He swam like a fish. He’d be fine.

Lungs burning with what little breath he’d managed to hold, Acatl aimed himself towards what he dearly hoped was the surface only for an ahuitzotl’s closed tail-hand to smack him in the face as it brushed past, wet fur still somehow rough. Its voice was smooth as though it held back laughter. “You’re welcome, mortals.”

He broke the surface with a ragged gasp, sucking in great gulps of blessed air. It was some time before he could scrape his hair off his face and look around. The upside-down boat was floating placidly away from him, his sopping cloak draped jauntily over the keel. Gods, he really hated ahuitzotls. And it thought I should be grateful? What in the name of the Duality...?

A thunderous splash heralded Teomitl surfacing a few feet away from him. He turned to look, some half-formed thought flitting through his mind that the man might need help, but all he could do was stare. He’d seen Teomitl soaking wet while they fought Tlaloc’s creatures and occasionally dampened by rain—or blood—since then, but he was sure it hadn’t been like this. Then again, he’d never really taken the time to look. He hadn’t been brave enough.

Teomitl was glorious like this, wet skin gleaming like polished wood. His thick hair was flattened down like an otter’s fur, a few unruly parts spiking up around his ears and making Acatl’s fingers itch to fix it. No, to bury in it, to pull his head back, to kiss his throat where the water was streaming over his skin. Teomitl was scrubbing ineffectually at his face with the back of a hand, clearing excess water, but there were still droplets beading in his lashes and flying when he shook his head. The light scattering from them left rainbow glimmers in the air.

This, Acatl thought faintly, is not fair. Well, life wasn’t fair. He’d accepted that. But this? Teomitl drenched to the skin, cloak plastering itself to strong shoulders? This was downright intolerable.

He had to say something. He opened his mouth, but he couldn’t find his voice.

Teomitl twisted to face him, eyes wide as he blinked water from them. “Acatl-tzin!”

“I—I’m alright,” he stammered. Stammered. Honestly.

Teomitl’s face melted into an expression of relief. “Thank the gods. I don’t know what got into those things. Sometimes they...take initiative, but not like that. Do you see the creature anywhere?”

The waters around them were calm as far as the eye could see, with only a rapidly dissipating tinge of pink to show that there had ever been a monster there. Monsters. “...No.” Grimacing, he added, “I think the ahuitzotls ate it.”

“And, of course, they’re nowhere to be found.” Teomitl’s eyes flashed an unsettling yellow for a moment, but instead of going off on a tear as Acatl half feared he would, he just sighed and shook his head. “We don’t have the leverage to right the boat ourselves. Do you mind if I summon them back?”

Treading water was getting tiring. Hating himself, Acatl nodded. “You might as well.”

“You said you would leave the head for the priest!”

“I was hungry,” Flute Voice grumbled.

“It is in our mortal’s hands now,” said White Chest, shaking its head. Jade Skirt help them all.

“Is the interloper dead?”

Flute Voice hummed, “I will be picking sinews from my teeth for days.”

White Chest froze, whiskers going forward. Its eyes began to glow a dim but steady yellow, echoed by its comrades. Their mortal was calling for them. They had to answer.

But first...White Chest would bring a gift.

The ahuitzotls were terrifyingly efficient when it came to flipping the boat right-side up. Teomitl heaved himself in first, water streaming off his limbs in a frankly excessive manner. His wet clothes clung so tightly to his skin that Acatl was very glad to still be in the lake. An ahuitzotl even fetched the oar for him. “I’ll row us back,” he said.

And then he hauled Acatl into the boat as though he weighed nothing. Acatl had known he was strong, but having it demonstrated so effectively made his heart hammer against his ribs. It was worse when instead of leaving him flopped onto the bottom of the boat like a fish, Teomitl took the time to help him sit up properly. The hands on his forearms were a deliciously warm contrast to the chill of his wet skin.

It was almost enough to distract him from the fact that he was sitting on yet another rock. And from what the words spilling from Teomitl’s lovely mouth had actually been.

“Ichtaca will be disappointed enough that we didn’t salvage the creature for study without me having to tell him you crashed the boat,” he said dryly.

Teomitl turned crimson. “I’ve been practicing!”

The expression on his face must have been answer enough, because Teomitl handed him the oar. He was pouting a little, which tugged hard on Acatl’s heartstrings.

Well, if Teomitl said he’d been practicing, then he had. “Next time we go anywhere together, you can row. Promise.”

Teomitl beamed, and he had to look away.

They rowed in silence for a short while, the sun slowly drying their hair and clothes. Acatl had to admit, even if only to himself, that it was much nicer like this. He no longer felt quite so disgustingly sticky, for one thing, and being the one rowing meant that he had a built-in excuse not to look at Teomitl—who, still damp, had his limbs spread out in a way clearly meant to dry himself off as quickly as possible. If he plucked at the trailing end of his loincloth one more time, Acatl was going to scream.

His hair was just beginning to curl up into a wavy nightmare again around the edges when he heard Teomitl comment, almost idly, “They left you another gift. Did you...did you see it?”

He shook his head. “I sat on it,” he muttered, “but I didn’t take a look. Why?”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Teomitl flush. “Never mind.”

Now that was bizarre, and at any other time Acatl would have pressed him on it, but they were approaching the more populated parts of the lake and so he held his tongue. He could ask about it when they were back at the temple.

Predictably, Ichtaca wasn’t happy with either of them. He didn’t actually say it, but the heavy sigh he let out when Acatl explained what had happened—leaving out the ahuitzotls’ sudden fixation on giving him rocks, were they trying to court him or something? Duality, he didn’t even want to contemplate that—spoke volumes.

“It’s late, Acatl-tzin,” was all he said. “You should think about eating something.”

It was late. The entire afternoon had gone by while they’d been on the lake, and now the sunlight was starting to turn the world gold. There were four separate rocks clattering together in Acatl’s belt pouch. The last one was unmistakably shaped like a heart. Teomitl had gone absolutely crimson when he’d placed it in his palm, and had been strangely quiet since. Taken together, there was a conclusion there he was afraid to contemplate.

Acatl didn’t feel too much like eating, but he knew Teomitl would want him to. So he turned to him, swallowed a sudden lump in his throat, and asked, “Come with me? There’s food at my house. Nothing fancy, but—”

“I’d love to.” But Teomitl’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Talk to me, he wanted to say. Tell me what’s bothering you. But he couldn’t ask that, not yet, because Ichtaca was still there and watching him with narrowed eyes. It could wait a little longer.

They went home. Nothing had changed in his house since he’d left it that morning. It was still gray and dim and quiet, with his larder full of still-edible fruit and frogs and ground maize. He could grill the frogs and make atole without killing anyone, regardless of what Mihmatini thought about his cooking. Teomitl liked it, and that was all that mattered.

But before he started cooking, there was something he had to know.

He paused in the courtyard. Teomitl came to a stop beside him, too close. Not close enough, but...too close, at least for his current mood.

“So,” he said, taking a step away and glancing at Teomitl to gauge his reaction. “About the ahuitzotls.”

Teomitl bit his bottom lip. “Do they frighten you?” His voice said he was resigned to that.

Acatl thought of grasping claws, snapping jaws, a crooning voice singing of Tlalocan. He thought of the horrible cries they gave when they died, like a wounded infant. Wincing, he muttered, “Even setting aside Chalchiuhtlicue’s patronage, I’m still surprised they don’t frighten you.” He supposed being named after them before he was born might predispose a man not to run in screaming terror, but still. There was such a thing as self-preservation.

“How could I be? They’re....almost part of me, now.” Teomitl clearly realized the unsettling implications of what he’d just said—maybe Acatl’s face was giving his thoughts away—so he held out a placating hand and added, “I’m not about to start drowning people! It’s just...I know how they think. And they’re not so bad, really.”

Acatl gave him a flat look.

Now Teomitl was looking flustered, which was more appealing than it had any right to be. “...Anyway,” he muttered, “you don’t—that is, you shouldn’t need to worry about them. About how they acted today.”

Acatl opened his mouth, ready to interject. They didn’t even leave the creature’s bones behind! But then again, wasn’t that fairly normal for ahuitzotls? They liked eyes and fingernails after all, and the creature had certainly been chitinous enough. The more worrying thing was the gifts. They like rocks, Teomitl had said. And the ahuitzotl had told him, You’re welcome. And there was a heart-shaped rock, and Teomitl had been blushing.

Teomitl was still talking, gesturing in a manner that suggested he wasn’t sure what to do with his hands but was somehow afraid to actually touch him. “I mean, of course you can be worried about their enthusiasm—I didn’t know they could eat things like that!—but about the rocks. I think they were, ah. Trying to...help?”

Acatl stared at him incredulously. “How is dropping rocks at my feet supposed to help?!”

Teomitl wasn’t even looking at him. Sounding at a loss for words, he muttered, “They have...favorite rocks, for cracking shells and things. They give them to each other. Uh, if they’re close. They think I’m one of them, they’re probably trying to—that is, they know I—” He shut his mouth sharply on a strangled noise, face redder than Acatl had ever seen it.

Acatl’s heart felt like it had lodged itself in his throat. He couldn’t quite feel his fingers. “...That you...what?”

Teomitl took a step backwards, drawing his cloak around himself like a cocoon. No; like a shield. “Never mind,” he bit out. “You wouldn’t like hearing it.”

Don’t, Acatl thought desperately. Don’t close yourself off from me. He wanted to lunge for him, to pull him into his arms. He didn’t move.

“How do you know that? You haven’t told me.” Haven’t I given you my blessing to kill your brother, to take the throne for yourself one day? When you’ve cursed Tizoc’s name, haven’t I joined you? What did you do that you think will possibly upset me?

Teomitl spun to glare at him, voice cracking as he snarled, “Because I love you!”

I love you.

Acatl heard himself make a noise that was entirely unconnected to any human word as several rather odd conversations he’d had with Mihmatini made retroactive sense. “You what,” he choked out. Because—because he could not have just heard that. Because things like this didn’t just happen. Not to him.

“You heard me,” Teomitl snapped, and then he turned to leave.

He turned to leave, but not before Acatl saw the glimmer of tears in his eyes. It shocked him into action; before Teomitl could storm out of the courtyard or his life, he bolted forward and grabbed Teomitl’s wrist. The muscles of his forearm were like stone.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he snapped, ignoring the way his voice shook.

“Acatl—”

“Teomitl,” he said with an evenness he didn’t feel.

It must have worked, because Teomitl stopped trying to pull away. Slowly, the tension in his limbs relaxed; he was still stiff, still clearly nervous, but he let Acatl trail his fingers down his hand.

Acatl knew he didn’t have much time. The next words out of his mouth could destroy him. Hastily, he continued, “If I gave you the impression that I—that I wouldn’t like hearing that, it’s only because...”

He trailed off. This was important, too important for him to mess up, and his words had to be perfect. Teomitl loves me. He’d never even allowed himself to dream of this. Not during daylight hours, at any rate. But ahuitzotls had given him gifts because Teomitl—Ahuitzotl—the man who would be Emperor—loved him, and Teomitl was slowly turning to look at him as though Acatl held a knife to his throat, and the only words he had were the truth.

Callused fingers tentatively twined with Acatl’s own. “Yes?”

He sucked in a hard breath and met Teomitl’s eyes. He could do that, at least. “I was afraid of revealing too much.” You weren’t for me. You weren’t for me and I knew it, I couldn’t bear to have it thrown in my face. “I didn’t dare hope you felt the same way I do.”

Teomitl swallowed audibly. “...And...how do you feel?”

Like you’re radiant. You’re the sun of my life. You drive me mad sometimes but you’re everything I never knew to want. You bring me food, you stand by my side, you treat me as an equal and a friend regardless of your station, you even offered to add to my silly little rock collection. Because of you, I remember I’m alive.

“You make me happy,” he blurted out, and squeezed Teomitl’s hand hard.

Teomitl’s face transformed, disbelieving joy turning it soft and open. And then he was taking a step forward and dropping Acatl’s hand, and Acatl had a moment to think oh before Teomitl’s arms went around him and their mouths met.

There was absolutely no thought after that. There was only Teomitl’s mouth on his, tender and careful as though Acatl was something precious. Teomitl’s whole body pressed against his, hard and strong, and he thrilled at the sensation. A hand slid up his back, tangling in his hair and pulling him somehow closer; when he made a nearly embarrassing sound of pleasure, Teomitl moaned and kissed him harder.

He had to break the kiss, if only for air. “Teo—” Another kiss, leaving him briefly speechless. “We should,” he started again, but then Teomitl’s mouth dropped to his neck for an experimental brush of lips that pulled his next words out in a gasp. “Talk about this,” he finally managed.

They really should. Even though he was now sure Mihmatini had known about this all along and was amazed in hindsight that she hadn’t decided to confess her husband’s feelings for him if even the ahuitzotls had been aware of it, that didn’t change the fact that Teomitl was a married man. There were probably matters of scheduling to be worked out. Not to mention that given their respective positions and Tizoc’s unfortunate status among the living, they’d have to be incredibly discreet—and he knew, he just knew, that Teomitl’s idea of a good rock for his collection would be a chunk of jade the size of his fist.

Teomitl didn’t appear to feel the need for urgency. He met Acatl’s gaze boldly, a wicked smile on his reddened lips. His voice was the sort of purr designed to make Acatl forget all his objections. “Do you really want to, Acatl?”

He licked suddenly-dry lips. “...Later,” he muttered, and hoped he sounded stern.

“Later,” Teomitl promised.

Then he blushed as his stomach grumbled, and Acatl couldn’t help but chuckle. “I’ll make us some food, first.”

And maybe find a good spot to store his new collection. The heart-shaped one, naturally, deserved the best place.

#obsidian and blood #acatl #teomitl #teocatl #paladin writes stuff #ahuitzotl

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wistfulcynic · 3 years

Text

The Thief of Time

HAPPY BIRTHDAY @optomisticgirl!! You are one of the loveliest and most supportive people in the fandom, a loving cat mom and brutal murderer who would die for a fictional plant and has the t-shirt to prove it. I am so, so honoured to have you as a friend ❤️❤️.

This fic came about because B sent me this post and I immediately said "Yep, Killian would be a wizard or an artificer." And B, unrepentant evildoer and witch!Emma's foremost fan, planted seeds in my head that would not stop growing. This is the result.

SUMMARY: Killian Jones, pirate-turned-artificer, has suffered blow after blow from life and all he wants is to go back to the past and make things right. If only he could get his bloody time machine to work.

Emma Swan, witch, has the ability to See through time and space and the responsibility to stand down any threats to either of them. When an artificer from 300 years ago in another realm devises a machine that could blow a hole straight through the multiverse, it’s her job to stop him.

What they find when they meet is an improbable connection, an understanding that bridges the distance between them. A distance that is in all practical ways insurmountable—by everything but love.

(And one very determined pirate-turned-artificer.)

Words: <9k Rating: T Tags: magic au, witch!Emma, artificer!Killian, angst, Killian Jones is a sad boi, a dash of hurt/comfort, time travel, realm travel, HEA

AO3

The Thief of Time:

Once upon a time there was an artificer.

He wasn’t much of an artificer, it must be said. Artificing, as everyone knows, requires patience, perseverance, and attention to detail, and while Killian Jones possessed a rock-solid stubbornness that stood in well for perseverance as well as a fine eye for detail, patience—at least when it came to tedious, laborious tasks—was not among his strengths.

This is perhaps why, on the particular bright morning when his life changed forever, Killian could be found in his workshop surrounded by shards of glass and a puddle of pale brown liquid oozing through his floorboards that until a moment before had been a bottle of rum. Until Killian, in a surge of frustration at yet another failure, had flung it furiously at the wall.

The rum bottle had been a more or less innocent bystander, a casualty of proximity, a stand-in for the machine that sat on a rickety table in the centre of the hut that served as Killian’s workshop—a machine that continued nonchalantly failing to function even after the rum bottle had met its tragic fate.

It was almost, thought Killian, as though the device didn’t care how many bottles came to an untimely end, it still had no intention of ever working.

He held out his hand with fingers curled like talons and let it hover menacingly over the machine before tightening it into a fist and shaking it. “I should bloody well smash you to bits,” he growled. “I should—”

He had no real idea of what he should do, beyond demolishing the bloody thing, heaving its carcass into the sea, and abandoning this foolhardy plan for good and all. It hardly mattered, though, as the machine made no reply—not so much as a tick of motion to indicate that it cared in the slightest about its own fate. Killian gritted his teeth and with effort reined in his temper. He reached for another rum bottle—there were always plenty standing by—and groped for a moment before he remembered he had the awl attachment connected to his brace and grabbed the bottle with his hand instead.

The bottle was stoppered with a tenuous scrap of cork; this Killian gripped between his teeth and dislodged with an expert twist of his neck, then spat it at the machine and watched as it struck the hammered copper facing with a satisfying thunk. He took the bottle to the porch of his hut—‘porch’ being the word with which he flattered the platform of weatherbeaten boards raised on hunks of driftwood—collapsed into the hammock strung across the corner of it and stared out to sea with the rum bottle cradled in his lap.

Tropical sun beat down on the shack and on the swaying palms that shaded it, and on the stretch of white beach that curved beyond it, and on the azure water glistening beneath the blazing sky. A tumbledown shack on a lonely atoll was not, so Killian had been given to understand, generally the sort of place in which most artificers chose to set up shop. They preferred tiny rooms atop winding staircases in tall university towers, so he was told, or for the more eccentric among them perhaps an derelict castle or even a dark forest hut. Somewhere close and damp and chill, where they could work by artful firelight draped in hooded cloaks and tuck the secrets of their craft safely away amongst the shadows.

Killian cared very little for such things, however, as he was not most artificers. He wasn’t, as has already been remarked, much of an artificer at all. A sailor by blood, a naval man by training, and a pirate by circumstance, this was Killian Jones. And now an artificer, by desperate last resort.

He took a long swig from his bottle and glared at the sea, at the ship that bobbed gently on the waves, anchored just to the left in the atoll’s curving bay. If he had any sense he’d end this foolishness, he thought with a bitter twist of his lip. He’d take his ship and find himself a crew, sail off and vent his frustrations on royal cargo vessels and navy frigates rather than haphazardly assembled collections of wood and scrap metal that would certainly never do more than than sit there smugly not working, taunting him, and—

Click.

Killian froze, with every muscle in his body. He waited. And waited. And—

Click.

Again. Killian exhaled slowly, cursing the faint vibrations of his breath in the air. He waited. And waited. And—

Click.

It was working.

—

A week later and Killian’s temper once again was hanging by the barest thread; the click of the device that had at first spurred him on now plucked at the frayed edges of his nerves and rattled inside his head each time he tried to focus. It was clicking, the mechanism was turning over, he had everything he’d thought he needed but still an element was missing, something vital that he couldn’t put his finger on, that hovered just at the edge of his perception like some fey spirit sent to taunt him.

Maybe you should just give up.

Killian spun around at the sound of the voice, a woman’s voice, with a wry tone and an unfamiliar accent. His eyes scanned the empty room. “Who’s there?” he called out, though it was plain to see no one was there. He was alone.

Quite alone.

He knew he was alone, of course, though the tingle between his shoulder blades did not concur, and remained even when he turned his attention back to his work. The sensation of being watched by unseen eyes is frequently a distracting one, but Killian stubbornly disregarded it and focused on his task. The sensation persisted.

He worked doggedly for several minutes, then set down his tools. “Lass,” he said to the room at large, “it’s bad form to stare.”

He swore he heard a chuckle.

“I do understand how it can be difficult for women to take their eyes off a devilishly handsome rapscallion such as myself,” Killian continued, “but I’m trying to work here so if you wouldn’t mind…”

He turned back to his workbench and as he did his elbow struck the edge of it, knocking over his latest rum bottle and sending a shooting pain up his arm. He squeezed his eyes shut and spat a stream of vicious curses and very nearly stabbed himself with the awl before recalling that he had no hand with which to cradle the afflicted elbow and rub away the pain. When it finally subsided and he opened his eyes once more, the sight that met them had him swearing a new and even bluer streak.

His device now sat bathed in a pool of rum, with sparks shooting from behind its copper face and very ominously not clicking. With a snarl Killian slammed his fist down on the table and ground it into the wood. He’d have to mop up the rum and wait at least a day or two to be certain whatever had seeped into the mechanism was completely dried before attempting to open it again to determine whether he could repair the damage. If he couldn’t he’d have to start over.

Or you could just give up.

“Are you responsible for this?” he demanded of the voice. “At long bloody last I was on the right track, and now—now—” He slammed his fist into his workbench again, sending rum droplets flying.

Look, don’t get cranky, mister. I’m just trying to stop you doing something stupid.

“Oh?” Killian snarled. “Is that what you’re doing? You’re a bit bloody late.”

What?

“I’ve done many a stupider thing than this, unhindered by any disembodied voices. You couldn’t have stopped me doing any of them?”

I—

“Where were you, for example, when I lost my brother in a cursed land, travelled back from that land, and then in a fit of rage burned the only method I had of returning there?” he demanded. “Where were you when I threw away my naval career, stole my brother’s ship, and led her crew into piracy? Where were you when I ravaged the land of my birth? Where were you when I fell in love with—” he broke off with a choking sound, then sat with his forearms resting on his knees, staring at his hand and at the leather brace where its twin should be. “I don’t know why I’m even saying this aloud,” he murmured, “you’re not truly here.” He ran his hand over his face then through his hair. “Perhaps I’m finally going mad. It’s an occupational hazard, or so I’ve been told.”

A breeze rustled through the shack, gentle and soothing. It whispered across his skin in what could only be called a caress. Despite himself, Killian felt comforted.

I’m sorry for what you’ve suffered. The voice’s compassion was undoubtedly genuine. But I couldn’t have prevented those things. They were not my business to See.

“And this is?” Killian demanded.

Yes.

He shook his head. “Who are you?”

There was no reply. The soothing breeze was gone, leaving the late afternoon air heavier and more still in its absence. His neck no longer tingled. He was alone. Again.

Always.

Killian pressed his fingers to his eyes and sighed, then grabbed a fresh bottle of rum—plus a second, upon further consideration—and headed out of the shack. Headed to the rowboat and the Jolly Roger, and, with any luck, a drunken stupor that would last until he could work on the device again.

“Hear this, lass,” he murmured as he paused in the doorway. “I will be back. I’m not giving up.”

We’ll see about that, whispered the voice, once he was gone.

—

Three days later and Killian’s hangover throbbed between his eyes, but his device was dry and in a less disastrous state than he’d feared. He tapped the magical stone that powered the mechanism until it sparked sharply in response, reconnected a few fine filaments of copper, snapped the gears back into place and held his breath.

Click.

Killian exhaled. It was still working.

Sort of.

He sat at his workbench and glared at the device, as though intensity alone could help him see what was missing in it. When it did not, he reached into his satchel with a long-suffering sigh, and withdrew a book.

He really should have gone to the books first. That’s what the other artificers had advised. Research before experimentation, a solid foundation of scholarship on which to build. In another life another Killian would have listened too, would have loved the prospect of hours, days, weeks spent in a library, absorbing the wondrous knowledge that it held. But that eager boy had long been lost, and the man who remained had spent too many years in wasted endeavours, hunting elusive magic beans and fairy wands, anything he heard of that he thought might aid his quest. When every lead he could scrounge all came to nothing he’d had no choice but to alter his course, and no bloody time to start from the beginning and do the thing properly. He’d already wasted so much time.

But perhaps, he conceded now, that had been a mistake.

The book had a weighty heft that testified its age, as did the brilliance of the jewelled ink on its vellum pages. Modern books with their rag-paper and plant inks were lighter, more fragile, less vibrant. Cheaper to produce of course, and more accessible, but the earnest, bespectacled scholar that still lived in Killian’s heart found them far more difficult to love. This book had been scribed centuries ago, by the hand of a monk whose name had long since vanished into time but whose skill was evident in the carefully crafted words and illustrations, the diagrams of fantastical devices that he had seen only with the eyes of his mind, never in reality.

Killian traced his finger over the lines of an engraving, squinting through his headache and the glaring sunshine to make out the tiny words that labelled it. With painstaking strokes he massaged his temples and let himself fall into the book, lost in study for the first time in many a year.

The hours sifted away like sand through his fingers, until a soft breeze ruffled through his hair and he became aware of that telltale tingle at the nape of his neck.

“Lass,” he said wryly, “has no one ever told you it’s rude to read over a person’s shoulder?”

It’s the only way I can find out what you’re up to.

“And just what prescisely makes that any of your concern?”

It just is. I can See it.

Though he could not have said how, Killian was certain she didn’t mean the sort of seeing one did with one’s eyes.

“So tell me then, what do you make of my choice of reading material?” he inquired.

Seems a bit dry.

He chuckled. “It is at that. But useful.”

You’re still planning to go ahead with it, then?

“I am. As I told you before, I don’t intend to give up.” A sharp smile flashed through his memory, the smell of sea salt on skin and in wind-whipped chestnut curls. His fist clenched. “I can’t.”

The breeze swirled up around him, wrapped itself about his shoulders in the gentlest embrace, and for a moment—just a moment—Killian let go. Let himself be comforted. Let himself relax. Tears prickled behind his eyes and his tired heart sighed. He swallowed hard.

You won’t find what you seek in this book, said the voice. Not what you really seek.

“Perhaps not. But it’s all I have left.”

Without warning the soft breeze stiffened, whipping up with force behind it and sending a half-full rum bottle teetering dangerously—but if Killian was prepared for anything these days it was betrayal. He caught the bottle before it could fall and set it safely aside, away from his device and his book and anything else that had the potential to be harmed by it.

“Nice try,” he sneered. The wind huffed a frustrated sigh.

This isn’t over.

“Why are you so determined to see me fail?” he demanded, but the words fell flat in the still and empty air—the absent prickle on the back of Killian’s neck informed him that she was gone again. “It’s not like I need any extra assistance in that area,” he grumbled. “I can fail perfectly well on my own, thank you very much.”

He bent to pick up the rum—a drink to soothe the ache in his heart—when his gaze caught on a diagram he hadn’t spotted before. He frowned and leaned closer, the rum forgotten, and began to read again. Soon he was absorbed once more, his eyes voracious as they scanned the pages. He made notes in the margins as he read, and tiny drawings and equations, and muttered half-formed thoughts to accompany the scratching of his pen. The clicks from his device soothed him now with their regular beat, and the tingle between his shoulder blades, when it returned, did not so much as register in his mind... though it lingered there as he worked, as the afternoon waned, until the sun began to sink below the horizon and Killian packed up his notes and his book and not his rum, and made his way back to his ship.

—

The next day found him in his workshop early, his mood uncharacteristically bright. He’d awoken that morning without a hangover for the first time in far longer than he cared to remember; the resulting clear head and sharp senses made the bright sunlight less oppressive in his perception, less like its exuberance was a judgement on his choices. Even his shack appeared cheerier than he recalled it, quaint rather than run-down, its slight slump to the left charming and not at all ominous. Killian was dangerously close to whistling a merry tune as he approached it, with his satchel slung over his shoulder and heavy with books.

He had brand new ideas to test.

His workshop itself consisted of the shack’s lone room and a single, long table that sat at the centre of it. On the table was his device, looking right at home there in the sense that it too was rickety, haphazardly constructed, and pitched to the left. Killian had told himself that the appearance of the thing didn’t matter so long as it functioned, but after it failed for so long to do even that he had begun to treat its exterior as a sort of whipping boy for his frustrations. The wooden casing bore deep gouges from his hook and other implements he’d attached to his brace; the copper facing was tarnished and dented. Hairline fractures criss-crossed the glass that covered the three small dials on the front and the long copper pole that was meant to be attached to the rear casing sat forlornly in a corner, looking as though it would dearly love the ability to rust, just as a way to express its feelings on the situation.

Looking at his device for the first time with clear eyes, Killian found that he felt rather bad. He really had made a dreadful hash of it. And although Killian Jones was frequently reckless, sometimes rash, and from time to time even a bit unhinged, he had never before been incompetent. Making a firm mental note to pick up some new materials the next time he made a supply run, he hefted the satchel onto his worktable, seated himself on the bench before it, and removed a book from the bag.

If he’d had two hands, he would have rubbed them together in glee.

Whatcha reading?

She appeared so suddenly that the prickle on his neck didn’t even have time to warn him. “I’m certain you can see the title for yourself, from wherever you are,” he replied.

Arithmetical Principles of the Mechanics of Time? Not very snappy.

“Never judge a book by its title, love.”

I thought that was by its cover.

“Title’s on the cover, isn’t it?”

So it is.

The voice sounded amused, and Killian chuckled to himself as he settled in to read. The tingle on the back of his neck remained as the unseen woman read along with him. He could feel her presence there, her eyes on him and on the book as he made his customary notes in the margins: quick diagrams and calculations and questions he would need to answer before he could proceed.

He was astonished to discover how engrossing the book was and how easy it was to lose himself in its pages, just as he had done the day before. How long had it been before then, since he’d allowed himself the luxury of a full day spent reading? Years, certainly. Time and tides, as the saying goes, wait for no man, and nor do rival pirate captains or deep-sea hellbeasts—they certainly do not wait for a man to finish his chapter before launching their attacks. Lazy days like this one took him back to his time in the naval academy, the long afternoons in the library there, the wonder he’d felt at all the knowledge contained in the books that surrounded him. An entire realm at his fingertips, just waiting for him to explore.

He had explored it in actuality years later on his ship, sailing her to the edge of the maps and beyond, but that first exposure to all the wonders the world held still shone as a jewel in his memory. For a young boy who until that moment had known only abandonment, drudgery, and abuse, the discovery that the world was far, far larger than he could ever have dreamt had been an invaluable treasure.

You love books.

Killian started; the voice sounded different now. It no longer echoed in his head, instead it seemed to come from somewhere to his right. He turned, and as he did perceived a shimmering in the hazy air, one that disappeared the moment he looked directly at it.

“I did,” he replied. “Once.” His mouth quirked in a wry smile. “Are you in my head, then, lass? Reading my thoughts?”

Of course not. It’s just obvious from your face.

“You’re familiar with the expression I’m wearing then, I take it? Perhaps because you’re inclined to wear it yourself?”

It was a shot in the dark, but it seemed to hit its mark. The shimmer grew more solid.

I—I’ve always loved to read. When I was a child it was all I had.

Something in the tone, a wistfulness perhaps, struck a chord in Killian. “You were alone, as child,” he said. “The books were your refuge.”

Yes.

Silence stretched for a moment, then he spoke again. “When I first arrived at the naval academy I could barely read,” he said slowly. “I was twelve years old. Where I come from literacy is a privilege of the wealthy, which my family was certainly not, but my mother’s father had been educated and he taught her to read and write. He was the younger son of a nobleman, disowned when he fell in love with a village girl. My mother in turn taught my father and also my elder brother. She had started to teach me as well but she grew ill and I was still so young, and then…” He trailed off, choked by the decades-old memory that still had the power to wound.

Then she died.

The voice was soft, so soft, and it settled around his shoulders like a blanket. He nodded. “Aye. She did.” He pressed his fingers to his eyes, just briefly, then continued. “After she passed, Liam, my brother, took over with my lessons, but there was never much time for such things. We were cabin boys on a large merchant ship by then, worked most days from dawn to dusk—but in what moments we had, we did try.” He shook his head. “Liam did the best he could, though our resources were so scarce his efforts produced little result. I was years behind the other lads my age at the academy at first, something they found highly entertaining.”

But you didn’t let that stop you.

“I did not,” he agreed. “Instead it spurred me on. In less than a year I had matched them, and in a year surpassed them. It was satisfying to make them eat their words, but in truth that was not my motivation.”

You wanted to know a world beyond the one you lived in.

“I wanted to know a world beyond the one I lived in.” He smiled at her, at the shimmering air in the corner of his eye that he almost fancied formed the shape of a woman. “As, I imagine, did you.”

Mmm.

Killian quirked an eyebrow at the shimmer. “Another orphan, I gather?” he pressed. “Alone in the world, unable to see a way out? Escaping into books for adventure, for a sense of the potential that lay beyond the narrow parameters of your life?”

You read me pretty well for someone who can’t even see me.

“You’re something of an open book, darling. If that metaphor isn’t too on the nose.” And perhaps, he thought, it wasn’t necessary to see someone to know them.

Faint laughter rang through the room. Open books read both ways, Killian Jones, her voice whispered, and then she was gone.

“Touché,” he muttered, as the tingle in his neck faded and a wave of magic pulsed in the air. A sharp snapping noise sounded from the device, followed by an echoing boingggg. Killian’s lips twitched. Softness followed by sabotage was becoming rather a thing with her.

He opened the casing and after a moment’s poking around in the mechanism identified the target of her attack—a small coupling in the box responsible for managing temporal currents. Killian felt himself grin. He was certain his unseen nemesis wouldn’t trouble herself to destroy anything that wasn’t crucial to the functioning of the device. He turned back to his book and flipped to the section on temporal flow.

“Thanks for the tip, love,” he murmured to the empty air.

—

Over the next month Killian worked doggedly on his research, leaving the device untouched and himself unhindered by tingles or voices or shimmery thickenings of the air. He read every book in his rather considerable collection, all the texts he’d… liberated from the universities and private collections of the realm’s best artificers then barely glanced into before he began constructing his device. He took a week off for a supply run, to collect the materials and bric-a-brac he’d need to construct the thing properly along with even more books, which he read eagerly at night on his ship, greedily absorbing the knowledge they contained as he lounged in his bunk.

Every day he thought about the voice, and about the very real woman he now felt certain was behind it. She wasn’t just a voice in his head, a symptom of madness or loneliness, or both. She existed, he had felt her, though he had never seen her face. He’d felt her presence and the connection between them—a peculiar sort of connection to be sure, but no less genuine for it.

The thought of speaking to her again helped spur him on.

Once he was back his workshop armed with resources in the form of both knowledge and supplies, he threw himself into a flurry of activity. He constructed shelves for his books, so he would not have to lug them to and from his ship every day. He built a sturdier workbench, with drawers to hold his tools, and a new, robust and polished casing and face for his device.

This was close work, requiring dexterity and concentration and the careful application of several magical items that had previously seemed to go out of their way to thwart him. As it turned out, Killian reflected wryly, he had simply been using them wrong. He still made mistakes, of course, and his lack of hand still proved a challenge. But gradually he found that he lost his temper less and less, that as he grew more knowledgeable and skilled he did not give in so easily or so frequently to despair.

He had almost entirely stopped drinking.

He spent a full week tweaking and refining the temporal current regulator in his device, until he was satisfied that not only near impervious to any further sabotage but also featured a clever adjustment of his own devising. Take that, Other Artificers.

He had done it. He knew he had. He had built his device and built it well. It would work now, and not because he threatened it or stumbled by happenstance upon the proper configuration. It would work because he knew what he was doing, and this time he’d done it right.

Killian Jones, artificer.

—

The stage was set.

The device was ready. More than ready. Its polished wood casing gleamed in the playful caress of the afternoon sunlight, which shimmered also off its copper facing and the smooth glass of its dials. The copper tube came up from where it was attached to the rear of the device and curved over the top of it, ending in a wide opening directly over Killian’s head. The rhythmic click of the mechanism was smooth and sonorous, each coupling attached and every gear well-oiled.

Click, went the device, tremulous and eager.

Click.

Every last thing was in readiness. Killian had only to flip the switch.

“You don’t want to do that.”

He paused with his finger poised above the small brass switch and smiled. “Back again, lass?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

The floorboards creaked, under boots that were not his. Leather rustled. Killian froze, then spun around. His jaw dropped.

“Bloody hell,” he gasped.

The woman stood in the centre of his workshop with her hands on her hips and lips curved in a wry smirk. Loose golden waves tumbled over her shoulders to frame an exquisite, fine-boned face and eyes that glinted green. She was dressed... well, she was dressed as no woman he’d ever seen before, in tall boots and tight-fitting trousers with no overskirt to cover them, and a leather jacket in the most outrageous shade of red. Killian blinked.

“You’re—I’m—what?” he choked.

“I said, you don’t want to do that,” she repeated. “If you do, you’ll blow a hole in the universe or—or something, I don’t exactly know. But it’s bad, and I can’t allow it to happen.”

Killian shook his head. He blinked again, harder this time, then rubbed his eyes. The woman was still there.

“What?” he shouted.

“Seriously?” snapped the woman. “You heard my voice in your head and didn’t even blink and I know you felt my presence. But now I’ve actually manifested and suddenly you’re at a loss for words? I thought at least I’d get some kind of smartass quip out of you. ‘At last a face to match the voice, lass’ or something.” She shrugged a single shoulder. “I don’t know. Something.”

“That’s—” Killian’s voice was hoarse. He cleared his throat and tried again. “That’s your idea of a clever quip?”

She scowled. “Look, I said I don’t know. You’re the smartass.”

“Well you might at least give a man a minute to adjust his premises before you start demanding cleverness from him, when you appear from out of nowhere in his workshop,” retorted Killian. “There is in fact a world of difference between voices in the head and full fledged hallucinations, you know.”

“I’m not a hallucination,” she huffed.

Killian knew that of course, but he still felt on rather shaky ground, metaphysically speaking. “Well what are you then?” he demanded.

“I’m a manifestation,” she replied, as though it were obvious.

“Oh yes of course,” he shot back. “A manifestation, how foolish of me not to have known that.”

She rolled her eyes. He smirked.

“A manifestation of whom, precisely, if I might enquire?” he drawled.

“Emma Swan,” she proclaimed, in a tone one might use to announce the arrival of a queen. “Witch.”

Killian regarded her with his smirk firmly in place, to which he now added a raised eyebrow. “A witch, you say?”

“Yep.”

“Indeed.”

She sauntered over to his workbench, hips swaying in a manner that Killian told himself firmly he did not find enticing, and leaned over, peering at the device. “This looks a lot better than the last time I saw it,” she remarked.

“Yes, well, I’ve been working hard since then.”

“I can tell.” She flashed him a look that had his muscles tensing. “Too bad it’s all for nothing.”

“What the bloody hell is that supposed—”

“Why do you want to travel in time anyway?” she interrupted, turning to face him and crossing her arms over her chest. “It’s a risky business, you know. Loads of people have tried and it never ends well for any of them.”

“That’s rather a bold statement from you, love, considering you are clearly not from this time,” he retorted.

“What makes you say that?”

Killian let his gaze sweep over her. “Red leather jackets aren’t exactly in vogue here,” he said loftily. “I’d be very surprised if they even exist. How did you get it to be that colour?”

“How the hell should I know, I didn’t make it!”

“Fair enough. Still stands out like a sore thumb, though.”

“Well it’s a good thing I’m not staying then.”

“Aren’t you?” Killian felt a twist in his gut at that; he was so enjoying sparring with her. “Shame. I suppose you ought to run along then, and let me get back to my work.”

“Ah, no. That I can’t do.”

“And might I enquire why not?”

Her expression, which had been sparking with the same joy of snarky battle that Killian felt himself, grew solemn. “If you’re successful then the repercussions of your work will echo all the way into my realm, in my time,” she said. “And I can’t allow that to happen.”

“Indeed?” he taunted, before he could prevent himself. “And just how do you propose to stop it?”

Her eyes flashed. “Oh you are so going to regret asking that.”

She raised her hand and twisted it, the merest flick of her wrist that sent a powerful pulse of energy through the room. He felt it throb through his body and he was rocked by its wave. What followed was silence.

Silence. No clicks. Not a one.

Killian spun round in fury and glowered down at Emma Swan, witch, who did not so much as flinch away from him. On the contrary, she appeared quite pleased with herself, and thoroughly unfazed by his very finest pirate snarl.

“I’ve never managed that so successfully cross-realms before,” she remarked.

Killian’s temper snapped. “What the bloody buggering fuck do you think you’re doing?” he roared. Her nonchalance was infuriating.

“I told you,” she reminded him coolly. “I can’t allow you to succeed.”

“I wasn’t succeeding, though, was I?” he hissed. “I’ve been not succeeding for the best part of a year now.”

“I know.” Her smug expression softened into an empathy that set his teeth on edge. “But that was about to change.”

“Oh was it?”

“Yep.”

He knew it was. But she... “And how the bloody hell could you possibly know that?”

“I told you, I’m a witch.”

He scoffed. “Is that supposed to impress me?”

“Well... yeah, I guess it kind of is.” She frowned. “You know what a witch is, right?”

“Of course I do. A witch is a person, most commonly a female, who is possessed of magical or supernatural powers, typically focused on medicine, the body, nature, and the spirit,” Killian recited.

Emma blinked. “That’s… very precise.”

“I’m well versed in defining the various types and levels of magical practitioner,” he informed her. His surge of anger was draining away and he found he lacked both the energy and will to hold on to it. “The Guild is most insistent that registration be precise.”

“Guild?” Her frown deepened. “Registration?”

“Aye. To both.”

“You had to register? With a guild?”

“I did.”

“Register as what?”

“As an artificer, of course. Despite my lack of skill in the discipline, the Guild insisted. Firmly. Fists were involved.”

“I—see.” Her lips twitched. “That seems unethical.”

He barked a laugh. “Welcome to the Enchanted Forest, love.”

Emma’s eyes went wide and her mouth fell open. “Is that where this is?”

“Aye. Though strictly speaking this”—he gestured at the space around them—“is on an atoll in the Far Southern Sea. But the Artificers’ Guild is in the Enchanted Forest, and they care very little for such things as venue or jurisdiction.” He looked at her curiously. “Didn’t you know?”

“Nope.” She shook her head. “I’m not really here, you see.”

Killian had been so caught up first in wonder then in fury that he hadn’t truly looked at her, at least not beyond what was required to note her striking beauty and odd attire. A manifestation, she had called herself, and once he knew what to look for it was plain to see—the faint translucence and hazy outline of her form. Cautiously, he reached out his hand. It went right through her shoulder, with no more resistance than water in a bathtub.

“Huh,” he said. “Curious. So where exactly are you then, Emma Swan, witch, if you’re not here?”

“I’m…” Emma’s brow furrowed and her nose wrinkled. Killian told himself sternly that it was unwise to find a nose adorable when it sat on the face of the corporeal manifestation of a witch from an unspecified realm. “Well, I don’t really know how to describe it,” she said. “I’m on Earth. About three hundred years in your future. Though I suppose this must be Earth too, really.”

“Is it?”

“Yeah. I think so? What do you call it? This… place. Bigger than the Enchanted Forest. You… you know there’s a place bigger, right? Beyond the, um, the forest?”

His lip quirked. Her stumbling attempts to explain were also not adorable. “That I do, lass,” he replied. “I spent years sailing the seas of this realm and have travelled to many a land.”

“You’ve travelled the Earth, then,” said Emma. “Or your equivalent of it. What would you call it?”

“Terra, I believe is what you mean.”

“Yes!” She snapped her fingers then pointed the index one at him. “That’s got to be it!”

“So if I understand you, you’re saying you come from Terra as well, but a different version of it, which you call Earth?”

She gave an eager nod. “Yeah, basically. My Earth was called Terra once too, by people who lived in my past, in a different country. But in my language and my time and my country we say Earth.”

“I... see,” said Killian.

“Yeah.” Emma looked a bit sheepish and waved her hand in a vague arc. “It’s a whole thing with multiverses I don’t really understand, if I’m honest. I’m not a wizard, you see.”

“No indeed. Nor I.”

“Well, I mean, you’re not even much of an artificer. Or at least not until recently.”

She was attempting to tease, he could tell. To keep the mood light between them. But all he could hear was the death knell of his last resort, the only hope he had left of honouring his vow. Without warning, the weight of everything he’d been through, a lifetime of struggle and defeat culminating in his attempt to build a time machine that would apparently destroy multiple realms were it allowed to succeed, settled on his shoulders. It was all he could do not to collapse beneath it. He sank down onto the bench and ran his hand down his face.

“No. That I certainly am not.”

He sensed rather than felt Emma sit down beside him—there was barely more than a shift in the air to mark her movement.

“I’m not an artificer, not even now,” he told her, staring at his hand and brace. “All I am is a desperate man looking to right a terrible wrong.”

“A wrong you need to go back in time to fix?” she asked gently.

“Aye.”

“What happened?”

Killian clenched his jaw. He did not wish to discuss Milah. He never actually had, though others besides Emma had tried to make him, insisting he would feel better if he spoke of it. If he gave vent to his anger and his grief. But he could not—the words caught in his throat each time he tried, stopped by the anger that sat hard and curdled in his chest.

“There was… a woman,” he ground out, faintly astonished to hear the words fall from his lips. “I loved her and she me, but she was married to another. A cringing coward of a man who valued his own comfort and meagre security above her happiness and her health.” He breathed slowly through the anger that still rose up at the thought of it. “She tried her best with him, for years she tried, but ultimately she came to realise that he would never change. She saw the remainder of her life stretched out before her, a grim slog through a grey world of misery, and she knew she had to do something, whatever was necessary to change it. For the sake of her own survival.” He risked a glance at Emma. “But she was a woman, thus her options were limited.”

“So she ran away with you,” said Emma. He searched her face for judgment, but there was none.

He nodded. “She ran away with me.”

“You saved her life,” she said harshly. “But you shouldn’t have had to.”

He blinked, startled at her tone, and watched as her face grew tight with anger. “In my land and my time, women have choices,” she hissed. “We have to fight for them every day, but we have them. We can leave marriages and we can have jobs and we can own our own houses and have our own lives. We don’t rely on men unless we choose to.” She looked up to meet his eyes. “I’m guessing that’s not the case here?”

“You guess correctly.” Killian’s voice was choked, his chest drawn tight by the depth of her compassion. Compassion for a woman she’d never met, who had died long before her time. He cleared his throat. “Milah had nowhere to go and no means to go there. I offered her an escape. It was all I could do.”

A moment passed before Emma spoke again.

“What went wrong?” she asked.

His lip curled. “I expect you can guess.”

He could sense the catch in her breath, though it made no sound in the quiet room. “Her husband found you?”

“Aye. Rather a predictable storyline, isn’t it? But there's an unpleasant twist to this tale, I fear.”

“What twist?” she demanded.

Killian swallowed. “Have you heard of the Dark One?”

Her eyebrows shot up. “Well, yes. I’ve read the lore of course, but… are you saying the Dark One is real?”

“Very much so.”

He watched as comprehension dawned in her eyes. “And he—your—Milah’s husband—”

“Had become the Dark One, aye. At the cost of his soul, of course, but for some men that's a small price to pay to punish an errant wife.”

“Wow. I mean—wow.”

“I’m not familiar with that particular expression but it certainly seems to suit the case,” said Killian drily. “Wow indeed.”

“He murdered her, didn’t he?” Emma said, in a voice like the lash of a whip. It was not a question.

“On the deck of my ship,” Killian replied, “as I watched, helpless to prevent it. He tore her heart from her chest and he crushed it to dust.” He held up his brace, catching the sunlight on the curve of his hook. “And then he took my hand.”

Emma exhaled, long and slow. “So that’s why you want to go back. To stop her murder.”

This was also not a question, but he answered it nonetheless. “Aye. I promised to protect her and I failed. I have to make it right.”

“You know you can’t do that, Killian.”

The empathy in her voice, the understanding, the way she said his name… Killian’s anger rose again and he snapped at her. “Well not now that you’ve destroyed my bloody time machine!”

“You couldn’t have anyway.”

“And just how the devil—”

“Look, I told you, I’m not a wizard,” said Emma insistently. She shifted on the bench until she was facing him fully, one leg tucked beneath the other. “I don’t know all the ins and outs of how the universe works, or like, the multiverse or whatever. All I know is that if you turn on that machine it will blow a hole in all of it. Every realm and at every time would be destroyed. It would end the world.”

Killian scowled as his mind sought frantically for a loophole, a counterpoint, a way. His fist was tightly clenched and pressed hard against his thigh, his breathing shallow. “The books said—”

“The books don’t know,” she interrupted in that same insistent tone. “No one’s ever done this before. No one’s ever even come close.”

“And here I thought I wasn’t much of an artificer,” he sneered.

“Like I said before. You weren’t.”

Killian thought of all the reading he’d done, the careful cross-referencing of books that likely had never before been seen by the same pair of eyes. He thought of his temporal current regulator, the refinements he’d made to it. How certain he was that it would work.

He looked over at Emma to find her watching him, with gentle sympathy and not a hint of pity. “You can’t go back, Killian,” she said softly. “The past has already happened. All you can do is go forward.”

“So what you’re telling me is I need to move on,” he snarled. How he loathed that expression.

She nodded. “In more ways than one.”

Cautiously she reached out and placed her hand over his clenched fist, and though he could not feel her touch he felt it, the warmth of her compassion and her strength and her magic, drawn from another realm in another time. He let his hand relax and held it, palm up, beneath hers. He drew a deep, unsteady breath and then released it. Then he drew another.

They sat in silence for some time.

“I can’t recall the last time I considered what Milah would think if she could see what I was doing,” said Killian, finally, in a low voice. “I thought about her all the time, at first. But then… it got to the point where every time thoughts of her came into my head I would drink them straight out of it.”

“Because you knew that if she could see you she wouldn’t like what she saw.”

“Because I knew that if she could see me she wouldn’t like what she saw,” he echoed. “She wouldn’t have wanted me to lose myself in this—obsession. But then I have always been prone to obsession and she knew that better than anyone.”

“Obsession is just another word for intense dedication,” declared Emma, “once you add a bit of healthy perspective to it. It’s sincere devotion to what you value. Maybe all you need is just to shift your focus a bit. Find something new to work on, and another motivation to drive you.”

“Something new,” he repeated, then gave a hoarse, choking laugh. “I confess I’ve no idea what that could be.”

“You’ll find something.” The look in her eyes as she watched him was amused, wry, soft, and sad all at once. An odd sensation twisted in his chest. “I wish—” she began, then broke off with a shake of her head.

Killian realised their hands were still clasped. He wished he could close his fingers around hers, truly feel the touch of them against his skin. “What do you wish, love?” he pressed.

She shook her head again. “It’s just—after today I won’t be able to See you anymore. Once you’re no longer a threat you’ll stop appearing in my visions. I just wish I could watch what you do next, that’s all." She flashed him a grin. "I have a feeling it’ll be something epic.”

He laughed and after a moment she joined him, with a tinkling, joyous sound that made his heart feel lighter than perhaps it ever had. Maybe she was right, he thought. Maybe he could do something different. Something not driven by loss or anger or greed. “I don’t know if I can promise epic,” he told her. “But I do promise I'll do something. Something important to me. I promise you, Emma Swan.”

She smiled, gorgeous and heartbreaking. “Good.”

Killian could swear he felt her hand tightening on his, felt it in the echoing squeeze in his chest. He heard her next words before she spoke them.

“I have to go.”

He forced himself to nod. “I know.”

She reached up with her free hand and traced her fingertips across his cheek. “Goodbye, Killian Jones,” she whispered… and then she was gone.

Killian sat alone in his workshop with an empty hand and a silent machine, and a brand new ache in his heart. And for the very first time in a life full of loss, he allowed himself to grieve.

—

Killian didn’t drink.

He wanted to. The rum called to him, a siren’s song of numb oblivion, but that was a pit into which he no longer wished to fall. He had things to do now, crucial things, and they required a clear head.

He took the Jolly Roger and he sailed away, far across the seas to a place he'd sworn he’d never go again. The small port village where Milah had lived, and where she’d died. Whose harbour he’d put at his bow for less than an hour before he’d tipped her body into the depths of the sea.

It was the nearest thing he had to a gravestone.

He stood on the deck with his hand on the railing, staring down into the choppy waves below. His throat ached and his chest felt tight.

“I’m so sorry, Milah,” he whispered. “Sorry that I failed in my promise to protect you. Sorry that when I lost you I lost myself as well. I let myself fall so deeply into despair that I lost sight of who I was—and in doing so I sacrificed the man you loved. I’m sorry I became something you’d have hated me to be.” His throat closed up and he swallowed through it, forced the next words out. “When you died I swore to avenge you, but my love, I think—” he exhaled slowly “—I think I have to let you go.”

A brisk wind swept in off the water and ruffled through his hair as Milah’s fingers used to do. It stroked his cheek with the touch of her lips and whispered with her voice in his ear.

I love you, it said. Go.

Killian let his eyes fall shut as he breathed in the scent of her skin, closed his fist in her curls one final time. When he opened them again he was alone.

Alone, but for the first time in many a year, hopeful.

The past is done, he thought, and can’t be changed. All you can do is move forward.

Somewhere, some time, there was a green-eyed witch with golden curls and a sharp tongue and the softest heart he’d ever known. One who could read him like a book and understand the story it told. And he was an artificer who knew how to build a bloody time machine.

It was time to move on.

—

The afternoon was warm and hazy as it often is in August on the coast of Maine. The air was heavy and humid and buzzing with the hum of bees and midges as they swarmed and bumbled their way through late-summer flowers. Flowers that bloomed in full riotous colour in the remarkable garden of a thoroughly unremarkable grey clapboard house.

A figure approached the garden gate, tall and oddly dressed for this realm. He wore a long and sweeping leather coat over an ornately embroidered waistcoat, tall leather boots and a matching heavy satchel slung across his back. He paused, and regarded the gate with a raised eyebrow and all the deference he could muster.

Killian Jones knew magic when he sensed it.

“May I come in, lass?” he inquired of the air and the gate and the bumblebees, and whomever else might happen to be listening.

The gate swung open.

Killian favoured it with a small bow then sauntered through it, through the bright and fragrant garden and up to the porch steps and the door atop them. It opened as he approached to reveal a woman with long curling hair, a tight white tank top and very short shorts. She placed a hand on her hip and smirked.

“Took you long enough,” she said.

Killian climbed the porch steps and dropped his satchel, hooked a thumb beneath his belt buckle and treated her to his flirtiest grin. “Time is relative, I think you’ll find,” he replied. “Also an illusion. And there are some philosophers who claim that—”

His words were cut off by Emma’s lips, her fingers tight on the lapels of his coat as she pulled him in close. She was solid and real against his chest, her mouth hot and her skin so soft. Killian groaned as he sank his fingers into her hair, as he kissed her back with everything he’d held in his heart since he saw her last.

The kiss was short but rich with feeling, with potential, with hope. When it ended they paused for a moment, foreheads pressed together, breathing each other’s breath.

Emma spoke first. “You came forward,” she said. “You actually did it.” She laughed, and thumped her fist lightly against his chest. “I can’t believe you actually did it.”

“Aye, well, as it turns out, I’m a hell of an artificer,” he replied, and she laughed again. He pulled her against him, wrapped his arms tight around her and sighed as she tucked her head beneath his chin.

“And the rest of it?” she inquired softly. “Milah, and the Dark One—”

He took a moment to consider how to answer. There were many things he could say, so much he wanted to tell her. But it would wait. They had time. In the end he said simply, “I’ve made my peace. It’s done.”

“Good.” She looked up at him with that glorious smile and his heart sang with happiness. “That’s good.”

—

@ohmightydevviepuu @thisonesatellite @katie-dub @kmomof4 @mariakov81 @stahlop @spartanguard @killianjones-twopointoh @captain-emmajones

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crystalninjaphoenix · 2 years

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MerMay 2022 Day Sixteen The Ichthyologist

Dr. Lise Ester wasn’t exactly sociable. When she talked with people, it was usually just about work or other necessary subjects. Others rarely thought of her favorably, but one didn’t need to have the favorable opinions of others when one was stubborn as hell. Dr. Ester was fully aware that her unbreakable stubborn will was the main reason the TridentCorp Board had allowed her the funds and resources to build this specialized complex, as well as the time and resources to look for things to fill the complex with. But finally, all that effort had paid off.

The Complex for the Study of Aquatic Humanoid Life—or the C-SAHL, as the staff called it—was built on a small atoll island in the middle of the Atlantic, so Dr. Ester had a lot of time to reread her files on the slow, slow boat trip out there. Most of these weren’t even hers; they’d been made by the previous project leader over five years ago. One of TridentCorp’s diving crews had found an unusual life form on a routine sweep of the ocean floor. A week later, TridentCorp recovered the life form and brought it to one of their facilities, soon starting the operation known as Project Mermaid.

Of course, since the entire staff were morons, their specimen had escaped after only nine months. Ester rolled her eyes just thinking about their incompetence. But maybe it had been a good thing the specimen had gotten away. They’d been on the brink of going public with the news of an aquatic humanoid creature, and it was lucky that Ester had stepped in at just the right time to talk them out of that.

In the five years since then, she’d dedicated all the project’s energy to building the C-SAHL and equipping it with everything it needed. She had also spent any free time outside of that investigating rumors and sightings of “merpeople.” The ultimate goal was to get new life forms to study, but that had proven difficult. They hadn’t physically found one until that tip from that marine biology site.

When they arrived at the C-SAHL, Ester immediately got off the ship and headed straight for the main feature: a large circular tank in the center of the complex, as big as a suburban house and a hundred feet tall, divided into five twenty-feet-tall sub-tanks stacked on top of each other. The tank had taken a year alone to complete, and had actually been delayed for a while.

Ester stepped onto the balcony circling the top sub-tank. This one was filled with fresh water, not salt, and was meant to mimic a river environment. To that purpose, its floor was covered with rocks of various sizes and real river grass. She leaned onto the balcony railing and scanned the area. Nothing was there...god, she really didn’t want to walk all the way around this tank just to find—

Smack!

“Heilige Bälle!” Ester jumped back as something suddenly slammed into the glass directly in front of her. She took a moment to recover, adjusting her blue labcoat, then looked again at the sub-tank.

The object that slammed into the glass turned out to be exactly what she was looking for: the life form they’d recovered a few days ago. Strangely enough, it was one of the life forms they’d kept in the temporary location a couple months ago, before that intruder broke in and stole them. What were the odds of that? This one resembled some sort of eel, with a dark tail, green-tinted skin, and glowing eyes.

It also seemed to hate everything.

Ester watched as the eel humanoid continued to bang against the glass, baring sharp teeth. Visible arcs of electricity wound around its tail—which was really fascinating when you thought about it. Ester assumed this was because it had larger electrical organs than the average electric eel. It certainly looked more dangerous. A couple members of the staff had been knocked out cold when transporting it. Only luck saved anyone from being killed.

She stepped back up to the railing and took her tablet out of her bag, writing down notes while she waited for the eel humanoid to calm down. It took a while. A solid fifteen minutes, according to her tablet’s clock. Eventually, it tired itself out and sank down to the floor of the sub-tank. It stared at her with wide, unblinking eyes.

“Hallo,” she said, and waved. The eel humanoid didn’t respond. Just kept staring.

She returned to her tablet and looked through the files she had for this specimen. The researchers who’d written them up had assumed it was in good health, but she wasn’t so sure. Obviously, it was hard to judge baseline health for any new life form, but she was pretty sure you weren’t supposed to be able to see their ribcages. That seemed like a bad thing, in general. Not to mention there were quite a few scars, including a nasty one across the neck area.

Looking back at the glass wall, she saw the eel humanoid still there. Still staring. “Mach dir keine Sorge,” she said. Don’t worry. “Ich passe auf, dass dir nichts passiert.” I’ll make sure nothing happens to you. Then she smiled.

The eel swam back a bit. It bared its teeth at her again, more electricity sparking from its tail. Ah. Maybe smiling with teeth wasn’t a good idea, they might perceive it as a threat. Ester made a note of that. If only they had the other specimen as well, the one the Institute of Marine Biology was covering up. Then she could have a base for aquatic humanoid behavior. As it was, she had to work with previous data and only one specimen.

Ester disappeared back into the halls of the C-SAHL, returning shortly with a folding chair. She set it up just behind the balcony railing and sat down, ready to observe. She was going to figure out these...these “merpeople.” Mark her words.

#jacksepticeye #jacksepticeye fanfiction #jacksepticegos #septic egos #jacksepticeye au #septic egos au #antisepticeye #brigid writes fanfiction #mermay snippets

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acidmatze · 2 years

Text

I got way too many ideas for comics... In order of How Little i have the plot sorted out A thing about a kid going back to school for job orientation after spending a few years not knowing what to do with his life. He somehow gets tangled up in school politics and the president of the student council is corrupt. A thing about a mecha club at a school on a tropical atoll. But its not fighting but the mechas doing pretty mundane stuff like sports and even gardening. And then theres Zombie Buddha.... Which i can only describe as "Trigun and Cowboy Bebop had a child and raised it on Mushishi." Its zombie apocalypse for a while now and now it finally reaches the MC's monastery where he is a buddhist monk, he gets bitten by a zombie but manages to stop the spreading of the zombie virus or whatever before it kills him and now hes a half zombie. Sounds like more action than the comic would actually get. He leaves the monastery and starts wandering the world, gaining more and more friends and helping out the settlements that start popping up everywhere. Zombie Apocalypse but more peaceful and productive this time. What if humans were realistically written.

#zombie buddhas soundtrack would only be oingo boingo

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inevitably-johnlocked · 3 years

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Hello! I haven't really been in Johnlock scene, but I suddenly had a MIGHTY NEED for mutual pining between the two, and your fic recs delivered in the best possible way. I thank you from the bottom of my heart for sharing so much about these two! (and now it seems I'm lost to Johnlock, send help, but not really, this is awesome)

Hi Nonny!!

AHhhhh thank you for your kind words about my lists!!! I’m so happy you enjoy!!

You’re in luck, my friend!! I have a Part 2 list of my Mutual pining fics with enough to start a new list, so here we are!! Also, if you’re interested in exclusive pining, I’ve a part 2 to my Pining Sherlock list in its final stages of cleanup, so keep an eye out for that one!! <3 Enjoy!!

MUTUAL PINING Pt. 2

See also:

Mutual Pining Pt 1

Pining Sherlock || [MOBILE FRIENDLY VERSION]

Pining John

One Sided Pining

Santa Knows by Itsallfine (T, 1,719 w., 1 Ch. || Christmas Party, Love Confessions, First Kiss, Fluff, Matchmaking, POV Sherlock, Pining Sherlock) – Sherlock and John both get exactly what they want from the Yard's secret Santa exchange. Pure holiday fluff.

Like Euphoria and Scotch by FinAmour (M, 1,856 w., 1 Ch. || TSo3 Fix It, Five and Ones, Drinking, Pining, Second Person POV Sherlock, Armchair Sex, Cracky and Fluff, Sherlock’s Imagination, Happy Ending) – 5 different ways it all could have gone + the one way it actually works itself out.

Hell or High water by bluefire301175 (E, 2,250 w., 1 Ch. || PWP, Frottage, Alley Sex, First Person POV John, Case-ish Fic, Mutual Pining, Bed Sharing) – John wants. Sherlock wants. Plain and simple.

To the Nines by suitesamba (M, 2,724 w., 1 Ch. || PODFIC AVAILABLE || Magical Realism, Pining, Angst, John Whump, Time Travel, Fortunes, Time Jumps) – John skips forward in time, and Sherlock reads the signs that point to nine. John knows he’ll eventually be with Sherlock, but the waiting is nearly impossible, and his body is a lot more than transport. A foray into magical realism where all the canon events occur, and a hell of a lot more.

Better Late Than Never by sussexbound (NR (T), 3,021 w., 1 Ch. || Post-S4 / TFP Doesn’t Exist, Sherlock POV, Love Confessions, Drunk Sherlock / Sober John, John Takes Care of Sherlock, First Kiss, Jealous Sherlock, Emotional Turmoil) – He suddenly wants John Watson out of his bedroom, out of his flat, out of his life, because he has been lying to himself these last few months, he realises. He doesn’t want John here, not with the way things are. He doesn’t want 221b Baker Street to be nothing more than rest stop John returns to on his journeys between women. He doesn’t want to play co-parent if Rosie is going to be snatched away from him and placed in the arms of whatever nameless woman du jour John lands on next. He doesn’t want to keep being so careful, so generous, so, so…

The General Idea by agirlsname (T, 3,022 w., 1 Ch. || Retirement, Promise of Forever / Proposal, POV John, First Kiss, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Soft Sherlock, Idiots in Love, Crying / Emotional Sherlock, Love Confessions) – After twenty years of friendship, John is used to Sherlock acting weirdly. But the news Sherlock finally brings himself to deliver change the carefully built dynamics between them, and John realises it's time to act.

Bathroom Accessories by Evenlodes_Friend (E, 3,324 w., 1 Ch. || Sex Toys, Butt Plug, First Kiss / Time, Romance, Horny Sherlock, John’s Patience Wears Thin, Humour, Bottomlock) – John discovers that Sherlock has been playing with some very adult toys in the bath.

Apodyopsis by QuinnAnderson (E, 3,347 w., 1 Ch. || PWP, Rough Sex, Table Sex, Anal, Sexual Tension) – Apodyopsis: (æpəʊdaɪˈɒpsɪs) noun. the act of mentally undressing someone. Part 2 of Undressed

Sherlock and John Go Clubbing by wendymarlowe (E, 4,716 w., 3 Ch. || Clubbing, Dirty Talk, Dancing, Coming Untouched, Coming in Pants, Bi John, For a Case, Friends to Lovers, Flirting, Sherlock is Lost for Words, Sexy John, Mutual Pining, Possessive John, Floor Sex) – John pinched the bridge of his nose - even for Sherlock, this was a new level of no bloody boundaries. “You want me to go with you to a gay club, wait around twiddling my thumbs while I let you get pawed by a criminal, then out-flirt him and talk you into coming home with me instead?” Part 32 of John and Sherlock's Kinky First Times

Sleeping next to you by Salambo06 (E, 5,018 w., 2 Ch. || ASiB Fic, Bed Sharing, Frottage, Mutual Masturbation, Rimming, Anal, First Kiss/Time) – Based on an Anonymous Prompt: "So, that scene from ASiB when Mrs H has been attacked by the American CIA guy & John, Sherlock & she are in Mrs H's kitchen when John says "She’ll have to sleep upstairs in our flat tonight. We need to look after her." to which Sherlock replies with "no". John of course suggested that because he cares about her safety, but maybe he also did it cause he /wanted/ that to happen. What if they finally agreed on letting her have John's or Sherlock's bed & J&S sleep in the same one?" Part 12 of Tumblr Collection

Stranded by BeautifulFiction (T, 5,798 w., 1 Ch. || First Kiss, Communication / Relationship Discussion, Pining Sherlock, Sherlock POV, BAMF John, Doctor John, Case Fic, Drinking, Huddling For Warmth, Friends to More) – When stranded on a derelict barge at high tide, John and Sherlock reconsider their friendship.

An Interpretation of Viewing Habits by akitsuko (E, 6,653 w., 1 Ch. || Porn Watching, Masturbation, Anal, Friends to Lovers, First Kiss / Time, Declarations of Love, Jealous Sherlock, Fantasizing, John in Denial / Internalized Homophobia, Bottomlock, Pining Idiots, Sherlock Has No Boundaries, Cockblocking Sherlock) – John watches porn. It's a perfectly normal thing to do.If every video he watches happens to feature actors with remarkable physical similarities to his flatmate, well, that's no one's business but his own. Or: John is in denial, until his infatuation with Sherlock is impossible to deny anymore.

Time on my hands by Mildredandbobbin (M, 7,179 w., 1 Ch. || PODFIC AVAILABLE || Post-S3, One Night Stands, Mutual Pining, Virgin Sherlock, First Time, Sexual Exploration / Discovery, Desperation, Body Worship) – Virginity’s a construct, a concept—what does losing one’s virginity entail for a gay man anyway? Sherlock wants to fill that particular gap in his knowledge but John won’t, can’t, never will assist and there’s only so much desperately unspoken pining even Sherlock can take.

Unwasted by patternofdefiance (E, 8,966 w., 1 Ch. || Post-S3 / S3 Fix-It, Developing Relationship, Friends to Lovers, Angelo’s, Fluff, First Time, Anal, Cum Play, Flashbacks to ASiB, Mutual Pining, Love Confessions, Bottomlock, Cuddles, Multiple Orgasms, BJ’s, Bed Sharing) – John finds it three months after he's moved back. He's on the hunt for something to make for dinner, is scrounging through the cupboards, when he happens upon the graveyard of pasta boxes Sherlock still seems to create when left to his own devices. Behind seven boxes of pasta, all almost completely empty, is a dark-glassed bottle, with a paler coat of dust.It's unopened. John's face falls slack when he sees it, instantly recognises it, and for a long moment he just stands and looks at it.

You fit me, Sherlock Holmes by orphan_account (G, 10,077 w., 1 Ch. || It’s An Experiment, Bed Sharing, Slow Burn, Fluff and Angst, Idiots in Love, Mutual Pining, Questionable Science) – An unfortunate series of events leads to John accepting being a part of Sherlock's study in physical intimacy. As the days pass by, John realizes he might be in for more than he bargained for. He doesn't entirely mind.

There's So Much Labour Just in Breathing Lately by Susan (E, 12,708 w., 1 Ch. || Post-TRF / Mentions of S3 Events, Romance, Angst, Grief/Mourning, Grieving John, Mutual Pining, Meddling Mycroft, Therapy, Ambiguous Hopeful Ending, Infidelity) – The dreams he hated most – the ones that left him a sweating, shaking mess when he woke – were the ones in which Sherlock was just Sherlock. Laughing or drinking tea. Sitting across the table from him at Angelo’s eating pasta. Trailing his open hand behind him on the way to the bedroom. “C’mon, John. I’m about to have my way with you.”

Fucking Cake by Random_Nexus (E, 12,965 w., 1 Ch. || Pre-Slash, Humour/Crack, Inanimate Object Smut, Frottage, “For a Case” / “Experiment”, PWP / Kinky, Mutual Pining, Fluff) – Sherlock brings home a chocolate cake, John finds him about to have sex with said cake, then exceedingly weird hijinx ensue. Part 1 of "Fucking Baked Goods" - Sherlock BBC

Kintsugi by distantstarlight (E, 14,772 w., 1 Ch. || Post S4, Emotional Hurt / Comfort, Regret / Remorse, Loneliness, Separation, Drug Use, Healing, Protective John, Sad Sherlock, Dev. Rel., Complicated Relationships, Love, Angst With Happy Ending, Sherlock is Called Freak, John’s Penance, Voyeurism, Doctor/Caretaker John, Guilty John, Detox, Fingering, Love Confessions, Cuddling, Slight Non-Con Turns Enthusiastic Consent, Virgin Sherlock) – Sherlock Holmes becomes estranged from the man he had once considered his best friend after John lets him down horribly in public. It seems that the world's only consulting detective will be on his own once again...or will he?

The Palmyra Atoll by elwinglyre (E, 16,609 w., 3 Ch. || TSo3 Divergence / Episode Fix-It, Stockholm Syndrome, Kidnapped John Watson, John Whump, Evil Mary, Angst, Cuddling & Snuggling, Toplock, Limited 3rd John POV) – As John's preparing for the wedding, Sherlock is preparing to have his heart broken, and Mary is prepared to do the unthinkable. Intervention required. Enter Sherlock. Set before Sign of Three with a far different outcome. John is drugged, kidnapped, and left on an island, but not just any old island.

Traitor's Gate by roane (E, 17,714 w., 6 Ch. || Post-TRF, Case Fic, Mystery, Bets and Wagers, Undercover for a Case, BAMF John, Scientist Sherlock, Teasing, Established Relationship, Military Base, Sexting/Texting, Military/Uniform Kink, Frottage, Dirty Sex, Anal, Bottomlock) – John and Sherlock go undercover at a top secret government lab to find out who is selling research. John is back in uniform and Sherlock is back in a laboratory, but they have to pose as strangers. Sherlock thinks he'll have an easy time of it, but John has his doubts. It's up to them to find out who is responsible for putting a dangerous weapon in the wrong hands, and try to keep their hands off each other at the same time.

Between Friends by SilentAuror (E, 18,036 w., 1 Ch. || Post S3, Alternating POV, Friends to Lovers, John in Denial, Abduction, Awkward Situations / Miscommunications, Porn With Feels, Blowjobs, Pining, Unrequited, Angst With Happy Ending) – Sherlock gets abducted. As John discovers him tied up naked in an empty storage facility and comes to rescue him, Sherlock's body has an unfortunate reaction which triggers a series of events. John is convinced that everything will be fine as long as they never discuss it. Sherlock isn't as sure...

I Think I've Come A Long Long Way To Sit Before You Here Today by ArwenKenobi (T, 18,251 w., 3 Ch. || Grief/Mourning, Passage of Time, Major Character Death, Alternating POV, Sherlock Whump, Pining Sherlock, Hospitalization, Coma, Revenge Murders, Hallucinations, Love Confessions, Brutal Accident, Mystrade, Ghost John) – One year after John is killed Sherlock starts to wonder whether John has actually gone anywhere.

Permanent Fixture by vitruvianwatson (E, 18,836 w., 9 Ch || Post-S4, Parentlock, Slow Build, Friends to Lovers, They’re Good Parents, Blushing Sherlock, First Kiss/Time, Explicit Consent, Sexual Content, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Mutual Pining, Big Feelings, Crying, First Kiss, Fluff, Anxious Sherlock, Inexperienced Sherlock, Emotional Communication, Love Confessions) – Now, as Rosie sat curled up against Sherlock’s side, John watched and wondered exactly how he had ended up here. Domesticity had never suited him before, not at any point in his life. His disastrous marriage had been proof of that. But somehow, here in the warmth and safety of 221B Baker Street, here with Sherlock Holmes reading medical jargon to his daughter, Sherlock’s bony feet nudging against his leg, John couldn’t imagine anyplace that would make him happier.

You're On the Air by prettysailorsoldier (M, 20,616 w., 1 Ch. || Unilock, Matchmaking, Radio, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Sherlock POV, Pining Sherlock, Flirting, Bisexual John) – The Consulting Detective and The Woman dominate the airwaves of their university radio station, doling out advice on everything from meeting the parents to sexual positions. When their ratings start to dip before the holidays, however, manager Mike thinks it's time for some fresh blood, and who better to fill in the gaps than rugby captain--and notorious flirt--John Watson? Part 1 of 25 Days of Johnlock

Silhouettes by allonsys_girl (E, 28,585 w., 7 Ch. || Canon Compliant, POV John, Heavy Drinking, Sad/Depressed John, Grief/Mourning, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Reunion, Foot Jobs, Blow Jobs, Infidelity, Cheating, Drug Use/Abuse, Anal, Switchlock, Rimming, Parentlock) – Sherlock and John find comfort in each other's arms, but as ever with these two, it's not your typical relationship. It's fluffy at the beginning, gets deeply angsty in the middle, gets porny at the end.

we have never seen a greater day than this by Lediona (T, 36,420 w., 7 Ch. || A Royal Night Out AU || WWII / VE Day, Prince Sherlock, Soldier John, Alternating POV, First Kiss, Bittersweet Ending, Homophobia, Dancing) – Peace. At long last. It’s VE Day and Prince William desires to join the celebrations. It is a night of excitement, danger and the first flutters of romance.

Nothing to Make a Song About by emmagrant01 (E, 36,833 w., 10 Ch. || Post-TRF, First Time, Reunion, Jealous John, Pining Sherlock, Romance, Angst with Happy Ending) – When Sherlock returned from his faked death, John could not forgive him for the deception and broke off their friendship. Ten years later, John returns to London in search of yet another new beginning. Sherlock, not surprisingly, is waiting.

Sentenced by SarahKnight (T, 44,777 w., 30 Ch. || Dev. Rel., Alternate S4 Canon, Drama, Angst, Pining, Feelings are Hard) – Virtual series 4 opener. Sherlock's in prison being targeted by a murderer, John's married to a pregnant assassin and Moriarty's back.

Impossible to Feign by achray (M, 49,204 w., 12 Ch. || TRF Rewrite / Reverse Reichenbach, Suicidal Ideations / Discussions, Drug Use/Abuse, Mutual Pining, Friends With Benefits, John Accepts his Sexuality, Anxious Sherlock, Meddling Mycroft, Depression, Hallucinations, Secret Agent John, BAMF John, Reunion, Make-Up Sex, Ambiguous Ending) – Sherlock leant forward, his long fingers curving round to grip John’s.“I won’t let him win,” he said, eyes hard. “I will do whatever it takes to get you out.”

The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse by SilentAuror (E, 50,635 w., 1 Ch. || Post-S4/S4 Divergence, Case Fic, For a Case / Reverse Fake-Relationship, Conferences, Marriage Equality, Travelling / New York, Pride, Homophobia, Bottomlock, Marriage Proposal, John POV, Sexuality, Love Confessions, Emotional Love Making, Public Hand Jobs, Blow Jobs, Passionate Kissing, Needy/Clingy Sherlock, Virgin Sherlock, Touching / Hand Holding, Bed Sharing, Little Spoon Sherlock, Intense Orgasms) – John and Sherlock go to New York to attend a conference run by the National Defence of Traditional Marriage Coalition in order to investigate the potential bombing of the annual Manhattan Pride parade. As the conference unfolds, John finds himself repulsed by the toxic ideology being presented, which becomes relevent to his own unacknowledged issues and his friendship with Sherlock...

Never Change a Running System by Lorelei_Lee (E, 54,246 w., 18 Ch. || Pre-TRF, Romance, Humour, Drama, Sex Toys, Anal, Rimming, Masturbation, Frottage, Blow Jobs, Public Sex, First Kiss / Time, Virgin Sherlock / Loss of Virginity, Accidental Voyeurism, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Experiments, Naive Sherlock, Pining Sherlock, Jealous Sherlock, Possessive Sherlock, Straight With an Exception John, Hand Jobs) – Sherlock discovers his sexuality – with far-reaching consequences for John.

A Hundred Crimson Sols by elldotsee (E, 55,536 w., 16 Ch. || Astronauts AU || Mars Exploration / Space Travel, Slow Burn, Shy Sherlock, Scientist Sherlock / Biomed Engineer John, Alternating POV, Mutual Pining, UST, Angst with Happy Ending, Domestic Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Injuries, Suicidal Ideation, Zero-G Sex) – Will Holmes is a chemical researcher recognized widely for his contributions to the new Mars exploration program. Thanks to his ground-breaking developments, the IMMC (International Mars Mission Corporation) is one step closer to Martian colonization. Will and his team of scientists are headed out on the first of three manned missions before the first group of settlers arrive. Three days before launch, one of the crew has to be replaced. Will panics because...new people. The replacement is of course one John Watson, biomedical engineer and space hottie who was pretty sure he had retired from actual space exploration and was now content to work in the nice, quiet research lab. Can the crew survive this TOTALLY ROUTINE trip? Will they be able to endure each other for the looooooong trip in close quarters? Gonna be a wild ride... prepare for blast off. Part 1 of the SpaceBois go to Space series

The Thing Is by TSylvestris (E, 56,743 w., 21 Ch. || Case Fic, Dev. Rel., Anal/Oral, Blow Jobs, Meddling Mycroft, Drama, Romance, Humour, Casual Encounters, Pining Idiots, Possessive Sherlock, Orgasm Delay, Rough / Alley Sex, Public Sex, John Whump, Drugged John, Emotional Love Making, Awkward Relationship, Marriage of Convenience, Switchlock) – The problem with living with Sherlock, John thought, was that you never, never, ever knew the significance of anything. Like your flatmate's nose buried in your hair. Whilst you're in bed. Part 1 of Nitroglycerine

Lunar Landscapes by J_Baillier (M, 57,046 w., 21 Ch. || PODFIC AVAILABLE || S3/TAB Fix-It, Slow Burn Angst, Drama, Hurt/Comfort, Confessions, Drugs, Pain, Medical, Injury, Sherlock Whump, Mental Health Issues, Panic Attacks, Romance, Secrets, Tragedy, Trauma, BAMF John, Doctor!John, Drug Addict Sherlock, Injured Sherlock, Grieving John, Idiots In Love, Protective John, POV John Watson, PTSD Sherlock, Sherlock is a Mess, Medical Realism) – An accident forces John to face the fact that Sherlock's downward spiral had started long before his flight to exile even left the tarmac.

One Little Change by jadztone (E, 58,312 w., 12 Ch. || ASiB Divergence, Fake Relationship, Bed Sharing, Mutual Pining, Friends to Lovers, First Kiss / Time, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Bi John / Gay Demisexual Sherlock, Switchlock, Alternating POV, Jealousy, Misunderstandings, Case Fic, Angst with Happy Ending, Emotional Love Making, Butt Plugs, Cuddles) – Our story begins right after John and Sherlock's first meeting with Irene Adler in September. It splits off into an AU that imagines them taking a case where they act as bait to hook a killer targeting closeted gays in secret relationships. In the weeks leading up to Christmas, many things happen that have our boys wondering if maybe they have a chance with each other. Then Irene fakes her death on Christmas Eve, and things get a lot more complicated - especially since they still have a killer to catch.

The Burning by SrebrnaFH (M, 60,658 w., 24 Ch. || Reverse Reichenbach, Suicide, Depression, Hurt Sherlock / John, Separation, BAMF John, Good Big Brother Mycroft, Angst, Implied/Referenced Torture, Fake Character Death, Rescue Mission, Reconciliation / Reunion, Hospitalization, Marriage Proposal, Illnesses, Physical Therapy, Happily Ever After) – Something went very, very wrong. John had seemed, if not happy, then reasonably content with his life. Sherlock had never predicted something like THIS might have happened. Not in his worst nightmares. He was the lousiest friend ever, apparently. At least Mycroft found him something to occupy his mind with, so that he didn't have to go back to 221B and stare at the walls and the chair, where John Watson would never sit again.

Hell Sent, Heaven Bound by ConsultingHound (M, 64,381 w, 16 Ch. || Angels / Demons AU || Fallen Angel Sherlock / Angel Cop John, Alternate First Meeting, Slow Burn, Case Fic, John & Lestrade are Friends Before Sherlock, BAMF John, Mind Palace John, Friends to Lovers, John in Denial, Sherlock Picks Out John’s Clothing, Clubbing / Dancing, Mildly Jealous John, Awkwardness, Kidnapping, Sherlock’s Mind Palace, Sacrifice, Worried / Anxious Sherlock, Angst with Happy Ending, Immortal to Mortal) – Ex-War healer and current angelic guard John Watson is not having the best day. He overslept, he’s underpaid, and now there’s someone tagging the Council’s building walls. However things may be about to get interesting: there’s an unusual stranger hanging around (the definition of tall, dark, and handsome), a literal underground cult is brewing, and rumblings are coming from hell. Can he keep his neighbourhood safe, how and why is he being connected to all this, and who the hell is Sherlock Holmes?

The Vapor Variant by 88thParallel (CanadaHolm) (M, 72,684 w., 18 Ch. || Post-THoB, John Whump, Protective Sherlock, Guilty Sherlock, Anxious/Worried Sherlock, Virgin Sherlock, Angst with Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, PTSD John, Slow Burn, Mutual Pining, Suspense, Virus, Sickfic, Big Brother Mycroft) – They stood face to face in the middle of a clearing. The dim light of the moon barely allowed Sherlock to see the glassy terror in John’s eyes and the sweat that glistened off his forehead. His nose was bleeding again, blood dripping in a slow stream from his right nostril. They were both gasping for air, John’s eyes locked on Sherlock’s. There was no recognition there, just wild animal fear. Time stood still for an eternal few seconds, and Sherlock took a shaky breath. “John—”Spell broken, John spun and bolted back into the woods. Still heaving for air, Sherlock took off after him.

Northwest Passage by Kryptaria (E, 95,157 w., 27 Ch. || PODFIC AVAILABLE || Canadian AU || BAMF!John, Canadian John, PTSD, Anal / Oral Sex, Rimming, Emotional Hurt / Comfort, Drug Rehab, Falling in Love, Pining Sherlock, Love Confessions, Sherlock’s Violin, Panic Attacks, Switching, Anxious / Protective Sherlock, Hugs for Comfort, Suicide Mentions, Healing Each Other) – Seven years ago, Captain John Watson of the Canadian Forces Medical Service withdrew from society, seeking a simple, isolated life in the distant northern wilderness of Canada. Though he survives from one day to the next, he doesn't truly live until someone from his dark past calls in a favor and turns his world upside-down with the introduction of Sherlock Holmes." Part 1 of Tales from the Northwest

31_Days_of_Porn_Challenge_2017 Series by distantstarlight (E, 96,540 w. across 31 stories || Prompt Ficlets, Assorted Kinks, PWP) – A collection in response to the 31 Days of Porn Challenge issued by AtlinMerrik! Thanks for doing that because this has been buttload of fun (that joke never gets old). All stories will be brief stand-alone one-shots.

A Study in Winning by Jupiter_Ash (E, 106,658 w., 11 Ch. || Tennis AU || John POV, Dirty Talk, Mutual Pining, Misunderstandings, Happy Ending, Sherlock Speaks French, Switchlock, Wimbledon) – John and Sherlock are professional tennis players and it’s Wimbledon. One is a broken almost was at the end of his career, the other an arrogant rising star tipped for greatness. It should have been a straightforward tournament. It really should have been. How were they to know that a chance encounter would change everything? Part 1 of Tennis

Two Two One Bravo Baker by abundantlyqueer (E, 114,574 w., 27 Ch. || Military AU || Afghanistan, War Story, Thriller) – Captain John Watson of 40 Commando, the Royal Marines, is assigned to protect and assist Sherlock Holmes as he investigates what appears to be a simple war atrocity in Afghanistan. An intense attraction ignites between the two men as they uncover a conspiracy that threatens everything they’ve ever known, but Sherlock is as much hunted as hunter, and everyone close to him is in deadly danger. Can he solve the case in time to save himself and John? Part 1 of Two Two One Bravo Baker Universe

A Further Sea by i_ship_an_armada & ShinySherlock (E, 125,492 w., 23 Ch. || Historical Pirates AU || Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Doctor John / Pirate Captain Sherlock, Sailing, UST / RST, Masturbation, Action / Adventure, Mild Angst & Peril, Romance, Shaving, Molly/Janine, Bottomlock, Hand / Blow Jobs, Past Drug Use, Slow Burn, Mild Violence, Happy Ending) – Here be a tale of adventure for both body and soul, but beware if ye be not of stout heart, for this be piratelock, ya savvy? Luckless ship's surgeon John Watson takes a chance, and finds himself eye to eye with The Ghost, the scourge of the seven seas and a definite thorn in the side of the blaggard, James Moriarty. But when John finds there's more to this most cunning pirate than be meetin' the eye, he has to choose... is it a pirate's life for him?

The Bang and the Clatter by earlgreytea68 (M, 137,049 w., 37 Ch. || PODFIC AVAILABLE || Baseball AU || Slow Burn / Dev. Rel., Possessive/Obsessive Sherlock, Jealous Sherlock, Mutual Pining, Body Appreciation, Depression, Closeted Sexuality, Family, Sherlock’s Mind Palace, Ogling Each Other, Anxious Sherlock, Panic Attack, Drunkenness, Talk of Forever, Big Feelings™) – Sherlock Holmes is a pitcher and John Watson is a catcher. No, no, no, it's a baseball AU. Part 1 of Baseball

Mise en Place by azriona (M, 161,004 w., 28 Ch. || Restaurant (Kitchen Nightmares) AU || Sherlock is Gordon Ramsay / Celebrity Sherlock, Restauranteur John, Harry Plays Prominent Role, Alternating POV, Mutual Pining, Cranky Sherlock, Bed Sharing, Slow Burn) – John Watson had no intentions of taking over the family business, but when he returns from Afghanistan, battered and bruised, and discovers that his sister Harry has run their restaurant into the ground, he doesn't have much choice. There's only one thing that can save the Empire from closing for good – the celebrity star of the BBC series Restaurant Reconstructed, Chef Sherlock Holmes. Part 1 of Mise en Place

#steph replies #johnlock fic recs #mutual pining #pining sherlock #pining john #my fic recs #Anonymous #long post

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gumnut-logic · 4 years

Text

Minerva (Bit 3)

Bit 1 | Bit 2 | Bit 3

Finally I have some writing to share. I might be getting my head back on straight, yay!

Buckets of Science!Gordon in this one. yes, I’ve let my inner geek out, sorry :D

Many thanks to @scribbles97 for the read through and reassurance when I get wibbly :D

I hope you enjoy this pile of marine fluff :D Approx. 2000 words worth :D

-o-o-o-

Gordon grinned and clapped his hands together. “So, what shall we do next? A little Minerva 101? A walk on the reef? Or a swim?” Those hands were rubbed together eagerly.

“You’ve just eaten, Gordon.”

“So?”

Andre stood up. “It is my recommendation that we wait before attempting swimming.”

“Aw, Annie.”

The glare Andre shot his husband almost melted the stern of the boat.

Cecil grinned and winked at his husband.

Virgil bit his tongue. “You think you can lug me onto that reef?” In the distance, the open ocean crashed against the outer reef rim. It was hard to see if there was even any dry land from this distance.

Gordon’s grin turned fond. “Wouldn’t go without you, bro. Told you, I brought the water chair.”

Virgil felt the simple emotion behind that statement and his heart warmed. The water chair was something he himself had put together for Gordon all those years ago after the hydrofoil accident. His brother hadn’t been able to swim and the hoverchair could not operate under or over water. So, borrowing a little Thunderbird technology, Virgil had built one that could. With some feedback and suggestions from its over-the-moon recipient, Virgil had tweaked the design to the point that it could literally operate as a diver assist with minimal effect on its immediate environment while still enabling the operator to ‘walk on water’.

Tracy Industries now produced a trimmed down economical version for world-wide distribution. Gordon was the poster boy for the program and loved seeing people experience water in ways that had been denied them in the past.

But the original, the prototype, was kept on Tracy Island with Gordon. Virgil serviced it every couple of years and it had even been used a few times since.

But never by Virgil.

After stripping into their own water wear, it took some manoeuvring and both nurses to get into Virgil into some wet gear. It was awkward and frustrating, but both Andre and Cecil were gentle and understanding. Gordon stood ready to assist, his eyes warm, his hand briefly brushing Virgil’s hair.

Virgil was grateful, but hated every second.

The casts on his legs were specifically printed for him, a high-tech honeycomb of support, providing strength without the weight and bulk of traditional plaster. And they were water friendly, allowing both air flow and ultimately water flow around his injured limbs.

It took all three men to get Virgil safely into the inflatable.

“Virg, you’ve been stealing far too many of Scott’s apple pies.”

“Speak for yourself.” Virgil grit his teeth as they lowered him into the smaller boat. “Are you sure about this?” So much work to get one person onto a reef.

“Not going without you, bro. Apple pie butt or no.” The determined expression on his little brother’s face put an end to that argument.

The water chair was tucked behind a seat along with snorkelling equipment and a stash of Gordon’s scientific gear and within minutes they were motoring across relatively shallow waters spotted with tropical reef. Virgil peered over the side watching the ever so clear azure pass beneath them. The colours were amazing.

The atoll was obviously the remains of yet another undersea volcano. Living on Tracy Island, which was a volcano itself, gave him some familiarity with the symptoms. But unlike the islands in the Kermadec arc, this volcano hadn’t quite made it above the waterline. It had, however gotten close enough to bring its rim into the sunlit zone of the ocean, enabling coral to gain a foothold and build the reef that had accomplished the task.

As the rim grew closer, the water grew shallower, to the point where Gordon had to slow the inflatable or risk impaling it on submerged living limestone.

The roar of open ocean grew closer. The crash of massive waves that the coral rim was protecting them from. Virgil closed his eyes and soaked in the saltwater air, the breeze and the soundscape.

I was invigorating and relaxing at the same time.

At some point he became aware of eyes on him and he opened his own only to encounter Gordon smiling softly.

Ever so quiet. “That’s more like it.”

Virgil was caught between fondness and embarrassment. But Gordon didn’t say anything else and turned back to steering the boat. Neither Andre or Cecil appeared to have noticed, possibly through courtesy.

Virgil let one hand trail in the cool, clear water and closed his eyes again.

He might have just drifted off right there and then but for the sudden cease of the outboard which had been chugging along relatively slowly in any case. The inflatable drifted as Gordon deployed an anchor and Andre pulled out the water chair, unfolding the leg supports.

“Okay, Virg, let’s get your apple pie butt into the chair.”

Virgil growled at his brother, but Gordon only grinned, climbing behind him and, with Cecil’s help, lifting him enough for Andre to slide the contraption under said butt.

The chair’s gel morphed to his shape, fitting snuggly and supporting his back as Gordon strapped him in. Andre secured the leg braces, connecting them to his casts.

Andre jumped over the side and landed in waist deep water.

Gordon curled his hand around Virgil’s arm. “Okay, bro, let’s see how much fish you have in you.” Another teethy grin as he and Cecil lifted Virgil over the edge of the inflatable and lowered him with Andre’s guidance into the water.

Virgil palmed the seat’s control, which previously he had only used to test the contraption, and micro-thrusters fired up stabilising him as he slipped into the water.

A moment of wobble and the seat settled at waist depth in the water, its quiet hum barely audible over the ripples lapping against the boat.

“Well, it seems those apple pies aren’t going to sink you today.”

“Gordon!”

His brother only laughed as he joined him in the water with a splash…which landed mostly on Virgil.

He wanted to both throttle and hug Gordon to death.

Cecil joined them, smoothly sliding off the inflatable, and all four of them made their way towards the massive reef sticking a good foot above the low tide.

“Watch where you step. Virg has the advantage here. Lots of sharp nasties if you’re not careful.”

Virgil was too busy enjoying the water. The chair automatically adjusted to the surface and he was able to raise or lower it at will. As they neared the inner edge of the reef, he engaged the secondary thruster array and pushed himself above the waterline. The breeze caressed his skin.

The reef ledge was quite a step up. A purple-brown, the limestone sported a continual waterfall of seawater pushed by the swell from the open ocean on the other side.

Gordon slipped in behind him and gave the chair a nudge to get it high enough to engage with the raised surface. Virgil fiddled with the controls until the seat stabilised, hovering just a few inches above the rock and all the rockpools it held.

And there were a lot of rock pools.

Virgil had a sudden flashback to a young Gordon dashing from one rock pool to the next, yelling out his discoveries of this fish, that shell, the occasional ticked off crab…

The incident with the blue-ringed octopus particularly came to mind.

But his little brother had been six then. Theoretically, he was an adult now, one of advanced marine experience.

“Virg! Come and have a look at this!”

Then again...

Sure enough, it was a rock pool and it had some kind of eel trapped in it. Gordon started babbling Latin at him before Virgil had even made it close enough to see the thing clearly.

There was a camera, several shots, some holofilm and lots and lots of incomprehensible marine science-ese.

Virgil had to bite his lip not to grin like a loon.

Cecil appeared to be a disciple of Gordon, his knowledge obviously not up there with the aquanaut’s, but ever so interested and eager to learn. Gordon revelled in the opportunity and Virgil got to sit back and watch his little brother disappear into his element.

Andre hovered about his patient, on duty at all times. “You can relax, Andre. I’m good. Have a bit of fun.”

The quiet man smiled. “I am.” His eyes were on Cecil as his husband darted after Gordon from rock pool to rock pool chattering excitedly with the aquanaut.

Virgil pulled out his phone and took some photos of his brother and his student. “You may never get him back.”

Andre snorted. “I have my ways, don’t worry.”

An arched eyebrow found the nurse smiling again.

With Gordon off in science land, Virgil took the opportunity to do a little exploring of his own. He lowered the chair enough so he could reach down and touch the rock beneath the water. It was sharp, rough and covered in life. The rock pools were truly fascinating. Corals lived in niches, sea urchins huddled in all their spikiness, but it was the giant clams that caught his eye the most.

They had some brilliant colours and they reacted to his presence, closing up abruptly if he startled them. They were quite a distance down and he found himself poking into deeper pools as he scooted along the inner edge of the reef.

They came in a number of shades, but the most brilliant was a vivid blue. His eyes were attracted to the subtle patterns and his fingers itched to record them. His phone filled with shots at the thought of future paintings.

“Thought you might like those.”

Virgil nearly dropped his phone. That, of course, only produced a grin on Gordon’s behalf.

Virgil was hovering over a particularly deep rock pool and at the very bottom, wedged in a crevice, sat a beautiful blue example. It was still mostly open, displaying its variegated mantle. Due to a sudden lack of breeze and the clarity of the water, it was very visible, and Virgil had already taken several holoshots, a composition combining sea urchins, several of the bright red fish and the clam, already in mind.

Behind him Cecil was bouncing on his feet a few metres away gesticulating in excitement as he raved at Andre. Andre had that smile on his face again, the one where love and amusement met and each tried to take dominance.

“I think you’ve started something over there.” Virgil grinned at his brother.

A snort. “Cess has always had an interest. I’m just fanning the flames.”

“Luring him to cook for us forever?”

“Mmmmaybe.”

Virgil chuckled and earned himself a pair of sparkling amber eyes.

“Mel wants a clam count.”

A blink. “What?”

“She’s worried there might be poaching happening here. This place gets a lot of traffic. I had John check for yachts before we came and the fact there are none other than us here is a rarity.”

“People steal the clams?” Virgil stared down at the beautiful creature below.

Gordon sighed. “Is there anything people won’t do? Mel wants a count so we can do a population snapshot. Shouldn’t be too hard. I’ve adapted one of our lifesign locators for their particular form. Not sure it’s going to work, but I was hoping that between us, we could rig it.”

Virgil stared up at his brother. Gordon had planned this, but he had planned it well. Virgil couldn’t resist the challenge, and much like his aquanaut brother, certain stains on humanity really got his back up.

“Sure.”

Gordon’s smile was an honest one. “But no pushing it, Virg, or Scott will have my hide.”

As if summoned by his name, a roar swelled in the distance and out of nowhere Thunderbird One shot into the air space above them, VTOL flaring as she came to a sudden halt.

Their comms spat into life. “Thunderbird One to A Little Lightning, whatcha doing down there?”

-o-o-o-

#thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds #thunderbirds fanfiction #Virgil Tracy #Gordon Tracy #minerva reef #minerva #science!Gordon

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curmudgeonness · 3 years

Photo

Unlocked half of the islands now:

Beryl Shoals - simply boat past the island to unlock.

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Plunder Cove - Assemble 4 map pieces to unlock (found in chests while diving or in bottles).

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Plumbob Island - Find a special Message in a Bottle.

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Refuge Island (above) - Check in to one of the resorts (one day is long enough), then ask at the front desk about adventures.

You’ll be told to talk to a local about Refuge Island - I first went to the derelict resort (purchasable for §0). I was directed to talk to Edward Dregg (the resident playable ghost). This was a bust. I attempted to talk to him but the opportunity chain was dropped. I used to MC to add it back and this time, my Sim did the ew ghost thing and dropped the opportunity. I couldn’t add it again with MC, so I went to another resort. I was directed to one of the resort mixologists, and after several interruptions for autographs, was finally able to speak to him.

I was set up with a series of additional tasks (having to report to the Science lab after each) which included:

Obtain 3 kelp (I could have bought it, but needed to dive anyway).

walking on a fire pit (Sims remove their shoes for this, so perhaps that script can be adapted to a rug when entering a home???),

fighting a shark (this was completely random as I was trying to have my Sim talk to the mermaid), and

searching the records at City Hall for the missing map (my Sim had a wish to cast a Restoration Ritual, so City Hall got cleaned up).

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What’s left:

Cay to the City - Rescue 35 Sims as a lifeguard.

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No Trouble Atoll - Own a 5-Star resort. You don’t have to build one up, simply purchase one if you have the Simoleans.

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Mermaid’s Secret Island - Befriend a mermaid (at least 70% relationship) and hang out with them at a dive spot. Just wait for them to offer to show your Sim the island.

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And

Diver’s Den - Reach level 10 in Scuba Diving skill and find the underwater cave to exit you there.

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There’s always the cheat code to unlock all at once. Open the cheat window (CTRL+Shift+C) and type discoverAllUnchartedIslands

#sims 3 #island paradise

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swissmissficrecs · 4 years

Text

Favorite Sherlock (BBC) Fics of 2019

Once again, my hopes of getting through some of the very tantalizing fics that finished up in December are simply not going to materialize anytime soon, so rather than delay any longer, here are my personal picks for the fics I enjoyed the most last year.

Disclaimers: This list is obviously skewed toward my own personal preferences and reading habits. There are plenty of other fics that I enjoyed, and even more that I simply didn’t get around to reading (yet), so it’s not a judgment if your favorite (or one you wrote) isn’t on here. Think of this as a sampling rather than a definitive list. I hope this will help you to re-acquaint yourself with fics you loved, give a chance to others you may have skipped the first time round, and possibly discover something entirely new and astonishing.

And now, in descending order of length:

Voyages of the Bakerstreet (528,359 words) by fresne Rating: Explicit Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, John Watson/OCs Summary: Starfleet never really intended to assemble a crew with a half trained doctor and an alpha Augment with authority issues. But they also didn't really intend for the Borg to make it quite as far as they did. And so...These are the Voyages of the USS Bakerstreet. Her five year mission (make that ten (okay fine twelve year mission + time travel)), to seek out new life and new civilizations. To go boldly.

Proving A Point (186,270 words) by J_Baillier, elldotsee Rating: Explicit Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson Summary: Invalided home from Afghanistan, running out of funds and convinced that his surgical career is over, John Watson accepts a mysterious job offer to provide care and companionship for a disabled person. Little does he know how much hangs in the balance of his performance as he settles into his new life at Musgrave Court.

Riptide Lover (114,090 words) by jinglebell Rating: Explicit Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson Summary: The year is 1866. When John becomes swept overboard, he never expects to encounter a living creature of myth. When the merman absconds with John, the lost sailor must use every tool at his disposal to convince Sherlock not to kill him. But it seems that killing John Watson is not what the deadly, beautiful creature has in mind at all... Victorian mermaid AU. Heed the tags.

By A Thousand Cuts (95,774 words) by 7PercentSolution, J_Baillier Rating: Explicit Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson Summary: It's hard to let go of the past, especially when going home for the holidays. An incident just before Christmas brings unpleasant memories to the surface, and the wounds Sherlock carries may take more than just time to heal.

Rebuilding Rome (94,000 words) by SilentAuror Rating: Explicit Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson Summary: When a case unexpectedly forces John to acknowledge some difficult truths about himself and his life, he spirals downward, leaving Sherlock to do his best to rescue him from his own darkness and somehow try to build something new on broken foundations.

Side Effects (86,730 words) by MissDavis Rating: Explicit Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson Summary: Life is a lot better for Sherlock and John than it was a year ago. Yes, John still can't walk and Sherlock is still on antidepressants, but they're married now, and almost everything else is back to their version of normal. They have a dog. Sherlock's solving cases again. But when Moriarty learns of their marriage, he escapes from prison and takes it upon himself to make their lives miserable. Is Sherlock really up to the challenge of catching a criminal whose only goal is to make sure that he and John don't live happily ever after?

The Monument of Memory (79,663 words) by J_Baillier Rating: Mature Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson Summary: A genius traumatised by a past he's only beginning to recall. The psychopath sister that time forgot. A missing woman and a mentalist who may or may not be a murderer. And, in the middle of it all, stands John Watson.

Repairing the Broken Things (75,151 words) by BakerTumblings Rating: Mature Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson Summary: "I'm calling today to notify you that there's been an accident."

Just to Hold You Close (70,841 words) by sussexbound Rating: Explicit Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson Summary: When a woman is murdered and the last person to see her alive is recently invalided army vet turned reluctant (and prickly) professional cuddler, John Watson, Sherlock Holmes is pulled into a world of intimacy and intrigue he never could have imagined. John is a conundrum and mystery: frank yet reserved, tender yet angry, open yet afraid. Sherlock is instantly drawn into his orbit, and begins to feel and desire things he never has before.

White Knight (69,840 words) by DiscordantWords Rating: Mature Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson Summary: Green. The word green was used to convey a great many things. Illness. Envy. Inexperience. Standing there amidst Janine's chattering bridesmaids, watching Sherlock furrow his brow and study fabric swatches, watching him smile and simper and flirt, John thought it a remarkably apt colour choice. Because he felt quite sick to his stomach, he feared the source of said sickness might very well be jealousy, and he had absolutely no idea at all what to do about it. Or: Sherlock needs to fake a relationship for a case. He doesn't ask John.

I'm coming home, John. -SH (67,247 words) by Ranowa Rating: Mature Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson Summary: In the two years after Sherlock throws himself off the roof of St. Bart's, crunches into the pavement below, and dies in John's arms, John starts texting. He doesn't know that his text messages are being read.

The Low Road (57,327 words) by Jupiter_Ash Rating: Explicit Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson Summary: Low Road - n. Behaviour or practice that is deceitful or immoral. The last thing Sherlock remembers is shooting up in his university room in Cambridge. Now he's miles away, in the middle of nowhere, trapped with a man who wants to have sex with him. Where is he? What's going on? And more importantly, who the hell is John Watson? The game is on. But what happens when the other player seems to know you better than you know yourself?

Isosceles (56,609 words) by SilentAuror Rating: Explicit Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/Original Male Character(s) Summary: After solving a case for a major celebrity, Sherlock gets himself asked out. When John asks, he discovers that Sherlock has no intention of going, at least not until John agrees to coach him through whatever he might need to know for his date...

The Alphabet Vignettes (49,141 words) by suitesamba Rating: Mature Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson Summary: Twenty-six vignettes featuring Sherlock and John's life after S4. These begin just after E3 and continue into retirement in Sussex, but are presented in a non-linear fashion.

The Lying Doctor (44,285 words) by pagimag Rating: Explicit Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, John Watson/Mary Morstan Summary: Sherlock and John's relationship is fragile after the events at Culverton Smith’s hospital. John struggles with guilt and anger issues. During a case he decides to visit his aunt, which leads to an unexpected development. He’s forced to reevaluate ingrained behaviours, confront long lasting issues and question how he leads his life.

Complete as a Human Being (41,661 words) by LollipopCop Rating: Explicit Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, John Watson/Mary Morstan Summary: One week after Sherlock's birthday, Irene Adler is back in their lives, living at Baker Street and bringing up old wounds from the past while aggravating new ones. John is not pleased.

Reconcile (36,464 words) by illwick [plus all of the other installments of this terrific series] Rating: Explicit Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson Summary: John views his past through a new lens when he finds his relationship with Sherlock on thin ice.

The Change (28,841 words) by Laur Rating: Explicit Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson Summary: Sherlock and John struggle to accept the Wolf as they begin their new relationship.

A Quiet Life (25,176 words) by DiscordantWords Rating: Mature Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson Summary: There had been three days of silence and a funeral. Sherlock had the terrible feeling that whatever happened next would depend, entirely, on him.

Haunted (22,369 words) by Vulpesmellifera Rating: Explicit Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson Summary: Plagued by the past, John moves himself and his daughter to a new flat for a fresh start - and it's not 221B Baker Street. While he grapples with new knowledge and old guilt, he's confronted with odd neighbors and strange noises in the night. But is it the new flat, or is John Watson losing his grip on reality?

John Watson and the Three Spirits (aka A Ghost Story of Christmas) (18,788 words) by PipMer Rating: Teen Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson Summary: John hadn’t planned on becoming a grumpy old man. Well, he wasn’t old quite yet. But he wasn’t getting any younger, and as he thought back on his life so far this Christmas Eve, he was coming up with a lot of regrets. He had been here before, at a crossroads. Feeling as if his life were over, only to have it turned around in the blink of an eye. Could it happen again? Or was it finally, truly, too late?

The Palmyra Atoll (16,069 words) by elwinglyre Rating: Explicit Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson Summary: As John's preparing for the wedding, Sherlock is preparing to have his heart broken, and Mary is prepared to do the unthinkable. Intervention required. Enter Sherlock. Set before Sign of Three with a far different outcome. John is drugged, kidnapped, and left on an island, but not just any old island.

stay (just a little bit longer) (15,155 words) by subtext-is-my-division Rating: Explicit Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson Summary: John may not be an expert, but he's pretty sure that shagging your ex is a bloody awful idea. (Shame the sex is so good, though.)

Boat Chase! (14,314 words) by shamelessmash Rating: General Audiences Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Jake Peralta/Amy Santiago Summary: Sherlock, John and Lestrade are on a case that lead them to Brooklyn, NY. Reluctantly, Sherlock accepts the 99th precincts offer to help with the legwork. Welcome to this Sherlock/Brooklyn 99 crossover, where everyone ships Johnlock, and the case doesn't matter.

The Death and Resurrection of a Beekeeper (12,923 words) by shiplocks_of_love Rating: Mature Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson Summary: Sherlock escapes London for a quiet, solitary life in Sussex, exhausted after the whirlwind of drama following Mary’s death. One day, a letter arrives.

In July of This Year (12,078 words) by yaycoffee Rating: Explicit Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson Summary: There is an oft-cited experiment discussed in classrooms and cocktail parties alike, a convenient analogy when one endeavors to make a point about not noticing the obvious until it is inevitable. Simply, if you place a frog on a hot plate, it will jump off immediately, but if you put that frog on a cool plate and turn up the heat slowly, slowly, it will simply burn. Or: How these two idiots melt together, finally.

Afraid of the Light (12,063 words) by hippocrates460 Rating: Explicit Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson Summary: After everything, comes a time of quiet. There's cases, and Baker Street, and really, life is good. It gives John time to work through something he's been struggling with.

Below Zero (10,912 words) by Calais_Reno Rating: Mature Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson Summary: 10,000 miles south of London, John Watson sits in a research station in Antarctica. 210 miles above London, Sherlock Holmes is floating in a space station. They are Earth’s only survivors.

Bloodsicles and Bay Leaves (10,724 words) by Zingiber Rating: Mature Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Molly Hooper/Greg Lestrade Summary: When Sherlock struggles to ask for John's hand in marriage, he turns to the animal kingdom for inspiration. Biology may be the key to John's heart - or it may kill them both.

Inktober 2019 (31-panel comic) by thinkanddoodle-batch Rating: NSFW (only 1 panel) Relationship: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson Summary: None given but this is an utterly charming friends-to-lovers story centered on Sherlock’s bed… which he is desperately trying to get John into!

#rec list #best

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